Category: poetry

Protesting is Pointless

Go ahead, spin
your yarns –
convince me
not to persecute

Can you not see
my skin is naught
but tin; I am metal
inside and out

You are looking for
sympathy – requires
a being with a heart –
I am no such fool.

Hush your mournful
pleas, quit dragging
on me; I’ve no time
for nonsense, child.

(Today at dVerse, Mish has challenged to write from the perspective of either the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, or the Tin Man.  Using the daily prompts of Fandango (being), Ragtag Community (yarn), Manic Mondays (hush),  and Daily addictions (persecute), this portrait of the Tin Man emerged.  If he sounds presidential here, it is purely coincidental. Image is from my personal collection, and seemed appropriate.)

Cricket Cacophony

Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms.   Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside.  Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck,  hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood.   A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek.  I step back, startled.  No damage done.

I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy.  I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom.  At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away.  I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.

Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence.   I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture.  The crickets keep on singing.

Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.

(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)

Poetry on Aging

Came across this post today, and felt the hand of synchronicity at play. Michele’s words reminded me that my experience is not unique. She speaks to the human condition of aging eloquently.

Michele Sharpe's avatarMichele Sharpe

“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Aging is the sort of inevitable, non-negotiable topic that fascinates poets. Birth, school, work, death, in the immortal lyrics of The Godfathers.

Some of us fight aging. Some of us embrace it. Whichever approach is yours, though, aging beats the alternative. In the immortal words of someone.

People in my family die young. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to be old. Or maybe it’s because I’d hoped to be old and wise, to stop making the same foolish mistakes over and over again.

That hasn’t happened yet, but aging has made me lazier, meaning that I now have no energy at all to boss other people around about how to spend their days. It’s all I can do to manage my own days.

One of my…

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No Race Today

Left leg
on strike,
brain
disengaged,
energy
scrounging
for re-charge
coming up empty

Body
derelict –
this illness
sensual agony –
forgive
my silences,
any absences

Spirit
like a racehorse
strains against
the reins
too taut,
hungry
to feel
the wind
in its stride,
breath
freedom.

Gate is closed.

(The challenge of living with chronic illness is to maintain balance.  There is a disconnect between what the body is capable of and what the spirit aspires to accomplish.  Today, body wins.  Thank you to Sammi Cox for the Weekend Writing Prompt: derelict; to Fandango for sensual; and to Daily Addictions for agony – all words that help convey this experience.)

Reverse Solitudes

Loneliness –
abandoned and rejected,
grieves unrestrained,
then hesitantly,
willingly,
opens to possibility,
discovering hope,
connection,
in solitude –

not alone

in solitude
connection
discovers hope,
opens to possibility,
hesitantly,
then willingly,
grief releases,
abandons and rejects
loneliness.

(Frank Hubeny is the host tonight for the dVerse Pub, and he challenges to write a reverse poem.  I found this one in my archives (2015) and with a little tweaking, I think it work.)

Sacrilege

How to separate oneself
from church, from religion –
the indoctrination, like skin
so firmly attached…yet…

there is testimony,
and doubt stirring,
encircling –
stories of violations, and
a niggling disquiet…

a memory…no…wait –
surely it is only the sway
of this modern outcry,
the power of suggestion
influencing mind…

(Abuse perpetrated in the name of religion continues to surface.  I submit this piece in response to the gracious promptings of 50 Word Thursday, Fandango,  and Ragtag Community. Picture is from personal collection.)

 

When We Meet In Heaven, Dad (2)

I picture it: a convention
of like minds, congregating,
sharing, aspiring to betterment.

A conference of healing,
for the newly deceased –
like limbo, only educational.

Surprised to find you there –
you who seldom attended
any of my performances.

I’ll stifle the discomfort,
suppress doubt, cherish
the moment, except that

I know you – will catch
the gist of your duplicity,
your self-serving motivations

feel the rage intact, intent
on one final confrontation,
to track you down, and decry

your brick-wall tendencies,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs

will check the registry –
surely there is one in Heaven –
likely not find you listed there

the alias you used in life,
now redundant – will find
you under that moniker

I refused to ever pronounce;
will stand at the door of your chamber
inflated righteousness ready

to denounce you for eternity,
only… revelation will strike,
decades of wrath disintegrating

into sorrow, and as you open
that door, hesitant to receive me,
I’ll declare:  “I am sorry, Dad.

I accept you just as you are,
I just don’t want any more
distance between us.”

(When We Meet in Heaven, Dad originally appeared April, 2017.  I am submitting a revised edition here for Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt:  dirge.  A response to this poem, from my Father’s point of view, is posted on One Woman’s Quest II.)

Problematic

“You’re an enigma”
mother would tsk,
ushering me out of the door,
brown bag lunch,
book bag dragging,
to catch a ride across town

a special classroom –
desks pushed together
formed quads, and
walls retracted,
created one large room,
the bustle of activity
a constant

no readers here,
or math sheets,
it was free learning,
cross-curricular,
learned about history
from novels,
math and science
through applications,
wrote poetry,
read Shakespeare,
enacted plays,
and while some went to shop
or home economics,
I tackled Mensa puzzles

we debated
current affairs,
grew a social conscience,
progressed individually

“Men don’t like smart women,”
was all my mother could say,
shaking her head with disgust
at this daughter, who spouted
politics with her father, and
whose career goals,
prepubescent,
aspired beyond the 3 k’s.

(Penned for dVerse, hosted tonight by Amaya Engleking.  I’ve also snuck in Daily Addictions prompt:  enigma.)

Boxed Revelation

Insignificant enough
to go missing –
a single box,
stored away,
one, maybe two,
moves ago –
the absence
of its contents
now called into question.
Seems that redundancy
is not permanent –
what was once inconsequential
now has purpose –
gives me renewed hope.

(Today’s quadrille prompt is box.  Visit dVerse to participate.  Our host this evening is De Jackson.)