What purpose is served
in going back – and yet,
I find myself revisiting,
expecting what?
Revelation…
apology…
renewal…
I am no more than a guest
in history’s halls
powerless to undo
the drama, only
risk further complications.
Past equates with inequity,
no point turning on
the faucet of resentment
unleashing floods of anger.
Best to focus on tomorrow
forgive the past and self
and open to the new.
I wrestle with sleep –
need overpowered by unease,
senses on high alert,
as if a child
trying to intuit
the degree of volatility
in father’s drunken slur
what will it take
to find rest,
to reassure
the littles
that the tyrant is gone
and life will unfold
as it will
without the stress
of constant monitoring.
Please let me preface with a confession –
I am not familiar with your work.
It is not oversight on my part, rather
a deliberate avoidance – you see,
I too have faced the brand of madness
that drove you to your death, have
feared that any intimacy we might share
would stir my own apprehensions.
Indeed, I understand all too well
the presence of walls,
have believed in the power of sky,
the promise of green, found faith in angels –
nature my solace – realized too young
that the sun’s brilliance, that my brilliance
cannot be sustained by the innocence of white –
bleeds at the fate of indifferent stars.
I understand how gray seeps in,
tears away at the illusions,
entraps us –
how the past stalks, spirals
threatens to suck us in, and how
having lost my own connection to birds and trees,
wonderment sours.
It is the fate of women
born into patriarchal times,
that the blood of our menses
should colour our fists –
our fury as potent as a paper bag –
how can we not feel terror
when we worship a God
whose religion disparages our gender?
I have faced the inevitability of black –
what once brought solace having lost
its definition, unidentifiable –
have faced mortality, the cold blank
stares of death still haunting –
I am the one who has passed you by –
afraid to linger too long in your words,
have woefully overlooked
the merit of a sympathetic read.
(Today’s prompt is to write a response to a poem by Sylvia Plath.)
The past is a narcissist,
Assumes forgiveness
encourages participation
makes promises to restore
harmony, but the walls
of his imprisoning nature
seldom change – stay away
I seek a place, nestled
in the present, where
I can dwell in simplicity –
nothing too taxing on mind
or pocketbook, a modest
abode with room for a pen
and an outdoor kitchen
Burdened by sensitivity
life becomes deplorable,
I can abide the presence
of dog, but never cat –
allergies create restrictions
makes finding the perfect
place for respite difficult
The numerology of 8
would be preferable
a figure demonstrating
balance – as above, so
below – could settle into
eight with confidence
reassure my partner
that I’ve found peace.
Unity of thought fleeting,
overpowering potential –
adaptation never-ending.
Possibility articulated,
ridicule attached –
an irrelevant couple.
External/ societal motivators
destroy heart, fuel panic –
authority wrongly positioned.
Take hold of intent, mend
what lingers, forego paranoia
improvement is achievable.
Test urgency, measure reluctance,
stand firm mid-breakdown –
abandon doubt, calm thoughts
Like the sun and the moon,
life cycles; there is promise,
sanity will return, renewed.
Introducing
colour to water
offering it up
to blank pages
learning less is better
and gentle strokes
elicit blossoming results
Introducing
colour to water
breathing life into
blank spaces
offering gentleness
to blossoming creativity
reveling in the delight.
(This poem was penned for the Story Circle’s Network
e-poetry group in response to February’s prompt – treasured
moments.”
Outlets, I have plenty,
for the excrement that accumulates
within these challenged walls
I soak and scrub, and
paint my cabinets yellow
hoping the optimism will sink in
will match the green of my smile
the expansiveness of my exterior
but the in-dwellers are provoked
question ego’s motivation
in selling off the residence
shaking their sedentary slumber
there was respite in disability
an imposed seclusion that calmed
the worries, invited complacency
who can rest in this motorized
uprooted reality, and what purpose
will evolve from the overflow
of emotions that flood, flashes
of insecurity, defying wisdom
threatening to cloud our sunshine?
Thought I’d divorced myself from
indifference, recovered from abject
betrayal, but; here I am, co-habiting
with deceit again, occupying uneven
ground, reduced to questioning
motives and reactions.
I’ve been down this road before,
dragged through the shame of
behind my back whispers – need
to confront the perpetrator,
and any co-conspirators, stop
the home-wrecker before she
strikes again, convince them all
that this is not self-perpetuated,
but a sham, and a crime, and
that my heart is breaking here,
and damn it; I deserve better, but
as I said, I am living with the enemy
residing in this single story, one-body
hell, and I’m not sure if I can take any
more self-destructive examinations –
pretty sure one of us is about to
implode, and then what?
Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.
Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would
pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing
as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing
I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.
(Image: www.viral.us)
Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in
this place, this longing, this subterfuge.
(Image: findingjackie.com)
One Woman's Quest 