Disruption’s Message

Orlando, Paris, Columbine –
horrific stains on social
conscience – no room for
bystanders – our house is
divided, projecting fear into
sunsets, volatility illuminating,
initiating paralysis – terror
cannot be contained by
a single story –

Suburbia is on fire
minorities in the street
witnessing targeted
violence, neighbourhoods
torn apart, darkening clouds
hovering – losing sight of
the richness of our resources
need to shelter, reorganize
fight this fragmentation
of values, together…

Maybe comfort is the enemy
pockets of turmoil exploding
alerting, shaking our complacency
shining light on the faithlessness
of our priorities, encouraging
breakthrough — the world
grows smaller
and none of us
is alone.
(Image: www.theepochtimes.com)

Goddess Love

Father’s voice is booming
full of patronizing shame;
the child cowers in fright
turns the negativity inwards.

Learns to doubt, to loathe –
self and others – pulls away,
adapts pig-headed criticism
finds failure in every effort.

 Mother’s voice is soothing
encourages self-reliance,
acknowledges individuality,
invites discernment, assures

the child that smart doubts
are useful, and that owning
the wrath of another only
disables brilliance; coaxes

relaxation, counsels that
outcomes are not based
on judgments of others, but
the results of determination.

Patriarchy instills a sense
of disappointment, begets
a cycle of insecurity intent
only on sabotaging progress.
 

Matriarchy has no agenda, no
use for disapproval, beholds
all life as sacred, exceptional:
to shine, the birthright of all.

 

 

 

Divine Spark

The emerald waters of
my crystalline personality
are only a reflection
of an external light.

Lurking below the surface
the murky tears
of self-deprecation
create further illusion.

Dive deeper,
beyond the cold chill
of darkening thoughts
and threatening despair

Weed through the silt
of bottomed out desires
and find an opening –
black and foreboding.

Enter with an open heart
and find the treasure within
rusted from neglect,
unguarded, with open latch.

Brush away the cobwebs
and with respectful caution
lift the dusty lid
and behold the divine spark

My true essence,
Tucked there in the darkness
an eternal flame
vibrant and vital.

Release it for me,
be so kind,
to light this dismal patch
and set my waters aglow again.

So that the emerald waters
of my crystalline personality
will reflect an internal
divine light.

(Reposted from September 2014)

Renovating The Psyche

Pardon the mess, but currently
renovating the psyche, moving
rape to a separate apartment,
trying to make room for God.

Heart is the crux of my home,
space for recreation essential,
my family is growing, roots
spreading outwards, Muslims

now amongst our beloveds.
I need to be present – useful
to communicate without
appearing challenged – hope

the elephant in the room
does not describe me, signs
of burning startling – smoking
is not permitted here – breath

is a requirement; I live here!
Dare I reveal, make a scene?
I’ve made my bed, better to
stay conservative, constrict

airways; don’t need much to
get by: a modest income,
marriage insurance, quiet
appliances, easy navigation.

Post overhaul, I’m hoping for
less complications, more flow,
compartmentalized sanity so
that God will stop questioning.

(Image: http://watersofnoah.blogspot.ca/2012/03/big-rock.html)

Meaning of Life, Anyone?

If I could, I would ask the dead
about the secrets of life, raise
spirits to help me understand
this phenomena of cancer, the
need to find relief in addictions,
the key to successful relations.

Or perhaps It is the youth, set
on creating the next YouTube
sensation, who have insights
I should pay attention to, but
they seem to prefer contrived
reality, ignoring mundane life.

Asking the heads of education
what the guiding principles are
for living a good life seems use-
less; they are too buried beneath
the red tape of bureaucracy, out
of touch with front line teaching.

I might ask new immigrants who
carry with them an accented
authority and certainty about the
meaning of life that I have not
considered – their faith and hope
badges of courage that betray
our lack of social cohesiveness.

I feel compelled to investigate
why this hard-working, caring
soul has sold herself three times
for love and continues to come up
victim; is it an insatiable need
for attention or lack of willingness
to let go of the past and just be?

(Image: btloc.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)

Conflict of Peace

We are peacemakers,
declaring commitment;
celebrating life, diversity.

