Category: passion

The Ocean Awaits

This old house wraps itself around me,
radiates the warmth of memories,
a solid testament to the passage of time,
offers space to grow,
a hospitable and loving place,
I am safe here.

In my dreams,
the ocean awaits,
a rhythmic keeper of time,
reflecting clouds, moonlight,
raging with the storms,
in quiet times, calming –
a blessed, imaginary,
companion.

The rains have come,
swamped our intentions,
forced us indoors,
inconvenienced play,
turned our solid ground
to clay – a soggy tribulation –
they will subside
and new growth
will follow,
I tell myself.

I am an eternal student,
in love with life,
education unfinished,
a stumbler,
not a scholar,
temporarily lost,
seeking direction
in unfamiliar territory.

I am a neophyte,
longing for guidance,
recognizing my vulnerability,
a delicate balance this
emotional wading,
mindfulness needed.

I project the mud of the past
see only insurmountable hills
outside these walls,
anticipate setbacks,
fear a lack of tenacity  –
abhor my own ugliness;
rally myself with hopes
of solid footing ahead
and the ocean beyond.

On the other side of madness
stands a mighty fortress –
a castle to hold court –
we have all passed that way,
the passage is well-marked,
communally served,
I have committed
to the descent, am
Earth’s child.

Life is but a station,
a temporary stopping place,
we are all time travellers –
destinations varied –
called to take action,
choose a route.

I have been distracted,
missed signals,
opportunities,
find myself left behind
shamed, alone, uncertain,
aborted my search,
preferring retreat
need to reorient.

The kingdom harbours
an abundance of offerings,
sustenance abounding,
fruitful, flourishing
delights, uniquely
appealing, perhaps
an acquired taste.

Spring, like a faerie nymph,
draws me in, a harbinger,
hopeful, playful, promising
new adventures,
calling me to indulge
in fantasies, dine on
wild imagination,
recreate myself.

I am wondering
if I can accommodate,
fulfill my soul’s longing
know the wonders of
heaven, play host
to the mysteries of beauty
without ever leaving
the warmth of this old house.

The ocean calls me,
from the dream time,
will not let me sleep –
her tidal pull a magnet
for this weary sojourner,
beckons me to rise,
to strive, to succeed.
She is my destination.

Poet’s Quandary

If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?

Juxtaposed

Muted shades of browns
and greys
define my black and white
existence
while succulent pink skies
explode in my dreams: neon
green vibrancy beckoning,
enticing – rude reminders.

My life is measured in
handfuls
one visit a week, two
outings
three phone calls, seven
minutes
for standing, fifteen for
sitting.
I dream in exponentials
multiples of numbers,
unlimited possibilities,
combinations, outcomes.

I live a stripped down
dirt floor
one room, structurally
unsound
solitude, boundary-less
instability
and dream of concrete
cities, institutions housing,
nurturing, protecting, life
with abundance – crowds.

How do I resign myself
to this juxtaposed reality,
fill in the missing gaps,
find sustenance in a void?

Acceptance is shattered,
faith
undermined, storm clouds
intensifying
threatening cyclones of
chaos
blacken the horizon, no
bottom
in sight to ease this soul.

Only in dreams will I find
my legs, run with mercy,
embrace freedom, and
know fullness of spirit,
fueling one more day
of survival,
until I am once again
whole.

Fleeting Libido

Crazy catches me –
semi-conscious/ zoned out –
body slams me,
hot mouth pressed on mine
suppressing objection
(as if I’d object)
working my juices
my mind overboard
passion flaming

I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow

Modesty intervenes
compelling flight –
flesh torn from flesh
prematurely –
this seduction,
taunting me in youth,
surprisingly vital still

I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow

Breathless,
heart palpitating
loins throbbing…
abandoned again.
It was only a ghost
a spectre from the past
mocking me –
false ecstasy.

(Linked to dVerse pub where desire and sexuality are on the board tonight.)

Mastery

“Why can’t I play hockey, Mom?”

John and I were watching boy after boy try to shoot a puck through a hole punched out of the middle of a cardboard goalie.  It was a fundraising event for his older sisters’ school.

Truth was, I didn’t have a good answer; I just didn’t like the violence that playing hockey entailed.  How could I tell him that?  At four-years-old, John was already demonstrating a natural athletic talent.  Did I have a right to choose sports for him?

“Tell you what,”  I offered, “If you can hit a puck through that hole, I’ll let you play hockey.”

The odds were in my favour.  So far no one had been able to do it.

John shot four out of five.

As a goalie, he excelled at shutouts.  His quick reflexes and ability to anticipate his opponents moves served him well.

My fears about hockey were never founded.  John himself dropped out once body contact became part of the sport.  He had found a new passion to focus on:  skateboarding.

For fifteen years now, John has practiced diligently, pushing himself through the fear and pain, to become an accomplished skateboarder.   To onlookers he is “The King”, gliding through any course with grace and ease.  He makes it look so simple.

Only John knows how hard he has worked to hone this skill:  hour upon hour, overcoming disappointment and frustration, always willing to try again.  He talks about a ‘zone’ – a state of mind – that he strives for, which helps him maintain balance and focus.  His art is very disciplined.

When John rides the board, he is free.  A freedom only someone who has mastered the art of movement can  understand.