Category: poetry

Rain, Like a Typewriter

Rain tap, tap, taps
on our tin box roof,
like a typewriter

rhythmically transcribing
today’s lesson

“Erect postures,
elbows at ninety degrees,
fingers poised, ready,
and go…fff…ggg…”

the old machines
weighing heavily on my soul
disrupting my sense of self –
aspirations more esteemed
than stenographer, or secretary –
mother’s answer to securing a suitable man

“Target 125 words/minute,
accuracy counts”
keys tangle
stick
ribbon collapsing
whiteout highlighting
my fallibility
I seethe

rail against learning
a skill redundant for a scholar –
math and psychiatry in sight –

Tap, tap, tap
the rain pummels now
thunderous applause
as two crows cackle
hysterical mockery
such shortsightedness

as if teenage minds
can conceive of the future
as if I might have foreseen
the emergence of computers
machinery insinuating
itself into the crux
of human existence

Had to lie, in the end
post-secondary life
demanding accurate skills –
faked it till I made it.

(Inspiration by:
Weekend Writing Prompt #59: typewriter (149 words)
Daily Addiction:  accurate
Ragtag Community’s daily prompt:  target.)

Oasis: Cataracts and Candour

To be candid
the jolt of your affection
rattled my sensibilities

had not realized
the depth of this despair,
miscalculated my longing

the rush of your affection –
like an oasis – refreshing
renewal for my barren

heart, gushing like a school girl,
melting, emotions cascading,
eyes glazed and unfocused

refusing to acknowledge
the impossibility of sustaining
something borne of deceit

and now we pay –
you claiming insurmountable hurt –
while the real pain of our tryst

as reflected on my beloved’s face,
has removed the cataracts from my selfish eyes –
what we did is insupportable – oasis or not.

(Written for three daily prompts:
Daily Addiction: oasis
Ragtag Daily prompt: cataract
Fandango’s Word of the Day:  candour

Debonair and Deprived

“Is that you father?”
acquaintances would ask –
voices deep and dreamy.

Particular about his dress,
meticulous in his grooming,
Dad’s eyes sparkled oceans

his dark, wavy curls
framing a strong face,
his body tall and muscled.

I’d tilt my head sideways,
incredulous at this response,
then realize they’d fallen

for his mask – carefully
debonair, he exuded charm,
a well-rehearsed routine.

It’s his birthday today –
would be, you see, but
Dad passed over long ago.

Tortured, he was, relieved
to be done with a life
so defined by deprivation

for masculinity was only
a shell – housed a restless
spirit, a woman never seen

forced into seclusion by
a society – a family – who
could not/ would not see.

He may be free, but the tragedy
lingers – awareness now so raw
of all that might have been.

“Yes, that it my father,”
I might have said, adding
“A beautiful soul trapped inside.”

(My father was born June 14, 1924, and struggled all his life with his “secret”.  He turned to the Navy commandos at the age of 15, hoping to “beat” his impulses, and then alcohol to numb the pain.  We bore the brunt of his suffering, and were never able to cross the bridge to understanding. I have no pictures of my father, and only this one image of myself as a teen.  We looked very much alike.)

Fandango’s word of the day is debonair.

Daily Addiction is deprive.

Complexity of Freedom

Freedom is four hundred and fifty square feet of moveable tin, wheeling down the highway, destination unknown.  It is long walks through exotic forests, where focus lasts only as long as it takes to capture an image.  It is the privilege of sleeping and waking according to whim, routine an estranged concept.  It is the breeding ground for creativity – passion unleashed – and it is tainted by the hue of loneliness, the stark awareness that ties are strained, and those left behind feel abandoned.

Freedom’s highway calls –
hearts follow, passions flow, flee
guilt’s far-reaching pull.

(Written for DVerse’s Halibun Monday:  Complexity of Freedom prompt.)

Scuttle

Made of steel,
I have withstood
your darkness,
borne the blackened
traces of your hardened
words upon my soul,
have carried for you,
endured the weight
of your substance –
lack of substance –
this charred shell
all that remains,
tarnished metal
walls, contents
now empty.

(Daily Addictions daily prompt is scuttle)

Disruption

Absence of table
echoes in a room
reserved for its
central role –

I am at a loss,
no explanation
proceeding
this disappearance

have just woken
from a slumber
deep, to this hole
in certitude

grasp for answers
wonder at significance
if I’ve missed signals
question permanence

left with silliness
of chairs, the mockery
of dust – balled
fragments revealed

stand at kitchen counter
nibbling, dubious
unable to relax –
the table is gone.

 

Unwanted Visit

The years have done their damage,
resentments, like border guards,
line up between us…

and then you just show up,
as if somehow that makes you the better person,
as if your presence will make me forget, forgive

and I fumble for the right words,
attempt graciousness, even as I’m struggling
to feed the hurt, coddle the innocence lost

you hurt the deepest core of me,
the child, barely able to stand on her own,
the burden of her frailty heavy enough

what amusement must you derive
from revisiting our torturous past,
I cannot fathom – all too much for me.