Category: life

The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well worn, briefcase
sits slouched in a closet corner,
one side agape, a red lanyard
hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.

A row of black, brown and gray
pumps line up beside it, a thin
layer of dust betraying idleness.

Silent, unblinking, a television
recedes into the wall, flanked
by images of smiling faces –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books and journals
rumour a once scholarly mind.

The woman, once defined
by these trivialities,
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(The Pilgrimage was first written in December of 2014, as I came to terms with the loss of my career due to ME/CFS.  Now, as we embark on a new path, I find the poem has new relevance.  This version is edited from the original.)

 

 

Always a Teacher

Set me on the open road,
encourage me to cross borders;
I am hungry for knowledge,
to hear a higher calling.

Cannot tolerate chained-to-
chairs education, imposed
immobility, socratic hierarchy
demanding conformity

spoon-fed compliance –
am too much my father’s
daughter, born rebellious
unable to mold myself
to prescribed slots

would rather initiate
discussion, engage, listen –
let shoes emote, tell their
story, develop compassion

never felt more than a visitor
in institutions, marks adequate
but brain absent, spirit numbed –
more punishment for delinquency
than awakening.

How can we convey the future,
instill optimism in prospects,
when the language of education
is secondary to how students
communicate in real-time?

Minds are energetic, curiosity
a given, youth crave elevation,
opportunity, measure themselves
against a system defined by rows.

How can I cross this barrier
of disability, open the dialogue
to ignite passions, propel learning
to open road scenarios, encourage
minds to cross borders?

(Reposted from December, 2106 in response to The Daily Post prompt:  calling.  Teaching, I’ve always believed to be my calling – loved it passionately, until I had to give it up in 2014 due to ME/CFS)

 

Shed Insecurity

At what point does insecurity subside,
shift into confidence, or are we destined
to infinite life lessons, half-hearted attempts
at moving on, convinced that the past holds
the answers, not willing to admit there is no
going back, and what does that even mean?

We elevate the educated to positions of power,
never questioning the depth of their experience,
nor whether wisdom gained is part of the equation;
what qualifications should someone have to critique
our capabilities, and why let the expectation of other
carve our performances, dictate circumstances that
may or may not couple with our aspirations?

We are creators in our own right: our ideas,
our dreams, all valid testament to our right to be;
we need to speak up when conditions don’t meet
our needs, when obligations exploit or humiliate,
take ourselves seriously, overlook insecurity and
step into the righteousness of our personal path.

(Image: tinybuddha.com)

 

Relocate. Reset.

Mom said she was going to leave Dad
couldn’t take it anymore
we moved.

Relocate. Reset.

Bullying at school was out of control
I couldn’t take it anymore
we moved.

Relocate. Reset.

Truancy became a problem
then there was the rape
school said I had to go

Relocate. Reset.

Sisters moved back home
one unhinged,  the other battered
Mom said it’d be better if I left

Relocate. Reset.

Shuffled boxes from one relationship
to another, changed careers
like hairstyles – bored?

Relocate. Reset.

Never did grow roots
too good at packing up
trouble comes

Relocate. Reset.

Tell you more, but we’re about
to pull out, the road is calling –
you know how it goes.

(Written in response to The Daily Post prompt: relocate)

Age and Obstacles

Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances

Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination

They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.

The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days

when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.

(The Daily Post prompt is snippet.  Hope you enjoyed.)

 

Flirting With Success

I have dallied with success
mingled with the scent of
expensive coiffures, swooned
to the physicality of well-fitted
suits, oozing polished confidence

eyes that penetrate the core
of my desire, arouse a feral
vitality, make me squirm like
a school girl dreaming of her
first crush’s kiss, too old now

for such foolishness, besides
I am married to impotence
have long ago committed to
the fruitlessness of outcomes
suppressed futile yearnings

Oh, but I am not immune
to flights of fancy – virility
freezes over but does not
die out – imagination stirs
flesh warming to power’s

promising caress, how I
would unleash this secret
explode with potential, if
I still bore the vivacity of
youth, could do it all over.

