Met him on the way to tomorrow,
pitched a tent on his front lawn,
both ignoring impermanence.
How is it the heart’s drumming
blots out the soundness of mind,
negates former promises to self?
The weather changed and with it
sentiments cooled, tempers heated,
a tempest ensued, she packed up
hitched a ride on a passing train
headed in the wrong direction,
her heart still a discordant drum.
Murmurs from the past –
tied to a former identity –
question my social absence
I have divorced that life,
that self, and yet, memories
dangle, challenge my validity
Once facilitator, now I shy away
hidden behind the curtain of illness
could offer suggestions for gathering
have a repertoire of ideas, stashed,
no doubt out-dated – so much of life
having surpassed me, even old selves.
(Photo from private collection)
Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.
Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.
Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.
She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.
Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected
lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware
that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.
Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered
how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated
ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.
She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her
that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice
her scorching, all –
embracing passion
that had united them
and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.
(Seasons Of Love originally appeared in February 2016.)
Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.
Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would
pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing
as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing
I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.
(Image: www.viral.us)
There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.
(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)
Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination
guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort
disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing
offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection
fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate
denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent
peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude
(Image: Pinterest)
She is beauty defined –
the flash of deep brown eyes
a wry smile: suggestive, inviting,
she tilts her head, black tresses
cascading over silken skin, and
men flock, eager to bask in her
sweetness, catch the ray of a smile.
She taunts me, mocks my insecurity –
an easy target for one so self-assured –
ridicules my values, my labour, shreds
any sense of self-respect, and then,
with a the flip of a manicured hand,
shrugs it off, invites me for lunch.
I acquiesce, an unwitting stalker,
mesmerized, angry; she is poison,
recognizes my ambitions –Â I am fish
nibbling at her bait, disregarding
menace – oppressed by feminine
power, born undesirable, will vomit
her rejection and still come back
for more – a willing victim, adverse
to offense, failure certain, hooked.
What will be remembered
when the show is over –
will humour linger
will dreams tarry
will belief matter?
Friends depart sans farewell
lost in the debris of divorce
we pass in shopping malls
serve each other with smiles
avoid lively interaction
new responsibilities develop
we are directors obsessed
with reason, ideals now lapsed
singularly hoping that personal
potential is in tact; mining
an openness that overrides
lost love, tunnelled explanations,
want to act obligingly, are remiss,
we are fetchers, penetrating rows
no enclosure for fails, will accept
encouragement when available –
hard work is polish for the talented;
I am alive but in need of help,
shutting down, what remains
tinged with immediacy, lucky
just to communicate; would mirror
love, not look for exits, but endings
are all I know, have shopped for
balance, an intermediary to dissuade
rejection, I am a puppy, unfailing
loyally holding onto this puzzle,
wonder at all that is unrequited,
how easily we detach, considering
the carrot that is intimacy, how
all of this is such a production.
(Image: www.pd4pic.com)
(Originally posted May of 2014, this poem describes the early days with ME/CFS. This is an edited version of the original.)
Rain pelts against my window,
cheered on by a relentless wind.
Inside, I lie motionless
on my once-yearned-for
now resigned-to
bed.
Target has those things you’re looking for
texts a daughter, pic attached.
Exactly what I’m looking for
but a million miles away
when energy fails me
Instead, I give in to the fingers
of sleep, pulling me in –
blessed unconsciousness,
oblivion.
A door opens below me,
footsteps, a voice:
Do you need anything?
I don’t respond,
too weak for words.
Do I need anything?
The question reverberates
through mind…
emotion…
body…
comes up empty –
what could I need?
too much
nothing
Rain abates, wind subsiding
and a brief ray of sun
brightens the room –
a promise
of spring
of new beginnings,
and I think:
I need clothes
but clothes means shopping
and shopping means energy
and the cycle continues
and still I lay
unmoved
Then you enter,
an offering of tea
and a gentle word
and with renewed momentum,
I shift to make room for you,
and it all comes clear –
You are what I need
You are my must-have.
(Image: heartofwisdom.com)
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)
One Woman's Quest 