Growling Funk

Put this corduroy cat out,
give her only fish-eyed dirt –
it is moister than green grass,
less porcelain to devour.

Bleed the soft morning air
See eternity throb
Listen, dance, surround joy

Go! Do young night growl –
delicious, ferocious, wet heart.

(Playing around with Magnetic Poetry online.  Want to play along?  See what you can make with the words above.  Only caveat – you have to use all the words. Photo from personal collection.)

Abandoning Mother

Day, no more than a sliver, casts a subtle glow on the path.   A small bird tap-tapping on windowpane has awakened me, invited me out.  I follow it now, as it flits from tree to bush along the way.  We come to a stream, whose waters swirl in a nearby eddy then rush over the rocks, merrily singing Earth’s praises.   Seventy-eight acres of untouched land surround me.  Birch, oak, and willow among the giants that offer shelter. I have come on retreat.  A chance to regroup and recharge.

This bird is not the first to rouse me in the early hours; it had been happening for days leading up to this journey.  I take it as an omen: be awake, pay attention.

I feel the presence immediately.  I am not alone at the water’s edge this crisp, cool spring morning.  Although I cannot see her, I know her at once – an essence I have not felt since I was child.  Mother Earth.  I begin to cry.

“Why did you abandon me?”  The words tumble, unexpectedly.

How long has it been since I’d felt her reassurance, the protective shield of her patient strength?  I remember how as a child, locked out of home, she walked with me, whispered to me through the subtleties of the wind, and taught me the rhythms of life.

“It was you who abandoned me.”  The knowing hits me, like a punch to the stomach.  It is so true.  I turned my back on her, adopted the ways of civilization – embracing education and busyness as a means to happiness, forgetting the promise of inner peace she offers.

‘Can you forgive me? ‘ I cry.  The sorrow of our separation now hitting me in waves of grief – a torrent of shame and blame, and guilt.  How I have lost touch with so much in the years since she and I passed the days in innocence.

“There is nothing to forgive.  I am always here, whenever you need me.”

The thing is, I tell myself, as day’s light obliterates dawn’s encounter; allergies keep me indoors, and as a mother of three, I spend my days chauffeuring. What time do I have for Nature, for daydreaming?

I will not find her again, for many years, when sickness closes the door on accepted life practices and forces me into isolation, desolation.  It doesn’t happen all at once, but gradually, over time, starting with a little bird’s tap-tapping on my windowpane, inviting me to look outside.  Inside.

(Written for Willow Poetry’s challenge:  What Do You See?  Image supplied as part of the challenge.)

 

 

The Art Of Survival

Learned the art of survival
from father, a commando-
trained warrior, never able
to leave the battles behind

A sharp-shooter, whose
expert eye tracked our
every fault, with sniper
precision, shot us down.

Innocence has no place
when the enemy resides
within; when trigger lines
are camouflaged by wall-

to-wall carpets, and young
minds, craving exploration,
are imprisoned by acts of
terror; the only conclusion

survival’s impermanence –
hostility lurking in every
shadow, caution instilled
by the omnipotent legacy

of father. Tried to reach
him in the end, touch his
humanity; his shell-shocked
glaze paused for a moment,

he focused, broke through
the fury, seemed to remember
we were his daughters – was
that compassion lighting

his expression? Take cover,
he cried, get as far away as
you can, save yourselves, I
cannot sway my path, too

committed to this private war,
there is no mercy for me – but
you, you can be saved, save
your children.  I turn and run

with all the certainty that this
is life and death and embrace
the little ones, praying to lift
them out of the ashes, give

them new life, but it seems
they learned the art of survival
from the daughter of a father,
conditioned to the state of war.

(Submitted for dVerse pub Open Link Night.  This poem first appeared November 2016.  Video is a reading by yours truly at an Open Mic night.)

 

 

 

 

In Remembrance (for Father)

I hold a photo of my father –
on that last Remembrance Day –
am awed by the person we never knew.

Just fifteen, he signed on,
joined ranks with an elite squad,
trained for unarmed combat.

He wears his Commando’s beret,
medals proudly adorning his breast –
symbols whose meanings are now lost.

They were the best and the brightest –
sleuthing out enemy stores, carrying
operative data to oncoming troops.

He cried that day, as candles glowed –
tears for the fallen – “Good men,”
he muttered, squeezing my hand.

A suicide mission, he’d called it,
armed with a knife and hands
of steel – a black pill if caught.

By day, he never spoke of war,
at night, he screamed in terror.
Why such a mission? I asked.

He’d had his own secret cause –
a war waging within him – 
bent on eradicating a tragic flaw.

War made my father – a disciplined,
regimented man of iron, intimidating,
fearless – machismo at its best.

He returned a hero, celebrated
with his hometown, and left again –
the lie still burning within him.

Father was a valiant soldier –
counted himself privileged
to serve beside the honourable.

At fifteen, a girl whose body
belied her existence, enlisted
in a fight to become a man.

(The original version of In Remembrance appeared November 11, 2015.  I resubmit it here, edited, for my weekly challenge: sacrifice.  My father sacrificed his life during the war, and then went on to sacrifice his true identity for the rest of his years. November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada, a time to honour those who fought for our freedom. )

 

Superwoman Has a Dark Side

Finely cut crystal –
silver and gold –
sparkle and entice.
A table fit for royalty.

Savoury aromas evoke visions
of sumptuous gravy,
delectable roast,
crisp-cooked vegetables,
and decadent desserts.

She’d stop to admire her handiwork,
but the children, hungry
and bored with the waiting,
tug at her hem.

Waiting.
It is her greatest strength.
Prepare, prepare,
then wait.

They’ll arrive shortly, noisily
full of their days,
fail to remark on the preparations

They’ll sit
be served
praise the deliciousness
gobble up seconds
push back their chairs
wander off
for a kip
or a smoke

and she’ll linger
picking at congealed gravy- covered mashed
unconsciously dabbing at a red wine stain
and marvel at how she accomplished it all
without bitching
without protesting
a trouper till the end

What’s that you say?
She’s sounding a bit like the martyr?

Oh no, you’ve found her out.
Superwoman has a dark side.

(This was originally penned a few years back, and I resubmitting it here, edited, for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Photo is courtesy of Deb Whittam as part of her prompt.)