Commit doubting
Unaware of agendas,
inferiority driven
tainted by dependency
Seeking familiarity –
anxiety in togetherness –
a stranger to pridefulness
Shouldn’t love be comfortable
at least, at the outset?
I am spontaneous,
I tell myself,
rely on Fate’s presence
no need to discern
Might as well send out an invite:
This heart is unlocked;
abuse welcome here!
(Image my creation)
“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”
She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply. I considered her: an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.
Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say. Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.
Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment: ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.
History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.
(Reposting The History Lesson as it remains pertinent. Photo collage my own)
“Are you happy?”
The question hits
my gut,
slingshots
down the hall
deadends
at optimism
“Of course,” I respond.
What else can I say…
Sure life needs tweaking…
I am learning to be better…
I can make this work…
Why? What do see?
Thoughts unspoken
but the bell has been rung…
(I wrote this poem in 2020, in response to a prompt. It was inspired by an encounter with an old flame, whose question caught me off guard. I was not, in fact, happy at the time – my then marriage about to crumble. The thing is, this event happened almost 30 years ago, and yet remains in my mind. Funny how the psyche holds onto things. Image my own.)
This malaise
this undeniable melancholy
product of isolation…
of an unreliable mind
What shadows awaken me?
a flash of car beams
or something more sinister?
Illness heightens sensitivity
I am set on ‘wired’ –
Internally running,
externally frozen
Sleep will not return
I don bravado
call out the ghosts
“Show yourself!”
Nothing.
Now I am raging –
“Who dares to disrupt slumber
then cowers in corners?”
Shadows grow eyes
and the walls undulate
a figure emerges
self in negative
I cower
pray I am delusional
mirrored self points downward
where floorboards recede
Skeletal remains
fill the earthen pit
nonsensical bones
of immortal pasts
Danger lurking
and I am not immune
the time has come
to submit…
(Image my own)
Should I escape these shackles –
manage to re-surface, swim
despite this weakened condition
against the currents of disability,
find myself once again on the
solid grounds of civilization –
will I be embraced with cheers
of victory, or slotted into some
back room, reserved for the fallen,
spoken to in hushed tones,
forever handled at arms length,
an object to be feared?
And, if I manage to fight these
bonds that for so long have
threatened to annihilate,
will I have the bravery to face
the calling that once defined me,
shake off the cobwebs of
disorientation, defy the
certainty of unpreparedness,
draw from the well of past
experiences and rise to
a new battle, proving the
validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look
to opportunity, clear the slate
of former ambitions, rewrite
the pages of my destiny,
embrace an attitude of
rebirth, decide to relinquish
the sword, cut my losses
and redefine a new, gentler
way of being in the world,
less dependent on a system
which undoubtedly propelled
this descent in the first place?
(My art, entitled Abandoned Forest, acrylic. This poem first appeared in 2016, when after two years bedridden with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, I pondered what would become of me. As part of a support group now, I recognize this same struggle in others plagued by chronic illness. Personally, I eventually found my answer in the third stanza.)
This divide is but an illusion
glass partitions fallible
We drink from the same source
our assigned task reverential
Denial has limits…
the beast swells…
writhes in churning waters
We are fearful
because power feeds off fear –
Eden’s serpent reincarnated
Round up your loyalties
your petty contrivances
and prepare
Patriarchy engorged
on misogynistic agendas
force feeds archaic notions
Subdues
constricts
silences
disembodies the feminine –
We have been here before, women
and we are Eve –
not born of man’s weakness
but in response to it!
She-power
intuits
channels
transforms
We are the beast
wombs pulsing
curves thrashing
our collective hearts
life affirming
Let us shatter glass illusions
hold our sisters, mothers, children
in heart-centered conviction
align our voices
stand firm
and channel this righteous rage
into empowered revelation.
(Art mine with an AI boost)
Was it neglect
that rendered us
so useless?
joints collapsing,
minds scattering
movement minimal…
That which we no longer tend to
loses lustre – less profit to reap
When we store our dreams in corners –
time usurping promises,
visions asleep –
the fallout is too steep
Cherishment is what is needed
for self, for hopes, for all life.
(Image my own)
Nurturing sweetness –
a desire to maintain
childlike response
A barrier
to what lies within
darkness waiting
Funny, this present impulsivity –
am alone,
overweight,
a dreamer
Pretence overcomes stage fright –
a worthy role for any story
Not a glittery, Star-crusted version
but a well-worn edition
I am solid, ebony,
earthen –
value innate
Unknown depths
murky shadows –
A brokenness craving
perfection
Must surrender
to the catharsis of creativity –
Fear and protectiveness retreating,
helpless in the face
of the adventure that calls.
(My sketch with AI interpretation)
Armed with platitudes
and the unrelenting
garble of distractions
Disrespecting process
Disregarding warnings
I pretend
to be anchored
in faith.
(Image my own)
Artistic sensibility
hungering for the exquisite
craves expression
The critic guffaws
decries creativity
starves the impulse
Who unleashed
such nonsense,
such magical thinking?
To think beauty
once espied
can be replicated
and by such an amateur –
the unskilled hand
an unworthy representative
But the artist, unleashed
knows only magic –
the genie will not be rebottled.
(This is an edited version of a previous post. Art my own.)
One Woman's Quest 