Descending
into the mythical,
entranced,
supported by
the severity of
this current difficulty
call it fantasy,
but attempting
movement is
destroying my
passage
I am pulling,
shattering
this barricade
of a life; blue
progressing:
ocean bound.
(Image:Â nauticalcottageblog.com)
To see how I created this poem visit:Â Composing Poetry
No more out-on-the-town bustles –
the late afternoon light fading in
my corner – focus now turned to
higher issues; try to keep company
with mindfulness – a worthy educator,
facilitating release – but my inventory
is too spun. Achieving a semblance
of completion, something to reflect
my life’s toil, would be welcome, yet
I fear my story is cooked. Guidance
might suggest I’m not alone, but
without my professional footing
I’m at a loss for identity, prodding
to find answers – a woman without
substance, grasping at what is mine.
Seems silly to think that breathing
might offer consolation for this no-
return-on-investment outcome; have
hit a wall, would rage if not numb, so
many parts of self lost in passage…
Midnight approaches and I am tapped
out – a social passenger hitching a ride
on hopelessness – flat broke, empty
(tried to dial up creativity – wrong#)
Contemplate sorrow, luck, temporary
breakdown’s, orchestrated scenes,
a lifelong inability to keep quiet (sorry
kids), a callous bitch – could never get
her to work in my corner, channel that
energy into fitness or financial success –
she just likes to stir things up, doesn’t
believe in peace of mind, jolts me awake
out of my comfort zone. Â Maybe I need
her now – forgo relaxation and surrender –
to shake this inactivity, give a hand up
to those repressed, forgotten selves –
get her to lift me out this self-conscious
mire – she doesn’t care about feelings –
markets herself with confidence, breathes
assertiveness, knows her own business…
can you see me sitting up a little straighter,
composing myself in the light of this new
possibility, readying myself to relaunch –
reconsidering my stance on corners?
There’s remodelling to be done here –
and orienting to the new will take a bit,
given my age, but I’m willing to concede
that there is community to serve, and
that as long as human rights are being
violated there is a place for compassion,
and no town is immune to need, so I’d
better get my bustle on and start painting.
( Image: lokeshsomu.blogspot.com )
Will not catch me gavotting
at a party in the Carly Simon
vein – am reluctant at best,
certain my flaws are neon,
fear scrutinizing attention.
Throw a boss in the mix
and I am all bumble, cringe
with each idiotic phrase I
utter, terrified to implode –
immortalize my inadequacy.
Course, it’s all nonsense –
arrogance really, to imagine
others give me a second
thought, and typically, once
I settle in, I find a groove.
Seems I possess a certain
expertise, have endeared
trust; Â in fact, in my self –
absorption have forgotten
to prepare my boundaries
protect against the influx
of attention seekers craving
validation or advice from me.
Isn’t this a strange state of
affairs;Â I the coward suddenly
thrust into such a position,
but such is life –Â pain begets
compassion; a trained listener
when it comes to issues of
the heart and mind – despite
personal misgivings, I find
a place, am challenged to set
aside imagined criticisms, even
actual betrayals, and extend a
hand to someone in greater need.
Might even be inspired to offer
an invitation – momentarily losing
sight of social anxiety – dress
myself up in empathy and break
bread with another – imagine!
Bought myself a big, old house
with a myriad of rooms; needed
it to accommodate all those I
wanted to please – it’s what I do.
Learned it living in a house full
of children – adults that were
children – do it to compensate
for never having been a child.
Raised my own family, bent
on making sure they had
their space, their autonomy,
they’re gone now, still can’t
quit – spend my days cleaning
up in the aftermath: so much
dirt to launder; need it to be
pristine so they’ll come back.
