Category: poetry

Seasons of Love

Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.

Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.

Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.

She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.

Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected

lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware

that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.

Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered

how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated

ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.

She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her

that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice

her scorching, all –
embracing passion
that had united them

and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.

(Seasons Of Love originally appeared in February 2016.)

Idle Mind and All That

What I wouldn’t resort to –
just to get away – meals
prepared by others,
cleaned up, too…

but really, is there
any coming back once
it’s all handed over –
I’d be afraid I’d lose

my identity, come up empty
embarrassed by how little
of value I have to give –
and the guilt would taunt

slap my silly ego, criticize
me for laziness,  acting all
privileged; worth is directly
linked to service…isn’t it?

And my shadow self would
appear – just break in uninvited –
and threaten complicity, beat me
down further, hope doomed

no way to justify my absence,
to keep the critics at bay,
I need to work, need to lose
myself in the routine of endless

chatter, a blanket of small talk
to keep me safe – busy noise
to drown out the thieving voices
and help me find myself again.

Can We Talk About It?

As mothers, who are concerned,
as sons, who are seeking guidance,
as daughters, for whom our fears mount?

I don’t have the answers, maybe
not even the beginning of a response,
but I’m trying to get through to some level

of sensibility, need to know what it takes
to instill respect, to restore reverence for
all that in is feminine; seems we are numbed

lulled into complacency, brainwashed by
a consumer-driven machine that pumps
out sexuality as entertainment, infiltrates

our collective psyche, equates exploitation
with attainment, debasement with reward;
are we so desensitized as to not recognize

that merely turning off the television, or
ignoring the images in the check out line
still amounts to complicity; what amount

of surgical intervention is required to
eradicate this societal disease; restore
compassion and caring to our culture?
(This poem, inspired by a series of dreams, responds to the The Daily Post prompt: conversation.)

 

 

I am Listening, Child

Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?

What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?

Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.

If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.

Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;  linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.

Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.

(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)

 

To Old Friends

There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.

(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)

Protocols for Leadership

Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion

remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take

that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others

beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens

never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator

all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.

The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well worn, briefcase
sits slouched in a closet corner,
one side agape, a red lanyard
hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.

A row of black, brown and gray
pumps line up beside it, a thin
layer of dust betraying idleness.

Silent, unblinking, a television
recedes into the wall, flanked
by images of smiling faces –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books and journals
rumour a once scholarly mind.

The woman, once defined
by these trivialities,
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(The Pilgrimage was first written in December of 2014, as I came to terms with the loss of my career due to ME/CFS.  Now, as we embark on a new path, I find the poem has new relevance.  This version is edited from the original.)

 

 

A Torn Christmas

The wind blows,
a steady beat,
disperses Texas heat
palms succumb
to the rhythm
seduce the cerulean sky,
my heart a bird in flight

Back home winds cut
squalls threaten, snow
swirls nipping children’s
cheeks, while inside
hearths glow, eyes sparkle,
an anticipation my heart
aches to behold

This year, we’ve balked
tradition, chosen sunnier
vistas, the selfishness of two
will limit our Christmas
to FaceTime chats, snapshots
of excitement; my heart torn
between bliss and guilt.

(The Daily Post prompt:  torn.  Image and baking by my daughter.  Missing limb courtesy of a granddaughter.)

Fight

Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination

guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort

disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing

offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection

fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate

denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent

peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude

(Image: Pinterest)

Always a Teacher

Set me on the open road,
encourage me to cross borders;
I am hungry for knowledge,
to hear a higher calling.

Cannot tolerate chained-to-
chairs education, imposed
immobility, socratic hierarchy
demanding conformity

spoon-fed compliance –
am too much my father’s
daughter, born rebellious
unable to mold myself
to prescribed slots

would rather initiate
discussion, engage, listen –
let shoes emote, tell their
story, develop compassion

never felt more than a visitor
in institutions, marks adequate
but brain absent, spirit numbed –
more punishment for delinquency
than awakening.

How can we convey the future,
instill optimism in prospects,
when the language of education
is secondary to how students
communicate in real-time?

Minds are energetic, curiosity
a given, youth crave elevation,
opportunity, measure themselves
against a system defined by rows.

How can I cross this barrier
of disability, open the dialogue
to ignite passions, propel learning
to open road scenarios, encourage
minds to cross borders?

(Reposted from December, 2106 in response to The Daily Post prompt:  calling.  Teaching, I’ve always believed to be my calling – loved it passionately, until I had to give it up in 2014 due to ME/CFS)