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I am postnataly withdrawn.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.)
Edging towards gratitude
praying for salvation
It’s where we all want to be, right?
Why then is discernment
telling me to run –
Me, feeling claustrophobic
in crowds?
The chatter is discordant
seems we’re lowering our standards
mistaking temporary fails
as treachery
I try to stay hopeful
but my essence is parked
in invisibility, the clamour
of commercialism
condemning the likes of me
to back alleyways
Danger is everywhere
the lush slopes of ableism
renders us shut-ins easy prey
progress whizzing by
I live in descent
drawn to and avoidant
of the lure of merging
always lagging
any vibrancy from my kind
perceived as garbage –
faith skips over the victim
drives us to hide
lesser beings are we
I take my chances,
dream of greener pastures
seeking the blessed promise
Joy, life has taught me,
always comes with a side of menace
(Image my own)
Silently, I follow
novice heart absent
Who can maneuver
the breathless streams
attempt a spiritual viewpoint
while continuously overwhelmed?
Urgently in need of a breakthrough
I am done, outdated
Summer’s passage conceded
this soul requires triage
An experience of caring
that does not resemble a demand for more.
(Image my own)
Walking away –
the only solution
I’ve ever excelled at…
…and yet, absence
does not obliterate
that which dwells within
I can pretend that I have nothing
to offer, but life and circumstance
require more of me…
…a challenge to exhume
the remains of my potential…
Will I be up to the task?
There is flattery in being looked up to –
the feeling that someone needs me –
but that is akin to temptation – an ego play
Could it be that acquired knowledge
has merit only when shared;
that we are all here to offer our piece;
that in releasing what I’ve learned,
I will find flow, feel in sync again,
restore my abilities and reignite
a passion for teaching?
Dare I hope?
( I first wrote this poem in 2017, three years after being bedridden with ME. Interesting to go back now and acknowledge that life still did have purpose for me. So grateful.
Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 