We stand at the water’s edge,
contemplate forever, pray for
serenity, believe in harmony.

Watch as past dalliances,
like old lovers, drift away,
become memories forgotten.

We are supporters, lift up
the down trodden, extend
hearts and hands in aid.

Rescuers, fearless vessels
surfing the ocean of tears
saving lives for the cause.

Withdrawal is preferential
to conflict, introspective
in our peace-loving stance.

We are hosts, expecting
hospitality, unprepared
for hostility, taken aback

Submission lost to fear;
partnering with revenge
spoon out poison, turn

the tables, defend sanctity,
reposition selves as victims
flee our former stance; attack.

Alarmists engage in paranoia,
see only turbulent skies at
the water’s edge, disbelieve

We must hold fast to ideals,
embrace humanity’s potential
be responders, not reactors

Recover our sanctity, reunite
in a vision of peace, remember
that celebration trumps strife.

(Image: marketplace.secondlife.com)

Women Are Red

Women bleed –
red blots in an otherwise
black and white world –

have learned the language,
yet feel like foreigners,
undermined by nuances;

travel this patriarchal
landscape, would-be leaders
whose compassion like blood

unsettles the ambitious,
too exhausted to play the game
corporate agendas do not align

with weary-hearted
mothers who would slow
progress to raise wholeness.

We take back seats,
submit to sermons from self-
proclaimed prophets, who mime:

words without substance,
are starving for sustenance
in a fast food, quick fix world

where harm is overlooked
in praise of mass consumption –
crave relief from the imbalance –

seek woman-only refuge
to vent our quiet rebellion,
give voice to our marginalization.

Our blood is thick, heavy,
like our passion, offensive to some
and like our power, unstoppable.

(image:  http://www.odditycentral.com)

These are Warriors

Younger women than I
are giving birth, unaware
of indifference; joyous
expectancy blotting out
smells of disinfectant,
and decay – I am invisible
to them, my daughters.

Babies they are, bringing
forth life, unripened souls,
hopeful, ignorant, unaware
that I know what violations
have planted the seeds, am
no stranger to the cruelties
of humanity, my sisters.

I may be unknown here,
but neglect is universal –
it’s brutality unremarkable –
am praying for miracles,
while the world spins, lives
losing control, and all I can
do is stand witness, Mother.

(Photo credit:  Huffington Post)

Residential Horrors

This place is both school and residence,
where I have come to live and work –

‘Live’ is a stretch – these old walls hold
secrets, tension dissuading recreation.

The work is meant to be education, but
survival seems to be what we are learning,

the students and I, shivering in the isolation
of this cold setting – fields of rolling green

within our view torment us – the open air
as inaccessible as the homes we long for.

Inside, the heat is stifling and the constant
clatter of keys and rustle of gowns, starched

and unforgiving, remind us of the permanency
of our stay – perhaps, I am just too young,

too fresh to be a teacher here – have visited
this place before in the dream time, known

it’s horrors, am all too awake now, certain
that the hidden places exist, that evil lives

within these walls, is watching us, waiting –
have seen movement behind shutters, where

none was warranted, heard breathing at the
grates in the baseboard, am skin-crawling

paranoid, everywhere eyes, ears, but no voices.
All too afraid to speak – two children are missing.

The authorities have investigated; say the girl
ran off with some fellow, and that the boy went

home, but I know this not true – runners are brought
back and punished into submissions, and home is

not an option – something sinister is at work – my
heart aches.  She was such a bright child, optimistic,

despite oppression, a light in our days, I cannot imagine
where she would have run to other than her own demise,

uncharacteristic really.  And he, tall and strong – a silent
oak among us, gentle and peaceful – he endured much;

why is he suddenly gone?  I cannot stand by, and let this
happen, must investigate – will myself to pry the grate

loose, peer beyond into the murky space below – spy
concrete, a warehouse like cellar – a single light bulb

burning in a corner, interrogation style. I shudder, am
compelled to learn more, search for an entrance,

encounter locked doors, my paranoia peaking – there
is movement – a man emerging from the horrid depths

an authority figure;  I sigh with relief – I am not alone
in my suspicions – those in charge are on the case.

(photo from globalnews.ca)