Category: poetry

Letting Go

One hand clutches expectations
while the other clings to walls,
desperately seeking purpose

I have prayed for direction,
a driving need for acceptance,
a longing to be acknowledged

look for openings to procure
success, willing to commit
to hard work, self-sacrifice

have dreamt of a doorway
backlit with brilliant promise,
radiance waiting for release

Am I on the right path, will
this stumbling hope lead me
forward, help me find the way

I could not bear another fall
hands too full to stop the hurt
I am burdened by this quest

Not paying attention to the ground
before me, hit a pot hole, lose my
footing, knees buckle, arms flail

hands release their coveted hold
reflexively reach out, I am down
forced to look up, shame burning

startled to witness a single ray –
a beacon of light in the darkness,
signalling a turn in the road ahead

I pick myself up, hands smarting,
feel the openness of heart and mind
renewed inspiration guiding me

(Image: jackeavesart.deviantart.com)

Path of Manifestation

Change
is happening,
feel the stirring
root deep,
hunger churning
excitement builds
heart expanding
breathe the thrill
open to possibility
spirit revealing

receive the blessing
clarity of vision
will engaged
trust the process
believe in self
creativity soaring
grounded in reality
change
is happening

(Image: idolza.com)

 

An Aged Feminist Perspective

I am teacher, tending to
budding feminists – persecuted
for their giftedness, depravity
a stink that trails them – defined
by sanitary napkin advertisements,
comfort ridiculed; I falter, my own
rage stifling responsibility…

I am grandmother, overseeing
the growth of a new era, promoting
autonomy, watch as dependence
settles in, how we whitewash human
depravity and forget the babies –
desperate for what?  Am at wit’s end
protesting the depths of society’s fall.

I am crone, observer of young
women, whose ambitions rise,
yet, in face of injustice, are quieted,
we are untrained at cleansing
the excrement of humiliation,
have too long borne obligation
as a demonstration of our fitness,
cling to a losing illusion of control.

It’s Time, Women

It’s time to resurrect
our confidence,
recapture the sensitivity
of intuitive knowing,
acknowledge the power
of our resiliency;
we are women
merciful companions
healers attending
Divinity’s passage,
peace-seekers
directing life’s journey.

Too long have we equated
self-esteem with
patriarchal agendas,
disappointed with
our inability to meet
media standards,
blamed ourselves
for divorce,
disease,
staying home
to raise the children.

It’s time to honour
our strength, restore
feminine worth,
align our resources,
we are iron grace,
mindful caregivers,
mate with intention,
our vulnerability,
our sensuality,
aspects of intrinsic
wisdom, we are
keepers of the dream
beings steeped
in mystery:
it is time.
(Image artist: Shikha Agnihotri Pandey )

 

 

Is Progress This?

Is this progress,
this decision to uproot,
caste possessions aside,
free ourselves of ties?

Can his dependency,
my dependency, endure
the transition, released
from former justifications?

We are companions
embarking on adventure,
companions retiring past
lies, redefining possibility

or is this more of the same,
artfully camouflaged –
a continuance of flight
from tyrannical origins?

The paths behind are jagged,
wrought with rocks and crevices
and scarred riddles, and yet,
have we not survived, thrived?

The road ahead is expansive
our home an ever-changing
landscape as wide as a continent
our minds eager to absorb…

this is progress,
we are unburdened,
free-spirited, submitting
to new tests of truth.