(Image: Pinterest)

Departure

He is the planner,
planning routes and stops,
measuring distances, researching
particulars, focused on specifics

I am the organizer,
organizing a mass cull,
distribution of worldly possessions
to kids, goodwill, or garage sales

He is the scheduler,
scheduling maintenance,
pre-departure inspections,
double-checking mechanicals

I am the communicator,
communicating itineraries
answering emails, phone calls
reassuring family left behind

We lose each other
in the preparation scramble,
absorbed as we are in personal
agendas, anxious for departure.

The future is unknown,
we have committed to the leap,
replaced obligations with openness,
are setting sail on a new adventure.

We are questers,
questing after discovery,
retreating from a weighty past
leaving judgment in our dust.

We are travellers,
traveling off the beaten track,
chasing vibrant panoramas,
a close proximity to nature’s best.

 

Poisonous

She is beauty defined –
the flash of deep brown eyes
a wry smile: suggestive, inviting,
she tilts her head, black tresses
cascading over silken skin, and
men flock, eager to bask in her
sweetness, catch the ray of a smile.

She taunts me, mocks my insecurity –
an easy target for one so self-assured –
ridicules my values, my labour, shreds
any sense of self-respect, and then,
with a the flip of a manicured hand,
shrugs it off, invites me for lunch.

I acquiesce, an unwitting stalker,
mesmerized, angry; she is poison,
recognizes my ambitions –  I am fish
nibbling at her bait, disregarding
menace – oppressed by feminine
power, born undesirable, will vomit
her rejection and still come back
for more – a willing victim, adverse
to offense, failure certain, hooked.

Mothers and Daughters

A child hides
tricks her mother
into believing she is lost;
This is not a game, Mother says,
panic still coursing through veins,
visions of abduction blinding reason.

Mother knows
what six-year-olds cannot:
that simple outings can turn –
unexpected loitering around corners,
the certainty of menace; she is wide-awake
cautious, protective of innocence in her charge.

Where was my mother,
she wonders, when I wandered away,
younger even than this one, when unattended
I roamed the neighbourhood, left to my own devices,
did she not know about danger, about shadows lurking,
and how did she not feel the tug of fear for a child’s loss?

Cannot remember
a time when she felt anything
but mature, responsible, forgot
she was a child, seldom felt alone
and yet was she too not vulnerable –
ponders the conditions of parental love

She’s a grandmother now
watches as another generation
of mother and daughter negotiate
the parameters of independence,
feels the same lurch of terror for
the precariousness of youth

eyes the preciousness
of childlike wonder with appreciation,
recognizes that one cannot bear responsiblity
for the endurance of such an elusive quality
that in all things, loss gives over to rebirth
and in the end, reverence settles back in.

(Photographer:  Sylvie Salewski)

 

 

Production

What will be remembered
when the show is over –
will humour linger
will dreams tarry
will belief matter?

Friends depart sans farewell
lost in the debris of divorce
we pass in shopping malls
serve each other with smiles
avoid lively interaction

new responsibilities develop
we are directors obsessed
with reason, ideals now lapsed
singularly hoping that personal
potential is in tact; mining

an openness that overrides
lost love, tunnelled explanations,
want to act obligingly, are remiss,
we are fetchers, penetrating rows
no enclosure for fails, will accept

encouragement when available –
hard work is polish for the talented;
I am alive but in need of help,
shutting down, what remains
tinged with immediacy, lucky

just to communicate; would mirror
love, not look for exits, but endings
are all I know, have shopped for
balance, an intermediary to dissuade
rejection, I am a puppy, unfailing

loyally holding onto this puzzle,
wonder at all that is unrequited,
how easily we detach, considering
the carrot that is intimacy, how
all of this is such a production.

(Image: www.pd4pic.com)