Measured in spoonfuls
progress imperceptible
Still feel the angst of
no-time-to-breathe lifestyle
pressured from within
to get-it-done
spend unavailable resources
ruminating solutions
push against the walls
with little to show
surrender to impotency
and wait for the next surge.
Even in togetherness there is distance.
I am alone.
A central figure, distracted,
aiming for contact –
unable to eviscerate control –
repeatedly producing a singular confusion.
Define success
Is it the one on the top,
the know-it-all,
or are these the mechanisms
of estrangement?
I am unable to discern-
stability never more than a dalliance.
The pavement ahead whispers
promises of a sense of belonging…
Can I tolerate the quest?
Unfulfilled, I am protective
fear off-shoots of depression,
shield tender inner places…
Bring on change, there are others
watching, looking to me
as an example.
I can strive
on their behalf
Never alone.
Always distances to cross.
(Distance first appeared here February, 2017. Image my own)
With each stanza
I strive for an upswing –
idle thoughts leading
to a crescendo…
But exhaustion plagues
my try, and fog colours
perspicacity, so my words
land low, goal in limbo
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Two decades before the fall
I dreamt of that white house
with black shutters,
entered the dimness
and saw myself –
withered, a straw body
Could I have altered the course
gathered that mummified self
in my arms, breathed new passion
into old bones, stopped
the onslaught of night
of cells freezing
passionless
No.
I walked in oblivion
seduced by false trickery
dim-witted in the fading light
cold, aloof, unresponsive
warnings be damned
Two decades later,
body inert, mind bereft
of hope – I dreamt
of a younger self
so intent on life
that she passed me by.
Why am I courting judgment
like an old friend,
popping in unexpectedly?
She overlooks my needs,
barges in reeking
of stale perfume, and
energy-sucking shoulds
I crave the subtle tones of compassion –
quiet whispers over tea –
a gentle pat, words of encouragement
But, truth be told,
I squirm at even this –
hate vulnerability,
hate this weakness on display,
this chronic, fucking disability
Seems I have dressed myself
in judgment’s cloaks,
walk in the pinched shoes
of expectations too tight
No wonder I’m exhausted,
am dying…numbed
to my own drama.
(Image my own)
Rear-ended
by proverbial truck
Unexpectedly, I claim
denying accountability
Sure, I took chances
crossed the line
Rebelliously ignored
limits, road signs
Driven by compassion
open-doored willingness
Saw the danger too late
swerving only mitigated damage
Humiliated by the impact
reckless ego smarting.
(image my own)
Symptoms –
Yielding
Spirit
Tampered
Enthusiasm
Mute
Incomprehensible
Challenge
(M.E. or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is said to be systemic. Every so often it reminds me so I attempt to write through it. Image and poem my own)
She is young,
this artist-self
celebrating discovery
He chastises enthusiasm,
this intellect-self, favours
logic over emotions
I use disability as an excuse
Accept intellect’s restraints
Ignore encouragement
Refrain from submitting
Halter progress
Youth has ambition
her paint spattered hands
grasp at opportunity –
her tender heart
emits a joyful tune..
…but age,
having abandoned ambition,
is hard of hearing.
(Art mine)
Progress, seldom linear,
tosses me into unexpected decline,
stranded and incapacitated.
My son with labour-hardened arms
leaps to my side, steadying me
and I feel the fear in his caring grip
My daughter, ever compassionate,
reaches out, eyes filled with horror
as my body crumples onto the bed.
My husband, my oak, seeks to comfort
his voice betraying the helplessness
this futile predicament imposes.
Beloveds, I know that you see me
this dis-abled, non-functioning shell
weakened and sickly, lying on this bed
Do not be deceived-
it is only an illusion –
vessel temporarily fettered
I am in essence, as before
ambitions and desires intact
hold this version of me
Sense the wholeness of my being
the woman I am yet to be –
my spirit stands strong.
(My Spirit Stands Strong first appeared here August, 2015; edited for this version.
Image my own)
There is safety in apart-ment living;
would corral the little ones, declare
responsibility, obligations as a mask
for this self-banishing compulsion…
except that I am lying prone, exposed –
brains spilling onto concrete – shadows
revealing the darkness of my condition,
hopelessly locked in physical inertia.
I am an unwitting contributor to
scientific (and pseudo) probing:
audacious autopsies pronouncing
conclusive evidence of motives.
Too polite (and weakened) to deflect,
I submit, demonstrating complacency,
sacrificing autonomy; fail to assert
that it is I who is taking this life test.
And, by the way, am passing quite
adequately, which defies all rational
diagnosis and prognosis, and serves
to reassure me of ultimate success.
(Not Dead Yet first appeared here June, 2016. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 