Innocence Replaced

Rebellious adolescent
covets freedom, schemes
two dimensional; needs

attending to; temporarily
dislodged, toying with sanity,
her perspective slippery

she is traversing violation’s
den; virginal door smashed,
internally shattered, broken

pieces distorting charmed
impressions – she is away;
no longer safe, stalked in

crowds; spikes her hair, heels,
nails; polishes the art of rape:
feminine wiles dominating the

hungry beast, fists clenched
she consumes her lover;
seizes his neck; unshackled

sexuality praying on the timid –
a ravaged sense of feminism;
radar set on revenge; she prowls.

(Image from: best-tiger.blogspot.com)

Watery Stagnation

Wading knee-deep,
electric yellow waters
of mud laden stream

the coveted prize –
a mutated version –
Christ’s fish hovers

within arm’s reach;
have touched it –
recoiled out of fear.

Status is stagnation –
movement stymied
by lack of current.

Only the constant
thrum of a winged
pest’s belligerence

punctures stillness,
irritates, its hard –
shelled turquoise

body reminiscent
of Halcyon days,
Caribbean sunsets.

What evil virus has
cemented me here
strangled nomadic

dreams, mired me
in polluted waters
imbued with cruel

uncertainty; faith-
less; immobilized
by juxtaposition?

(Photo courtesy: grist.org)

The Narcissist’s Argument

My wife stayed up all night,
waited for my sisters arrival;
told her they would get here
when they get here, but still
she remained vigilant – would
rather lose sleep than let go.

Cooked them a late night
meal, even though I told her
one is watching her figure
and the other precise in her
tastes – no way she could
please them, so why bother.

She worries, my wife, about
being perfect, being accepted;
she’ll never have the polish
of my upbringing or light a
candle to women in my family
and quite frankly, embarrasses

herself trying – I’d rather she
be a mouse, wait until I tell
her to act, let my sisters take
charge, stop trying to pretend
she is good enough, just worry

about fetching my dinners,
finishing the ironing, and
getting on with the children –
I am a busy man.  Makes her
angry though, if I say so; snips
at me as if it’s all my fault –

I didn’t ask her to do it – she
wants  me to talk to my siblings,
tell them she’s burdened as it is,
ask them to find a hotel – such
nonsense; such a bitter woman,

my wife, impossible to please,
always trying to control the
situation, complaining no one
else will help her – and who can
blame them; who wants to be
around that; that’s why I need

you, my dear,  so agreeable, lovely,
you lift my heart; give me hope –
thought about you all night, wished
you were there to fill up the empty
space beside me; know that we can
make each other forever happy.

(image from: galleryhip.com)

 

Trauma’s Offspring

Insanity meticulously recreates
the murder scene – a minute
replica of the house bloodied;

builds it on the front lawn
where passersby can see,
cannot purge herself of it;

turns on me, annihalation
in her eyes; I will chase her
down, cease this madness;

she is intent on destroying
new life, cutting it into pieces,
re-perpetrating the slaughter;

I must render her defenseless,
wrestle her into submission,
dare not look her in the face

the familiarity of her misery
a mirror of self-loathing; this
sometimes sister/daughter.

Crocodile Dreams

How are we to sleep
with this croc in our bed?

Who will protect whom?
Your meaty limbs surely

more appealing morsel;
assert your masculinity

will you dear?  I’ll just
curl up in the corner –

pretend I hadn’t noticed.
Oh but what if he’s hungry,

and takes a bite out of
your leg, making a mess

and I’ll have to clean up and care
for you? That’s not acceptable!

I’ll just hoist this critter out
of here, put him in the hall

shut the door – crocodiles
can’t turn knobs can they?

But oh, what about the kids,
do you think he’ll find them?

How are they to sleep with
a crocodile in their beds?

And what kind of legacy
is that to leave the children?

 

Me Want Cookie!

Cravings, no better than a
tower-sized Cookie Monster,
prowl, growl, stampede –
threatening my very core.

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I flee, take shelter in forests
of broccoli, stalks of celery,
hope this infantile impulse
will pass by, forgotten; then –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I will drown the inclination
in a shower of water, cleanse
my mind of such sinful desire,
nourish myself with liquid –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

No amount of rationality
appeases the ravenous
creature, fists balled tight
in a childish fit of conviction

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I am losing ground, tension
building – raise the alarm –
run for shelter – the key is
to remain inconspicuous –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

Close the door! Do it quickly,
if no one sees, it doesn’t count –
just one will do it, maybe two –
try not to leave any crumbs.

