When love,
open-eyed
and uplifting
appeared
she shuddered,
withdrew,
Shame’s shadow
casting putrid
projections
fear and uncertainty
cloaked her, masked
desire as repulsion –
wore her tragedy
as identity – could not
make the leap –
would choose, instead,
a legacy of abuse –
reaffirming the guilt
and self-loathing
Never could forget
the time that love
showed up –
opened-eyed
and uplifting.
(VJ’s weekly Challenge is shadows)
The Boondocks,
my sisters told me,
was not a desirable
place to be –
‘cool’ being the theme
of our generation –
the line between
what was ‘in’
and what was not,
seemed fragile
to my imagination,
mind climbing
to copious possibilities
constantly slammed
by uptight, in-the-know
older siblings
Is it any wonder
that I never belonged,
the line of inclusion
always just out of reach?
Grew fond of
tucked away
spaces –
isolation
Adapted to
the “boonies” –
more refuge
than exile.
(Poem is brought to you by the inspirational prompting of Ragtag Community (copious), Daily Addictions (theme), Fandango’s (fragile), and Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt (Boondocks).
Our roots are spreading,
the umbrella of our tree broadening –
Muslims now amongst our beloveds
a progression, nurtured by
a Divine plan – trees are meant
to branch – hearts’ capacity unlimited
an outcome that evolved – not because
of that day when the impact reverberated
across borders, dislodging fears – but despite it
Praise goes to youth, whose willingness
to embrace possibility beyond stereotypes,
beyond hatred, opened doors, enticed
this hometown gal, and a backward father
to set aside prejudice (ignorance, really), and invite
the light of love to transform darkened passages.
brave souls, willing to defy the legacy
of downed towers, the lies of politicians –
carving out a path for an enlightened future.
(Written for dVerse, who on the anniversary of 9/11 challenged us to go back to a previous poem penned on this date and write a new one, based on one line.  I revisited  Renovating the Psyche from 9/11/2016 and chose the line:  “roots spreading outwards, Muslims now amongst our beloveds.” )
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Â poison & past)
I picture it: a convention
of like minds, congregating,
sharing, aspiring to betterment.
A conference of healing,
for the newly deceased –
like limbo, only educational.
Surprised to find you there –
you who seldom attended
any of my performances.
I’ll stifle the discomfort,
suppress doubt, cherish
the moment, except that
I know you – will catch
the gist of your duplicity,
your self-serving motivations
feel the rage intact, intent
on one final confrontation,
to track you down, and decry
your brick-wall tendencies,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs
will check the registry –
surely there is one in Heaven –
likely not find you listed there
the alias you used in life,
now redundant – will find
you under that moniker
I refused to ever pronounce;
will stand at the door of your chamber
inflated righteousness ready
to denounce you for eternity,
only… revelation will strike,
decades of wrath disintegrating
into sorrow, and as you open
that door, hesitant to receive me,
I’ll declare: Â “I am sorry, Dad.
I accept you just as you are,
I just don’t want any more
distance between us.”
(When We Meet in Heaven, Dad originally appeared April, 2017.  I am submitting a revised edition here for Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt:  dirge. A response to this poem, from my Father’s point of view, is posted on One Woman’s Quest II.)
Found my first love
holding hands
walking home
from school –
grade one.
Father’s grip
crushed,
controlled,
warned against
disobedience,
held on until
compliance
was assured.
My sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until her internal heat
burned the touch
and I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles,
employs sensuality
to invoke desire.
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go,
prideful possession.
My granddaughter’s fist –
still pink from birthing –
wrapped around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life –
My husband’s hand
reaches out for mine
conveys support
for unsteady legs
offers strength
to propel me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments,
leave deep impressions.
(Tonight is Open Link night at dVerse, and our host Lillian has invited us to celebrate with her, as August 9th marks many National celebrations, one of which is National Hand Holding Day. Â To see the others and join in, visit here.)
Was it real,
or a dream?
Flash of brown eyes..
that smile –
just for him –
inviting…
Consumed was he
raced everyday
to that place
in the square
hoping…
to catch her…
to know her name…
something…
Tragic, really,
his inability to separate
dream from reality
How fantasy
kept him single.
(Every Thursday, Deb Whittam at Twenty Four offers a photo and quotation prompt for 50 Word Thursday. Â Drop by her site and join in.)
It’s like cycling uphill
in three lanes of traffic
in a snowstorm
trying to communicate with you
I keep peddling –
sending signals –
but you’re like the SUV
spraying slush in your wake
hindering  progress,
ignoring my needs…
Aren’t we soulmates –
in tune, hearts beating as one –
words superfluous between us?
Then why am I about to expire
and you’re just revving up?
No telepathy at work here.
Empathy lacking, too.
(Sammi Cox’s weekend challenge is telepathy in 72 words)
Was willing to settle
even before casting off
anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, no oar to steer
left fate to the currents
a vessel adrift, naïve
trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware
of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks
like to circle wayward
boats, certain of a catch
no wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked
I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism
had failed to register
the dangers of sailing,
into uncharted waters,
the necessity of navigational
resources, and a life jacket,
the knowledge to stay afloat
and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves hearts.
(Inspired by the image and Laura’s Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt: wrecked)
Conscience clear,
even circumspect,
no hidden motives,
just a desire for closeness,
an intimacy only two
can share, and yet
even as you approach
I feel my waters
clouding, doubts
scurrying across
surfaces…
One Woman's Quest 