Category: writing

Who Speaks For The Silent?

Your voice, he said, it sounds…different…

Project your voice
I learned in theatre,
speak to the back
keep it strong
don’t falter

I had to replay your message several times….

Hold that note
dig deep –
from the diaphragm
sing from your belly

Must be something wrong with the machine…

Demonstrate conviction
let your tone convey passion
stand tall, be confident
motivate your audience
Dad, the orator, told me

I couldn’t make out your words….

Performance demands voice
activism relies on voice
change requires voice

You sound so…weak…
not yourself at all

I am losing my voice
but not my words;
I have much to say
who will say it for me?

(Who Will Speak for the Silent first appeared here in October, 2015. My voice was the first thing to go at the onset of ME. It would be years before I could speak and sustain a conversation again. In revisiting this poem, it occurs that it is still relevant for all those who do not have a voice, who cannot speak for themselves, so I resubmit here on behalf of Woman’s History Month and am linking up with my weekly challenge, dig. Image my own)

Dear Legs

I’ve been remiss
in expressing appreciation
all the years you’ve carried me –
stride confident, pace swift,
head turning grace –

We wobble now, you and I,
strength questionable
stilted soldiers forging against
a tide of contrary currents

Remember endless laps in the pool
prepping for provincial meets,
then dancing till the wee hours
getting down with disco?

We were champions, you and I
beauties taking on the world
leap-frogging in a race against
a undefinable foe, determined
that destiny held no limitation

I may not have expressed it
but each step is precious to me
and every time you hold me
upright, my gratitude’s sincere

There’s life yet to discover
and dreams still burn
Can you hear the drumming
will you join me in the dance?

(Dear Legs first appeared here in October 2017. I submit this edited version for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: champion. Image my own.)


The Moment Time Slipped

That was me
the 9-year-old girl
sitting on the 3 o’clock bus
staring at the woman
with the scarf around her neck
standing across the street
in front of an oddly shaped building
I’d never noticed before, and
having a profound feeling
of déjà vu.

That was me
the scarf-wearing woman
standing on the sidewalk
in front of the odd shaped building
waiting for the 3 o’clock bus
to move, so that I might cross
suddenly overcome by a sense
of premonition as my eyes
locked with a girl on the bus
who looked uncannily
like a younger version
of me.

(Written for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Components of Time. Art my own)

Not All Wins Are Monetary

Gambled late in life –
one more spin on love’s wheel –
we got lucky

You’ll need protection,
ego said,
and led me down paths
soaked with yesterday’s tears-
annoyances nipping at progress

But I am strong-willed
better than that,
I said, choosing to follow
a different route

The roulette wheel spins
and here I sit, alone
counting my wins

No amount of bargaining
can alter current misfortune
Pray my husband
finds his way back.

(Image my own)