(Image: www.ebookers.com)

 

A Plea for Awareness

There is anger in dis-ease,
an impotent railing against
the injustice of biological
systems bent on breaking

souls; this relentless drag,
this mournful existence,
it is not pity that we seek,
nor charity that appeases

but answers, pragmatic
protocols, procedures to
dissuade the onslaught
of symptoms, unburden

our suffering – none of us
weak, yet disheartened by
medical abandonment,
many confined in isolation

our embers, seething
beneath bedclothes,
burning behind eyes
that have lost focus

forgive us if we rant,
if our conduct reeks of
self-righteousness, but we
are missing, millions missing

plagued by a condition
long ignored, misconstrued,
dismissed, we are angry
unapologetically maddened

have been blighted by
an illness without definable
diagnosis, pronounced only
by elimination, overlooked

by insurance providers,
disability claims, as if we
have construed an alibi
for opting out of society

if we lash out, speak out
express our discomfort
in uncomely ways, well
then listen, reasoning

guides our hands, our
voices, our rampages –
we are disappointed,
frustrated, unheeded

and very much alive
and individually, and
collectively we wield
our ire as a cry for help.

See us, feel us, find
the resources to seek
for a cure, reinstate
the lives of the missing.

 

 

 

Lost Directions

Partnered once with compassion,
believed in the power of human
touch, dedicated myself to caring,
certain I’d found my body of work

time and circumstance intervened
I drifted, lost in an eddy of confusion
my partner and I separated in the fray
but life moves in circular cycles, and

I revisit that work now, wonder if
parts of it are salvageable, viable –
fragments of that former time now
seem so outdated, irrelevant, what

if I let compassion drive, put ego
in the passenger seat, would she
not steer us down one way streets
against the flow of traffic, rattle

my elusive confidence, jeopardize
this vulnerability; I have no trust
in processes, lack the assurance
of youth’s glory, would not survive

the scramble; time and circumstance
have intervened, circular lines bypass
in spirals; we are not meant to go back,
I need to breathe and stop this grasping.

(Image: scorpyorising.blogspot.com)

 

 

Flawed

Why do I try to please
those whose motivation
is only self-serving, material
gain more important than
intrinsic rewards?

How is that I’ve tied
myself to the downtrodden,
dependent upon the nay-sayers –
those lacking imagination
incapable of celebration

settling for the mundane,
as if choices are limited?
I want to embrace each day,
dignify each moment,
regale the glory

life is miracles
and mystery, passages
and opportunity; and I yearn
to break through the walls
of limitation and rejoice

yet I am subjected
to the whims of others,
passion overridden by
disappointment, convinced
I am never enough.

(Image from pinterest)

 

 

Missing

Have you seen her –
the child we lost,
the one who lost herself?

born to a sister
breasts not yet ripe
for motherhood’s call

a passenger
on a perilous ride,
sweetness eclipsed

by a cacophony
of raised voices
the wails of women

helplessly trapped
a smothering drama;
how easily she escaped

slipped from our clutches
found comfort in the streets
preferred coldness of strangers

to the raging fires at home;
lost her to the lure of parties,
an elixir for the empty places,

found her once amongst
the debris of discarded needles
and the haze of sexual reek

the golden halo of youth
now matted clumps of shame
her beauty sunken in shadows

we’d taught her well, it seems –
the art of submission, how to
betray the self, embrace defeat

tried to pick her up, create
a milieu of normalcy, establish
homelike roots, but shams

do not last and she ran again
the echo of her absence a hole
ringing in our hearts, we are

guilt-ridden, apologetic, fear
the power of our inadequacy;
try to forget, justify, cringe

for the child we lost,
the one that got away,
the one that lost herself.

(Image: alwayslonliness.blogspot.com)

Could It Be?

Walking away is the only solution
I’ve ever excelled at, and yet
absence does not obliterate that
which dwells within – I can pretend
that I have nothing further to offer,
but life and circumstance require
more of me, a challenge to exhume
the remains of my potential – will
I be up to the task?  There is flattery
in being looked up to, the feeling
that someone needs me, but is that
not akin to temptation – an ego play –
could it be that the knowledge I’ve
acquired has merit only when shared;
that we are all here to do our piece;
that by releasing what I’ve learned
I will find flow, feel in sync with life
again, restore my abilities and reignite
a passion for teaching?  Dare I hope.

(Image: http://www.thebalance.com)