We voice love,
look off at better times –
eye on neighbour, comparing
I dance between hated father,
nice brother, grow quiet,
need touch, but never say
Were my heart strong,
spirit like a river come,
thanking universe…
Have joy though,
feel throughout.
(Friday is magnetic poetry day. Â Play online. )
What’s her name?
Simple question
from mother to son –
recognizing the love-lifted
joy of his countenance.
I cannot tell, said he,
you’ll ask too many questions.
Do I know her?
No, Mom, she’s Somali.
And Muslim.
I felt my whiteness
and all its privilege
slap me, stumbled
Of course she is welcome,
of course it does not matter.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how heads
would turn, and vile strangers
attack, and his father shun them.
And how her own mother
would advise her to take his name
when the day of their nuptials came
so that finding work would be easier.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how
everyday matters suffer
unfair scrutiny –
hold them in my heart
and pray, knowing my shield
of whiteness holds no sway
to protect them..
(Written for dVerse pub, where Anmol challenges us to address the topic of privilege.)
Born brilliant,
and good looking,
he had me dancing,
fevered –
red cat woman,
I am porcelain,
prisoner,
cup fishing,
long to explore
dark words –
do not ask though –
sexy sailed –
ate godless
byes.
(It’s Magnetic Poetry Friday.)
As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis. Â Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.
Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,
crave a touch of warmth.
(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight. Â I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)
He recalls we were gorgeous,
pleased me like an egg – fast
Why lie to men about
what blow must skin cry?
We are black from mist above moan,
I bare my drive as pink,
sit through summer of aching,
show my gown sweet…
though never did sleep.
(Fridays are magnetic poetry. Â Find it online at magnetic poetry.com. Â Love it if you’d join me.)
Promises mouthed
form no solid basis for
love – only mistrust.
(Written for RonovanWrites Haiku Challenge: foot/mouth. Image from personal collection.)
Even lamplight cannot penetrate
the obliteration of blizzard white –
the icy absence between us.
Red was the colour of our passion,
now red is the colour of this box
words spoken in confinement
condensation blurring sensibility –
the muffled sound of ringing,
too cold, too frozen in disbelief
to hang up,
move on,
seek warmth.
(Inspired by the image supplied by Willow Poetry for her weekly challenge: What Do You See?)
Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
(Gina is hosting at dVerse Pub tonight and challenges us to consider the magic in ordinary things. Â When my husband had a heart attack a few years back, Â I noticed how everything took on new meaning while he was gone. Â It inspired this poem.)
Victorious love –
even in loss holds merit,
spurs the growth of wings.
(For Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge)
Children’s laughter echoes
through these halls, and
we light on last log against
the gathering chill –
our hearts aglow
with memories –
some cherished,
some testament
to a love destined to be.
I’ll turn back the bed sheets,
while you check the doors,
and we’ll hold each other
beneath the covers
and talk of tomorrow
until sleep carries us
into enchanted dreams…
Except…I told you ‘no’
that day you asked me
to be yours – too shrouded
by shame to let you in –
and the ‘no’ hung between
us, heavy as brocade,
and though our love –
too bright to dim –
continued,
we remained apart –
and now and again,
you slip into my dreams
and we fall back into that easy
rhythm – as if this was our life
all along.
(My weekly challenge is un-lived lives.  Still time to join in.)
