Category: writing

Parents Beware! (A Hallowe’en Tale)

Warily watching innocents
parading on the edge of darkness,
portraits of miniature monsters,
haunting deserted streets.

Howls from a  local asylum,
like sirens, scream of wizards,
devious deviners hovering
over fresh young blood.

Heart beating irrationally,
I pause to calm my breath –
turn to find my charge gone
disappeared into the haze.

I retrace my steps – No!
She’s evaporated, snatched –
vomit rises in my throat,
while goblins stalk shadows.

Frantically, I hunt, search
stashes, grasping for clues,
night closing in; I shiver
at the ominous laughter.

Curiosity caught her –
twilight’s call, visions
enticing – unaware of
vulnerability, eager-eyed

as any student of fright –
hissing cackles circle
the unsuspecting morsel
of flesh, drooling fangs

connive – bumping into
evil, she tries to run, is
swallowed up, lost, stench
of morbidity closing in –

find her, crumpled –
a broken bird – princess
dreams dishevelled, streaks
of tears on muddied face.

Tend to her in the shadowy
hours, dissuading fears –
All imaginary, I persuade,
just costumes like yours..

Yet, even I feel the lingering
snarl of beasts, the undeniable
chill in the air; I snuggle her
tight, and say an extra prayer

as Night wraps her in his
ebony cloak and feverish and
afraid, she is whisked away
to another mortifying realm.

(A ghoulish tale, written a few years back and submitted here for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt:  ominous.)

Beauty Routine

Plump the lips
pad the ass,
pull abs in

Push-up bras
and false eyelash,
botox, and brows

Make us pretty
much less witty –
do not overdo

Natural is rave
naked is yuck –
to find perfection

choose a routine
that sculpts and
shapes, then lie.

(dVerse quadrille prompt is yuck,  Ragtag Community is plump, Fandango offers routine, Daily Addictions is apparent.)

Mindfulness

Even as we harvest
the fruits of our endeavors,

as the leaves of summer
give over to golden dreams

and light reaches through
gathering clouds, illuminating,

celebrating; we must not forget
that we are a part of this living

miracle, that our lives, in harmony
with Nature, deserve reverence.

Of Wings

Winged things
are meant to fly,
like birds, and planes,
and dragonflies…
angels…

I had dreams once –
winged creatures
who soared
limitless skies…
free…

Until fear –
a cruel master –
caged my heart,
clipped my spirit…
broken…

Age and loss
turned the page,
locks illusions
unravelled…
escape…

Vulnerable,
I walk, remember
wings, lift my face
to inclement  weather…
fly…

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s weekly challenge:  What do you See?)

The Lady Calls It

Shipwrecked –
tossed ashore by blatant lies,
women’s cries lost
in political gales

Collins says
#MeToo
is valid,
should be continued

Just not this time

Might as well
throw one life preserver
for the millions drowning

Hope GOP have
their own life jackets
handy for the tsunami
that is imminent.

(Written for 50 Word Thursday.)

It’s Not That I Don’t See…

Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.

Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by authority, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.

Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.

Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.

Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just

need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,

yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen TV, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims

of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;

feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.

(Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse.  I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention.  “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)

Anguish

Emotions don wheels,
tear about, burn rubber,
congest – psychic traffic jam.

Alone, there is no outlet,
no scapegoat for this tirade,
just a damned discomfort.

No worries – I will pace
from distraction to distraction,
until sanity makes a comeback.

(Thanks to all the prompters for providing the words to describe today’s state of mind: Ragtag Community (comeback), Fandango (traffic), Manic Mondays 3 Way (damned), and Daily Addictions (tirade).)

Aromatherapy

School days meant up-before-dawn,
carpools across town,
tuna-sandwiches and rotting
bananas shoved in brown
paper sacks.

Then home by bus – exhaust,
the stench of old men, stale
lunchbags, gym shoes and
pre-adolescent sweat.

Four blocks to home
by foot, the locals taunting,
the inevitable tussle –
blood mixing with moldy
leaves and mud.

I’d burst through the front door,
anger peaked, hunger havoc, and
the waft of cinnamon and cloves,
warm apple pie, or the sugary syrup
of cherry – after dinner promises –
and gooey chocolate melting
into sweet chewy dough –
mom’s recipe for calm.

(Gina is hosting tonight at the dVerse Pub, and she challenges to write about comfort smells.)

Independent, En-Masse

A familial gathering – rock balanced upon rock – stands at the Rideau’s edge, one amongst several such groupings, each a masterpiece unto itself, and yet one small, insignificant creation begs attention: a small duck-like figure, turned away from the rest, facing north rather than south, as if it hears a different call.   Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance.  Body of fossil, head carved by erosion – he ponders other horizons. Even the artist – albeit working with spartan tools – could not bend the will of this little being, could not mold him into conformity.  He is childlike innocence and brash determination, and I imagine that as the sun goes down and the tourists disappear, he glides through the water, travels against the current and revels in the freedom.

At the river’s edge
figures rise, stoic families
hailing passersby.

(Written for dVerse pub, and for Ragtag Communities prompt: spartan.  The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)