Me got sugar!
Me had cookie!

I collapse into a puddle of guilt,
self-loathing, disappointment,
while the inner muppet smiles
tummy momentarily satisfied.

th-2

Calm Yourself, Woman

Circumstances shift –
breath the fertile air –
let dreams fly, expand,

embrace change – hope
now winged, an explorer
bursting with possibility.

I would move this old
body, relocate to new
beginnings, be reborn

but for these internal
trappings – begging for
extermination – retro

shaded memories –
long past expiration –
skewed accessibilty,

stretched without purpose,
reconfiguration required –
history a real estate, I need

to unload; who will buy
a drama-laden, single
story alcoholic’s haunt?

Circumstances shift –
sniff the fertile air –
guard forbidden dreams

change, like wings, unfolds
in its own time; be patient,
possibility is taking flight.

(Image from: vijaycool.wordpress.com)

Need A Road To Follow

Heading somewhere,
chauffeur unreliable –
treacherously absent
direction – any road

would be better than
these curb-hopping,
tendencies, head-on
into snowy banks –

Common sense –
usually a stabilizer –
is off duty, lacking
appropriate attire,

his willowy, tree-like
composure relaxed;
nonchalantly shrugs
off the current drama.

It’s not that I don’t
have dreams – have
birthed projects –
lack the stature to

move beyond the
laneway, ambition –
reduced by concern –
imagining catastrophe

death by recklessness,
or worse, attacked by
loyalty – vicious end
to a goal-less journey.

We Are Not Cattle

We have been molded,
complied with stringent
guidelines, define selves
as mothers, wives, daughters,
bear the shame of blemished
lives, remain mute, passive,
robotic observers, marginalized

Until we witness the
senseless dismemberment
of a sister, the flow of her blood
like a bolt of red electricity,
jarring our numbed minds,
disrupting loyalties, alerting
us to the price of obedience

We are consciousness rising,
eyes opening, alert, questioning
the crimson-stains on the hands
of those who would herd us,
rage growing, abandoning
this show of submission,
demanding accountability.

Re-Purposing the Garage

It’s complicated, really, but so much
is defined by the presence of a garage.

Here is a stand-alone, connected by
a breezeway, single-car with storage;

could have been so much more –
had planned for it, but life changes.

Once had an oversized garage, direct
access, housed two vehicles, custom

built, but the cars are gone now, and
the single stands vacant, like my mind.

Except, the other day, I swore I glimpsed
an animal there, perched on the shelving

fierce, cat-like eyes caught in the dim
light of the open doorway, a tigress,

body crouched, poised to strike, backed
away, convinced it was a hallucination,

but then there she was again, clawing
at my imagination, piercing my senses;

I tended to the bleeding, chastising my
foolishness – of course she wasn’t real –

I lost my feminine prowess long ago,
am more of a groundhog now – slow

moving, podgy, sniffing the air for hints
of change, burrowing in face of trouble,

more a scrounger than a dweller, prefer
underground to domesticated storage.

A family lived here once: a tightly knit
portrait of three, lulled by the protection

offered – no storms to weather, just
sheltered transitions until the husband

left, daughter in tow; ducked beneath
the closing of the automated door –

left me, trapped under the layers of
debris, choking on their fumes, a flea-

bitten heap of a woman, homeless,
buried in a mound of bitter regrets;

almost missed her existence, except
for those grasping, white-knuckled

fingers emerging from the heap,
pleading for rescue, begging for

revival; I would shoulder her, one
more responsibility burdening

progress, shuddered to host such
destruction within my walls, would

have tended to her suffering more
promptly had not my daughter’s

malingering, suspiciously bent on
thievery, robbed me of equilibrium –

this state of heightened vigilance
a cause for neglecting self – have

humoured too many who would take
advantage of me, cannot trust my own

instincts, am disillusioned, no longer
content with inconsistencies, need to

confront the condition of my garage,
clean out the accumulation of stored

nonessentials; maybe hold a sale,
whitewash the interior and buy a car.

th

(Feature image from: maiko-girl.deviantart.com)