Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending
too early for my taste
If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess
layers of this confinement
Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore
exuberance of noble youth?
Passion persists, intelligence
intact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.
(Image my own)
Brazen sunlight
accosts my eyelids
bruising my senses
I rail against this day
rising an affront
to my body’s begging
Sleep a little longer
she moans, daylight
holding no sway
over heavy limbs
The sparring has begun –
a daily ritual of coaxing
and empty promises
I cannot will away the illness
that champions this ring –
batters me every time
Am I heroic or a fool
to think that mind
can defeat matter
that will can eliminate
inertia?
The brashness
of morning light
no balm for
endless exhaustion.
Upgrading –
setting new standards
learning anew
Kin/ heritage
pursues me –
influence
and legacy
Timid concerning
the unspoken
the understated
Seduction courts
a response –
I am flush with possibility
basking in attention
But God is calling me home –
reminds me of mortality
humbles me in situ
I am already engaged
passion in the moment
dalliances redundant
(Self portrait created blind with acrylic paint and palette knife)
Illness has built
the bricks that bind
has birthed this wall
I am postnataly withdrawn.
If I emerge
it will be armed –
sharp comebacks
I am curious
about the caring
my rage running deep
Can you see it’s outlines –
zones broken out
of the practical
Quieting the hurt?
(Image AI generated)
To lounge
perched oblivious
nature vs domesticity
decision in limbo
I call upon the rains
pray for cleansing
this too-worn skin
eager to shed
I welcome the Divine
sweet messages
of birdsong
serenading
It’s fear that draws me
away from Nature’s charm
a creeping compulsion
that I don’t belong
I am hungry
swallow my prayers whole
wallow in the acidic burn
of betrayal’s ashes
I am greedy in my misery
will stuff myself
with expectation
and forgo pleasure
What am I but baggage?
A burden
locked in my shame
A side show
whose lethargy renders me
incompetent
Illness is a thief
have lost what is sacred
choking on the feathers
of the song that once fed me.
Passion the cloth
that contains me
Time a transformer
if only I surrender
I’ll grow a new skin
confident and fearsome
am I not afterall
reptilian born?
(Art my own)
Nestled in with childhood truths –
secondhand
perspective missing
Nursing a creeping creativity –
insignificant lucidity expanding
measurably hurried
Once social, now retreating
papered over failure
have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating
chronically pained
over and over
contemplating flight
freedom
Voiceless
expressionless
flat
even revelation muted
unmoving
protective boundaries
discussed
now crumbling
underestimated the struggle
the pervasiveness
Consider a militant approach
strident restrictions
nullifying passions
but I am a weaver
open to uncovering
blessings in failure,
compensated by soaring –
grounded yet questing
unsettled
disease is not a repellent for the mind
conjures movement in the sedentary
creatures born of defensiveness
I am motivated to find renewal
dank, moist, lacking flame
in this explosive personal nest.
(Written during my bedbound days, 2017. Edited for this edition. Image my own)
Mother’s feet scream –
agony of her miserable condition,
underlying disease eating her.
My feet, free of calluses,
paddles slightly bent and fallen,
carry on with forgiving kindness.
Husband’s knees are red-hot pokers
shooting knife-sharp volts
with every rickety step.
Mine are knots in spindly
trunks that bear movement
graciously, allot me flexibility.
Father’s back grew weak
faltering in the end, hunched,
as if he’d born a cumbersome burden.
My back, not without its moaning,
carries me proudly erect –
like the spring sapling, winter endured.
Uncle’s heart beats erratically,
ceasing despite its mechanical support,
his life a testimony to modern science.
My heart flutters with expectancy,
aches with disappointment,
and soars with each new birdsong.
Sister’s tension rises,
the stiffness in her neck suffocating,
headaches blinding her vision.
My neck, slung now like a rooster’s,
puffs around my face like an old friend,
allows me the comfort of perspective.
Brother’s mind has seized,
lost somewhere between today
and yesteryear – never certain of either.
Mine, a constant churning cog,
gathers information, spews ideas
and bends in the face of creativity.
My eyes have seen suffering,
my hands throbbed with desire to help;
yet each bears their cross stoically,
and so I watch with compassion
and gratitude for the life I might have lived,
had my own vessel not been so blessed.
(Image my own)
Intensity drops in,
early, before
I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.
She clings
encourages me to hold on
her sick creativity awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing
loyal
compelled to launder the linens
Desperately trying to find the corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.
She wants to talk about feelings
but I am still numbed from sleep
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism
She wants to embrace
hug me into submission
lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas
and I am too busy avoiding her
to be grateful.
(Originally written in 2018, and edited here. Image my own)
Legs, once burdened by resignation, now dare
Arms, once contracted by pain, reach out
Lungs, constricted by limitation, breathe deep
Heart, damaged by futility, finds new rhythm
Muscles, cramped and bullying, flex anew
And this flesh, previously tormented, glows
My body, ravaged and bruised, believed in fatality
My mind, turning its back on self, chimed concurrence
Only non-compliance keeps me alive
a rebellious will, graciously allowing
God’s higher plan.
(This poem is in response to a poem written at the height of my illness in 2017. The original is entitled Body Talks. Image my own)
Odd, this gift of solitude. Perched canal side, I affirm my connection to the earth, and offer thanks. Late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way, lighting up the mirror-still water. Vibrant reflections.
Two winters ago, I fought to breathe as temperatures fell below zero. Impassible walkways trapped me indoors. Depression fought for possession. Hope struggles in imposed isolation.
“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now –
how just when it feels as if one sentence has been handed down, sealed, an opening appears. I am fortunate, savour the moment.
Heron’s watchful stride
invites reflection, respect –
Winter’s solitude.
(Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 