The idealist is annoyed,
cannot forgive these flaws –
how delight can melt into forgetfulness,
exertion transform into immobility,
the insistence that I have no control –
choosing anger over depression,
either way, a loss – unacceptable
to the one who promotes perfection –
I wear the blame, like a hairshirt –
penance for intolerable truths.
The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…
The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak
Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.
Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,
but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.
This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.
(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)
Image from personal collection.
Set the stones
with reverence
for the directions
for the spirits
for the elders –
stories,
like sacred threads,
weave legacy,
Bodies decline,
but spirit is fire –
built with sacred intent,
sparks become flames;
fire has ears
hears our prayers
transforms
the message –
praises
for the gods,
inspiring peace.
(Sacred Fire is dedicated to my mentor and friend, Emmagene, who taught me the importance of ritual and ceremony.  I am linking up to 50 Word Thursday, dVerse Open Link, Fandango’s inspire, Ragtag community’s elder, and Daily Addictions’ decline.)
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Â change & rebel. Â Image from personal collection.)
Go ahead, spin
your yarns –
convince me
not to persecute
Can you not see
my skin is naught
but tin; I am metal
inside and out
You are looking for
sympathy – requires
a being with a heart –
I am no such fool.
Hush your mournful
pleas, quit dragging
on me; I’ve no time
for nonsense, child.
(Today at dVerse, Mish has challenged to write from the perspective of either the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, or the Tin Man. Â Using the daily prompts of Fandango (being), Ragtag Community (yarn), Manic Mondays (hush), Â and Daily addictions (persecute), this portrait of the Tin Man emerged. Â If he sounds presidential here, it is purely coincidental. Image is from my personal collection, and seemed appropriate.)
Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms.  Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside. Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck, hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood.  A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek. I step back, startled. No damage done.
I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy. I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom. At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away. I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.
Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence.  I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture. The crickets keep on singing.
Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.
(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)
Loneliness –
abandoned and rejected,
grieves unrestrained,
then hesitantly,
willingly,
opens to possibility,
discovering hope,
connection,
in solitude –
not alone
in solitude
connection
discovers hope,
opens to possibility,
hesitantly,
then willingly,
grief releases,
abandons and rejects
loneliness.
(Frank Hubeny is the host tonight for the dVerse Pub, and he challenges to write a reverse poem. Â I found this one in my archives (2015) and with a little tweaking, I think it work.)
How to separate oneself
from church, from religion –
the indoctrination, like skin
so firmly attached…yet…
there is testimony,
and doubt stirring,
encircling –
stories of violations, and
a niggling disquiet…
a memory…no…wait –
surely it is only the sway
of this modern outcry,
the power of suggestion
influencing mind…
(Abuse perpetrated in the name of religion continues to surface.  I submit this piece in response to the gracious promptings of 50 Word Thursday, Fandango,  and Ragtag Community. Picture is from personal collection.)
I picture it: a convention
of like minds, congregating,
sharing, aspiring to betterment.
A conference of healing,
for the newly deceased –
like limbo, only educational.
Surprised to find you there –
you who seldom attended
any of my performances.
I’ll stifle the discomfort,
suppress doubt, cherish
the moment, except that
I know you – will catch
the gist of your duplicity,
your self-serving motivations
feel the rage intact, intent
on one final confrontation,
to track you down, and decry
your brick-wall tendencies,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs
will check the registry –
surely there is one in Heaven –
likely not find you listed there
the alias you used in life,
now redundant – will find
you under that moniker
I refused to ever pronounce;
will stand at the door of your chamber
inflated righteousness ready
to denounce you for eternity,
only… revelation will strike,
decades of wrath disintegrating
into sorrow, and as you open
that door, hesitant to receive me,
I’ll declare: Â “I am sorry, Dad.
I accept you just as you are,
I just don’t want any more
distance between us.”
(When We Meet in Heaven, Dad originally appeared April, 2017.  I am submitting a revised edition here for Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt:  dirge. A response to this poem, from my Father’s point of view, is posted on One Woman’s Quest II.)
“You’re an enigma”
mother would tsk,
ushering me out of the door,
brown bag lunch,
book bag dragging,
to catch a ride across town
a special classroom –
desks pushed together
formed quads, and
walls retracted,
created one large room,
the bustle of activity
a constant
no readers here,
or math sheets,
it was free learning,
cross-curricular,
learned about history
from novels,
math and science
through applications,
wrote poetry,
read Shakespeare,
enacted plays,
and while some went to shop
or home economics,
I tackled Mensa puzzles
we debated
current affairs,
grew a social conscience,
progressed individually
“Men don’t like smart women,”
was all my mother could say,
shaking her head with disgust
at this daughter, who spouted
politics with her father, and
whose career goals,
prepubescent,
aspired beyond the 3 k’s.
(Penned for dVerse, hosted tonight by Amaya Engleking. Â I’ve also snuck in Daily Addictions prompt: Â enigma.)
One Woman's Quest 