No longer tolerating
highly processed,
artificially sweetened
offerings; am sickened
by the whiteness of
bleached presentations;
bloat at the suggest of
southern fried coatings,
am pained by inorganic
solutions, or beefed up
regimens; cannot digest
milking; find the endless
pursuit of bread gut-
wrenching; have no palate
for genetically modified
ideas; find fatty concepts
unappetizing; am loathe
to consume further fishy
tales; avoid intoxication
by heady bouquets; have
no stomach for saucy
accompaniments; am
intolerant of gluttony;
craving a sustainable
form of nourishment.
Category: poetry
Herd or Heard
Society moves en masse,
flowing with the tides,
propelled by a shared
consciousness.
Destination unknown;
purpose undetermined.
We take flight, cling
to wings of promise,
ignore the stench
of destruction.
Reaching for the sky;
barely hanging on.
We land, school together
tell tales of adventure
document progress
avoid reality
proponents of diversity;
shunning differences
All among us has a story
shies from speaking aloud
fears castigation
deflects
fearlessly outspoken:
scapegoating sins.
Daring to speak a truth,
I falter, watch as the
crowd retreats in
shunning silence.
Destination unknown,
purpose undetermined.
Is Daddy Dead?
Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.
Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.
She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.
Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.
Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.
What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.
Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.
In Communion Prevails
Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.
Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,
tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.
Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end
conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.
Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.
Poet’s Quandary
If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?
Re-de-fine-d
Ask me how I’m doing
and I’ll say “fine”, not
because I’m actually “fine”
but because “fine” is the only
socially acceptable response.
If I said that I have been lying
here for three hours now trying
to will my body to movement
that would elicit unsolicited
advice and tarnish my “fine”
I’d berate myself for breaking
my promise not to complain
knowing that complaining
provokes compulsive needs
to fix which makes me angry
Because my concept of trying –
which is defined by getting dressed
every day – does not match trying
every new therapy, drug, exercise
offered by well-meaning but clueless
others, who may experience fatigue
at times, but have no understanding
of what it is to be exhausted after
something as simple as bathing,
let alone debating what I haven’t tried.
So, ask me how I’m feeling, and
I’ll say “fine” and we can get on
about the weather or the latest
movie must-see, and I can bask
in the warmth of the contact
carry the conversation into the
void of the rest of my day, smile
to think that I still have friends
who accept my “fine” even though
they know I am anything but.
Dear Charlotte Perkins Gilman
I have examined your wallpaper,
discussed the scholarly attributes
of shades of yellow, traced the edges
of your unravelling with my mind,
argued the merits of Gothic horror;
marvelled at the brilliance of wording,
the courage to define the nature of
feminine madness, the boldness to
highlight inequalities long before the
establishment of a Person’s Act.
Forgive me, but I need to set aside
this keyboard for a moment, for I tire
easily, am suffering from an exhaustion
that is systemic and calls for elimination
of all stimulus in favour of rest, you see
I share your sentence of confinement,
isolated to a room with windows, my
mind wandering to ancestral gardens,
contemplating shadows and movement
cognizant of underlying forces, creeping.
My husband has just left, dear man, having
checked on me, taking on my burden,
concerned that I am not sleeping at night
thinks that by reading and rereading your
words I am only fueling an already over-
active imagination; begging me to be still
as the doctor has recommended; but I am
burning to tell you that time has no
relevance between us and that you and I
exist simultaneously – a secret we dare
not confess – how correct your impulse
that there was more than one woman,
that we are many, barred by the designs
of society, papered over by irrational,
outdated shades of yellow, lacking
symmetry, or sensibility, suffocating
our creativity, tortuously contorting
ourselves to been seen, accepted.
It is the smell of our discordant souls
that pervades your consciousness
the rotted withering of a stifled
existence – a yellowed existence –
once hopeful, sunny, now molding
mucous, desperately torn away
at the edges, pleading for escape
How grateful I am that you see –
may I call you Charlotte – that you
have smelled the angst, witnessed
the struggle, are willing to tear at
the sticking places, to set us free.
( The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman [not sure why 1899 edition depicted here bears a different surname] in its entirety can be found here:
Dragon Attack
Long-bodied,
gelatinous
creatures cling
to the walls
of this hole
I’m buried in,
repulsive,
relentless,
fluorescent
tubes of
serpentine
slime
suctioning
space,
I am
breathless,
helpless.
More eel-like
than snake,
propelled by winged apertures –
underdeveloped versions of the full-
bodied inhabitants
swarming around
my head –
panic
will be
my
demise.
Movements,
I recognize
are juvenile,
impulsive,
floundering,
not menacing,
mid-air capture
will curtail
the onslaught,
minimize
damage –
tame
these
dragons.
Leap-Froggin’
Always wanted to travel,
dreamed of exotic places,
thriving metropolises,
worthwhile destinations –
where I’d be
a somebody,
make a difference,
excel.
Aptitude tests proclaimed proclivity –
candidate for leadership –
confidence to reach to the top,
know-how unnecessary,
if the hat fits,
I’d wear it –
ambitious.
Wasn’t prepared for the halt
in progress – ending up
in rural Ontario, nothing
but a mall for entertainment –
told myself life is what
you make it –
keep your chin up,
and all that.
Let a few of my dreams slide,
convinced
they’d be better off
without me, moved on
before I could reclaim them,
abandoned common sense
for irrationality; a call
for help
Assured others I was all right,
not to worry,
swallowed anxiety,
choked on my confusion,
broke down when the road
ended again,
realized
there is no control center,
only ability
to respond,
and that sometimes
life leap-frogs
and sometimes
backwards is forwards;
reality
is topsy-turvy
and not a well-oiled machine,
and no matter the direction,
the journey
will be
trying.
Soul Stalker
Downy blankets of white settle softly,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.
Inside, my body craving hibernation
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.
My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.
She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.
Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less:Â a mere carcass.
Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.
One Woman's Quest 