Moon Message

Here on the threshold of change,
anxiety and despair howling,
shadows of uncertainty lengthen
beneath the fullness of the moon.

She is no guide, this orb-faced
deity, whose countenance
fails to reveal a directive –
and yet, at some intrinsic level

I feel that we are aligned;
know that her pull is primal,
her presence a reminder
that life is cyclical, and

just as the emotional waters
rise, so too will they ease,
and her voiceless essence
calls me to still the madness

close my eyes to fear’s distortion
and attune to an inner calm,
to trust the light within, and
surrender to the unknowable.

(Moon Message first appeared here April, 2018. This is an edited version. Image my own.)

The Minimalist Eye Project

Coordinated by the curator of our local art gallery, the poetry circle partnered with a photographer to create The Minimalist Eye. Yours truly has two poems featured in the project: Slanted Orange and Big Red.

To see the full exhibition, visit the virtual tour:

So fortunate to be part of a such a vibrant community. As a bonus, the collection has been published.

(Self) Portrait of a Waitress

Jumbo Jet
they called her –
fast on her feet,
zooming in,
swooping up trays,
delivering with flight-
attendant flair.

When did she turn
to autopilot,
stop paying attention
to her destination?

Didn’t she know
she was set
on a crash course,
headed for disaster?

Tried to warn her,
wake her from stupor;
told me she’d reset
but danger remains.

She’s cruising now –
over-sized
turbo-lacking
under-fuelled,
no longer able
to soar – trapped
in a treacherous game.

Waits tables,
tries to keep
a clean house,
caters to others,
lends an ear,
has squeezed
every drop of self
into a low flying life

needs to land
a space of her own,
with room to breathe;
take life in shorter
intervals, refill
her jets.

(Portrait of a Waitress was originally written in 2016. Image a self portrait. Note: once upon a time, I was a waitress, whom the cooks referred to as “Jumbo Jet”. I waitressed my way through university, and a few rough spots in life. While I gave up the job, the metaphor of ‘waiting’ continued to be a theme in my dreams for many years after.)

Next Door

Next door cultivates perfection –
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
shimmering with prideful confidence

My garden is overgrown vines,
chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows there will be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.

Life has schooled detachment
lessons in loss counsel defensiveness –
better to guard hope than plant it…

How can next door be so reckless;
do they not know this all for naught?

(This a rewrite of former poem also titled Next Door. Image my own.)

The Same, But Broken

Fragility blindsides me –
I am a strong woman,
not courageous
but accepting
in face of pain,
grief,
illness.

Fragility is pervasive –
body fibres stretched
and torn, on brink
of brokenness;
mind overwhelmed,
obsesses, unable to organize
or let go…

If only I could let go.

I am weeping and not –
weeping from frustration
of immediate impossibility;
unwilling to weep, for totality
of loss is beyond me.

Outside these walls,
life continues,
regards me with disgust/
indifference/repulsion –
equality ignores the ailing.

And, yet…

in this state of rawness,
stripped of busy-ness,
I am as any other –

Just a soul seeking
a meaningful existence.

(The Same, But Broken first appeared here December, 2014. This edition has been revised. Art my own.)

Bubbled

Deception holds these walls in place
denial renders them invisible

I am a dreamer floating
in a bubbled realm…safe

Breathe softly, still
the midnight air,
calm the inner
children,
sing tender
lullabies
of forever…
pretend

Solitude lends
perfection
to daily noise

I am invisible
motionless
free….

deluded.

(For Reena’s Xploration challenge: writing from inside the bubble.
Image my own)