I Remember

That day we strolled riverside
Wild poppies in full bloom
guiding us

The reassurance you needed
stuck on my tongue –
age and language separating us

We walked in silence –
a regret I carry

Now the poppies remind me
that you were less than naive
that life had wounded you
and that what I had to offer
was so much more than
a voiceless presence

But I was afraid too
And I let you go

My heart bleeds
the colour of poppies
My breath catching
every time I remember

That day
when the river guided us
and the poppies bloomed
and I failed to listen.

(Dedicated to my dear Alina, who had to be brave at a vulnerable time, and whom I miss dearly. Image my own.)

A Christmas Haibun

The stillness within these walls contrasts the frazzled buzzing in town. Shops lined with Christmas must-haves will entice those running on impulse. Buy, buy, buy! This season, more than any other, evokes a yearning for perfection. I am weary of it all, defiantly resisting the urge to dress and venture out for that one last thing. We will gather soon enough, exchange gifts, gorge ourselves on seasonal specialities. Afterward, I will be content to find a quiet corner, reflect and give thanks for another holiday season survived.

Christmas lights sparkle
We’re meant to be of good cheer –
Parched Spruce sheds its charm.

(Image my own)

Silently, I Follow

Silently, I follow
novice heart absent

Who can maneuver
the breathless streams

attempt a spiritual viewpoint
while continuously overwhelmed?

Urgently in need of a breakthrough
I am done, outdated

Summer’s passage conceded
this soul requires triage

An experience of caring
that does not resemble a demand for more.

(Image my own)

Light in the Night

What light is this
illuminates the midnight clouds?

I have risen from my bed
lured by this oddness

Suspecting menace,
but finding only wonder

How the walnut radiates
her presence conspiratorial

Pine tree and brush
surely giggle at my confusion

The yard, a marvel in white
glows in the unexpected brightness

I sense, but cannot surmise
a message in this nocturnal glow

Feel only the inadequacy of my awe
and the inferiority of humble words.

(Photo captured at 1:30 am, three nights ago)


Where Is She In This Dream?

Watching the man wander
between home and industry,
the apron of his trade firmly fixed,
a sparkle of grit in his coiffed beard

The children, too, find joy
in his space, running between
house and workshop,
dog bounding at their feet
proudly on guard.

An outsider
and sink bound
she moves by rote
tea towel slung over shoulder
maintains a distance –
the dream is not hers.

She waits
weights
pretends
denies

Is losing her edges
and the parameters he sets
keep shifting, and
she is falling short

and the children, now hungry
tug on her apron for acknowledgment –
their father having taught them well —
she lives to meet their needs.

What’s for supper? they whine,
already preparing to grouse:
I don’t like that!
You liked it last week, she’ll reply
Weary, she feels herself fading

A meal on the table
and the man drags his feet –
would not award her respect
to appear on time

She’ll abide the disarray
while counting to herself
the minutes till this is over
and the children are in bed
and the man has returned to work
and nothingness is hers…

The numbness of lacking a dream.

(Art my own)

Age and Obstacles

Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances

Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination

They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.

The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days

when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.

(A portrait of aging, first published in 2017. Image my own)

Is There An Exit Strategy?

Following political tides –
mesmerized by neglect
of actual issues – playing
to an audience of moaners
(standard consumerist
plights) – glossing over
exploitation of women,
verbal slaughter of race,
religion and social values

Wondering about media –
who commandeer bias,
swallowing atrocities and
spewing contrived truths,
absent sound voice, or will,
jeopardizing the security
of so many trampled in
the race for what? Surely
not responsibility – what

lapse of conscience has
allowed hateful rhetoric
to bloody progress, no
consequences?  Who will
bear the burden when in
the absence of morality
or respect for humanity,
the margins will increase?

The world quakes at the
failure to acknowledge
this broken path, see only
a devaluation of assets,
perceive a race that did
no more than increase
the monarchy of a king,
grant power to absolve
sins – a sleight-of-hand
trick – nothing to do with
the common habitants –
have so many questions
about how they’ll proceed.

(I wrote this poem in 2016. Same issue, different date. Surreal. Image my own)

Lines

Give me a map
and I will trace the lines
of where I have been

A timeline
will communicate
my raison d’être

Report cards
demonstrate the depth
of my conformity

Lines on my face
a testament
to personal efforts

Good girls colour in the lines
and I am no different
waxing orange and green

Wishing to create contours
differentiate self
from the compliance

Essence is fluid
and lines flimsy
and substance seeks
exposure and celebration

And try as I might
the orange of my soul
bleeds into blank spaces

and green of my nature
reaches across divisions
and I shall not succumb

to prescribed limits
and I invite you to do the same
colour with me outside the lines.

(Art my own)