Bought this old house partially
furnished – remnants of lives
before me – the crumbs of past
denial hardened now, panicked
to imagine what petulance has
been drawn to their neglect,
becoming obsessed about the
infestation, erasing the past
confine myself to the main floor,
ignore the filth on walls – crayon
figures pleading for help – until
daylight reveals truth, and leaves
me no options but to toil harder –
cannot let these patterns repeat,
need to save the innocents –
this work is never done –Â refuse
to see that I am not responsible
for it all –Â project rage onto my
spouse (latest in a string of
targets) for the sin of taking
pleasure, when I cannot relax,
(everyone knows how to unwind
but me, Super Woman) feel the
compulsion to flee, but disability
allots me no recourse – thank
goodness for this big old house –
places to hide, be forgotten –
if it wasn’t for the old crone
who haunts my dreams, drags
me out of my spinning misery
forces me to extend myself,
meets me at the edge of calm
where tranquil waters soothe
my inner churning, and where
kindred spirits come to play,
and connections are real, and
I can roam freely, unattached,
until illness brings me back –
reminds me of my limitations –
that I have been eternally lost
in a house with many rooms
aimlessly wandering in hopes
or renewal, lost for so long
that I’ve forgotten how to let
go, and only in my dreams do
I find the freedom to walk away
and reclaim the life that awaits
(Image:Â bigoldhouses.blogspot.com)
Hurdles line up
before me, am I
at the starting gate?
Who will hire me?
Will I be able to learn?
Can I leave the house?
Each bar set higher,
formidable tasks
to achieve, doubting..
state of dependence,
chronic ailments,
undercut propulsion..
have cleared course
of busy, overworking
professional attire..
have the motivation
to rejoin the race,
but legs lack spring;
picture myself tripping,
tossed, sunny side up,
too outdated to win.
(Image:Â www.postonline.co.uk)
My father’s kingdom his castle;
I inherited his strife, witnessed
years of control and submission
felt used, undervalued, robbed;
Was overinvolved responsibly,
misunderstood the nature of his
anguish, drew attention to myself
interpreting his pain as personal.
Our Father’s mansion (no place
for inanimate objects) nurtures
wisdom, recalls neglect, reflects
on life choices, lack of wholeness.
I am called Home, lifted from
introspection regurgitating
old stories, see the youthful
exaggeration, adult immaturity
have a lot to learn – like a child
throwing a tantrum – emotional,
disappointed, destructive – hurt,
lacking constructive perspective;
need to dwell in a house without
walls, free from guilt of neglected
obligations, wounding relieved
by the light of a greater purpose.
(Image:Â www.themainewire.com)
Find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the birth of writers,
misplace my own purpose, fallen
gather ideas, maintain my shame;
I am a fictional character, having
miscarried my own story, declined
into dirt – dangerous; energy limited,
no stores to drive me, never really
known a home where peace dwells,
where brilliance is nurtured, worn
down with beatings, ascribed to
independence too young, immature
chose boisterousness over gentleness,
became a second/third-hand wife,
parent, place last behind responsibility.
beat myself up now over my stupidity,
lack of credibility, an obligatory failure –
any wisdom preserved redundant.
Stop already! Â This is but a one-sided
tale coloured by shame – change the
lens, multiple stories await birthing
find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the growth of writers,
recognize the shared experience.
British roots define
particular brand of
peculiarity – shared
claustrophobia –
fear of closeness;
need to lie down,
separate myself,
am married now
childless dreams
dust; I am cook,
cleaner – project
sparkle where dirt
still lingers, losing
rationality, not quite
catching on; want
to send flowers,
honour passings
but soul wounds,
unbandaged, gape –
hunger to be free.
(Image:Â www.apa.org)
Impulse would take me back –
resurrect lost passions –
a grave robber taking counsel
from the dead – volatility
a public declaration of extent
of bad choices – no exaggeration –
stench of unburied dreams burn
the eyes when exposed to open air,
the politeness of civil society.
(Image:Â mongolschinaandthesilkroad.blogspot.com)
Keep distance!
Inner child
intimate with abuse;
a sad comedian
spontaneity ploy
masking deadness –
major screwup –
God’s grace
unscathed
minus mishaps
hip movement
frozen scream
roads collide
life on periphery
repercussions
cognitive gears
breaking ice
encountering foes
reflexes delayed
safety intangible
borrowing time
health a trial
defeat conceded
relinquished control
Keep distance!
Inner child
driving the show.
One Woman's Quest 