Category: writing

Tongue Tied

Two-tongued –
speaking both heart and mind –
complex languages, whose nuances
I’ve never quite mastered, yet
am conversant in.

It’s a constant learning
to nail enunciation –
linguistics a tiresome topic

the mind,
a guttural language,
leans to equation and absolutes –
hard consonants and long vowels;

while heart-speak rolls
off the tongue in softer,
cooing syllables –
elongated tones and
whimsical passages.

I’d happily demonstrate
the extent of my proficiency
but the two-tongues,
are currently contradictory,
the clamour of their discord
drowning out the peace
requisite for translation.

Sticks And Stones

Intuition and compassion
combined with knowledge
an effective healer make,

yet, historically, women
applying such skills – labelled
witches – burnt at the stake.

The injustice of such trials
now commonly accepted – still
the title reeks of something sinister.

And if a man raises his voice
in ire, driven to protest, he
is righteous – to be heeded,

but let a woman speak out
against lack of fairness – she
is a witch by another name.

I say we banish the verbal putdowns,
condemn the ignorance inspired by fear,
listen to one another, and invite progress.

(Written for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt: witch, witchy, bewitched.)
 

 

Mining Civilization

Digging for gold
in an overcrowded mine,
the dust of narcissism
blinding our passage.

Rural roots worship
celebrity – well-travelled
hype overshadowing
common decency –

Powerless, we are
throngs of insignificance –
fraudulence and anti-social
rhetoric failing to elicit pause.

Our screams, ignored, do not
alleviate the suffocation –
How do we blast through
the rage, re-enact a vision,

draw lines that reset respect,
encourage care, listen to needs,
recognize the treasure we seek
is in humanity’s survival?

(Submitted for Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: blast, and Fandango’s: draw.  Image from personal collection.)

Smoking Pit

Cigarette butts
no longer linger
concrete, but
I swear the cloud
of smoke lingers,
the sweat of adolescent
anxiety – the suffocating
pressure to comply –

Names escape,
but I remember
smugness and
rivalry, and
the spine-crawling fear
of confrontation,
and indisputable
in my mind
are the scars
of being so alone.

(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday prompt.  Image supplied by Deb Whittam.)

Tired

so tired…

the heaviness of slumber
settles on me like a straight jacket –
no point resisting…

was it a poisoned apple
that struck me so –
or is this exhaustion
emblematic…

of what….
a soul aspiring to flight
weighted down by sensitivity…

an ego tied to ideals
no more salient than balloons
whose once inflated bodies
now pollute the landscape…

I am withered…

lifeless…

breath shallow…

pulse irregular…

cursing the elusiveness of sleep…

suspended in a tortuous limbo,
mocked by vitality,
scorned by ambition,
loathed by the hale…

is there purpose
to this perpetual cycle…
a message
carved within the walls
of this fleshy tomb…
cryptic whispers
buried deep beneath
the hardening layers of fog?

no strength here
to decipher riddles…
encumbered by lassitude,
like an iron blanket
smothering desire…

even weeds will push
through concrete barriers
follow the sun’s rays
to find life…

why then can’t I…

…so tired….

(Tired originally appeared 04/17.  I submit it here again for Daily Addictions prompt mock.)

Dis-abled Self

A wounded creature, I circle the pack;
A laggard seeking inroads, missing cues;
A social wanna be without the smack –
This fogged state a waning of my hues.

My path a heartless road through blinding snow,
And I without a map or coat, alone –
To ask for help, a degradation – No!
Tis arrogance and stubbornness I own.

I’ll bide my time on sidelines crying ill,
Bemoan this wretched fate and limp along;
Til self-indulgence wears thin, then I will
By humble act, declare I do belong.

And in the end no consequence is worse:
Than mulish woman bearing no self-worth.

(This modest attempt at iambic pentameter is brought to you by the promptings of Frank at dVerse.  Hope it wasn’t too painful.)

Foundations

Rock solid,
biding time,
fixated on
a future
born of
movement.

Frozen –
iced snapshots
of possibility,
immobilized by
misperceptions

Role-playing
expectations
carved from
generations
of staging.

One falters
all tumble,
lives shatter,
sink, lies
bottom out

sediment
disintegrates,
settles –
strength emerges
resurrecting

rock by rock,
precarious at first,
then gradually
re-building,
balance restored.

(Submitted for Willow Poetry’s challenge:  What Do You See, based on featured image.)

A Woman with No Name

Descended from fire,
I am earth, and spring,
and graciousness –

Oh, that it were so –
fiery yes, with a love
of nature, but grace?

Truth is I am 5th born,
not supposed to be –
naming left to father

who fumbled in the act,
named me incorrectly
and thus my identity

was born of confusion –
rushed and flustered –
a woman with no name.

(dVerse challenge today is write a poem based on our full names.   Even though I have three given names, thanks to my father, I’ve only been known by initials.  Photo is of a granddaughter.)