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?

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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.