Look at us building fences
pretending we have differences
do we not hunger the same
hunt in the same places
do we not strive with equal intent
build our nests with the same ferocity
forgo passion to survive
let us stop pretending
let down these walls
admit to our vulnerabilities
align our purposes
fight a more fearsome foe
Unity of thought fleeting,
overpowering potential –
adaptation never-ending.
Possibility articulated,
ridicule attached –
an irrelevant couple.
External/ societal motivators
destroy heart, fuel panic –
authority wrongly positioned.
Take hold of intent, mend
what lingers, forego paranoia
improvement is achievable.
Test urgency, measure reluctance,
stand firm mid-breakdown –
abandon doubt, calm thoughts
Like the sun and the moon,
life cycles; there is promise,
sanity will return, renewed.
We are peacemakers,
declaring commitment;
celebrating life, diversity.
We stand at the water’s edge,
contemplate forever, pray for
serenity, believe in harmony.
Watch as past dalliances,
like old lovers, drift away,
become memories forgotten.
We are supporters, lift up
the down trodden, extend
hearts and hands in aid.
Rescuers, fearless vessels
surfing the ocean of tears
saving lives for the cause.
Withdrawal is preferential
to conflict, introspective
in our peace-loving stance.
We are hosts, expecting
hospitality, unprepared
for hostility, taken aback
Submission lost to fear;
partnering with revenge
spoon out poison, turn
the tables, defend sanctity,
reposition selves as victims
flee our former stance; attack.
Alarmists engage in paranoia,
see only turbulent skies at
the water’s edge, disbelieve
We must hold fast to ideals,
embrace humanity’s potential
be responders, not reactors
Recover our sanctity, reunite
in a vision of peace, remember
that celebration trumps strife.
(Originally published in July of 2106, Conflict of Peace was a favourite of readers for sometime, now ousted by more recent work.)
Light fades, as do I –
with age comes redundancy,
moving with shadows,
safety in darkness –
wisdom in obscurity.
A kettle over boiled
will put him in a snit
Leaving a light on,
a sin I often commit.
He forgets the garbage
leaves it in public sight
likes clutter around him
causes me such fright.
Annoyances are doubled
when living in tiny space
yet never will they overtake
the magic of this chase…
For everyday is adventure
when life is on the road
imagine all the memories
and stories yet to be told.
Remember when lines meant challenge
and colouring was not confined to
parameters, but an invitation
to explore, and days spent
contemplating invited
song, and nothing
really mattered
except the
moment?
There is a place
balanced between
the bustle of doing and
the edge of non-existence
where fantasy beckons,
where aged minds, content
with past accomplishments
come to rest, to ponder –
who once again recognize
that lines hold no significance,
that colours know no limits,
that music uplifts the mind,
and that memories are places of
exploration, and the moment
is all we ever have.
Father told me I had no problems –
didn’t even know what problems were,
so I tucked away grief, pretended,
mastered the art of suppression –
what did I matter, after all?
Failed to grasp the underlying message –
ignored the extent of his personal pain,
translated indifference into selfish agendas,
set up walls to protect myself, against him,
projecting rejection onto others.
Too late now, I understand, hurt for the
distance created by misunderstandings,
recognize with deep sorrow that our timing
was out of rhythm – society unable to fathom
the secrets that we held – unnecessary burdens
Wonder if I will ever unravel the deceit,
unwrap the loss of self, the shame, recover
a sense of self-worth that allows for acceptance
of problems without self-reproach, or guilt;
will gain the capacity for far-reaching forgiveness.
It’s Monday again –
days passing through
my hands like sand,
no receptacle in which
to catch the granules –
why this sense of urgency?
In high school, I played hooky
wiped away the hours in empty
places, sought answers for
questions I could not articulate,
chased dust while others formulated
dreams – how is this any different?
Am I not just recreating the pattern,
painting over efforts with adult hues,
donning the pretence of self-importance
while occupied with vapid tasks – time
continues to slip by, and what have I
to show for it other than incessant panic?
Carefully we construct
security for offspring,
add luxuries to entertain,
accommodate growth
with additions, play host
to revolving-door friends.
And yet, we are graded
on performance – met
or unmet expectations –
help up against a stack
of other super parents –
silhouettes of perfection.
Still, we celebrate growing
aspirations, sprouting family,
ignore the slanders, and ease
into age with a tad of kook,
or wild inappropriateness –
all expressions of our love.
My iced tea declares
that risk-taking equates
with freedom, and I cheer
at the synchronicity of a sign –
like manna from heaven –
that empowers my journey,
confirms the righteousness
of present life choices
a sentiment struck down
by the absurdity of
assembly-line bottlers
stamping encouragement
on bottle caps,
sealed and packaged
for mass consumption –
a blatant attempt to capture
the magic of a message in a bottle.
One Woman's Quest 