The Un-Lived Marriage

Children’s laughter echoes
through these halls, and
we light on last log against
the gathering chill –
our hearts aglow
with memories –
some cherished,
some testament
to a love destined to be.

I’ll turn back the bed sheets,
while you check the doors,
and we’ll hold each other
beneath the covers
and talk of tomorrow
until sleep carries us
into enchanted dreams…

Except…I told you ‘no’
that day you asked me
to be yours – too shrouded
by shame to let you in –
and the ‘no’ hung between
us, heavy as brocade,
and though our love –
too bright to dim –
continued,
we remained apart –

and now and again,
you slip into my dreams
and we fall back into that easy
rhythm – as if this was our life
all along.

(My weekly challenge is un-lived lives.  Still time to join in.)

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Desert

Take me to the desert
with mountains at our side,
walk with me in shadows,
let nature be our guide

We’ll stroll amongst the cacti,
pay homage to the quails;
take me to the desert
help me gather tales

The seasons are passing,
we’re running out of time;
take me to the desert
to heal this heart of mine.

***

By the time you read this, Ric and I will be on the road, headed south.  Texas and Arizona proved to be places of healing for me last year, and I hope that this journey will continue that process.

 

The Fire Dance

Thrum-thrum-thrum –
I awaken with a start –
heart pounding,
intense heat stifling –

flames shooting
ceiling high form
a ring around my bed,
as if dancing –

I am frozen, mute.
Is this death?

Distorted faces
leer through fiery curls –
like ancient tribal masks –
menacing, angry

the distinct sound of voices
penetrates the fire’s roar
and too frightened to respond,
I succumb to unconsciousness.

A hallucination, the doctor deduces –
an adolescent’s overactive imagination…

till, child no more, I gather
with other women,
and a drum –
thrum-thrum-thrum

and darkness pulls me back –
to the centre of the ring –
flames, and faces, and voices

only now, I am no longer afraid –
release my soul to the dance.

(Written for the dVerse pub where Victoria is hosting with the prompt: fire.)

Waiting for Recharge

I alternate between vigorous activity and coma-like crash.  It’s the nature of this disease.  No middle ground, it seems.  Or maybe that’s just the nature of this personality.

We celebrated Christmas early this year.  A Saturday afternoon gathering, and I cooked.  First time in four years.  I felt a certain sense of pride till the last guests left and I turned to face the aftermath.  Now, just  two days later, I am packing up the household and preparing for a four-month excursion.  I think I’ve defined a new breed of crazy:  waiting for a spurt of energy and then frenetically doing until I hit the next wall.

Winter pelts windows,
stirs frenzied need to escape –
waiting for recharge.

(Imelda is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with the prompt: waiting.  Coincidentally, waiting is also the prompt for Manic Monday’s 3 way challenge.  I have also received inspiration from Ragtag Community:  vigorous, and Fandango: coma.  Tomorrow is load up day and then we hit the road, so not sure how often I’ll be around until we get settled somewhere.)

After The Party

99 emails await attention
brain, like legs, plastic –

To do’s flood consciousness,
constrict breathing –

The sun, reacting to yesterday’s
intensity, has stayed away –
a co-conspirator in misery

I wait for illumination –
clear direction on how
to begin, motivation
to follow

Dampness seeps in –
a body-snatcher –
I must move

Emptied wine glasses
linger on countertop –
remnants of celebration

I turn the faucet to hot
immerse glass and flesh,
will progress.

(Written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing prompt: illumination in 73 words.  Also linking up to Fandango’s flood, and Ragtag Community’s plastic.  Image from personal collection.)

Glass Caskets

What mysteries lie in ancestral roots,
what clues to illuminate the dysfunction
that permeated our familial ties, cursed
us with a pervasive sense of perversity?

We are a portrait of deviancy: still life
torsos, dismembered from birth, non-
conforming hormonal structures denied
reception in the aftermath of Victorianism.

An aunt, who despite her outer female
attributes earned the nickname Billy,
tried her best to acclimatize to girlie legs,
distracted herself with industry, could not

bear the swirl of dresses, nor the reek
of men’s cologne, banished herself to
far off lands, followed a brother – also
optically illusive – knew himself as Liz,

adapted arms and legs of steel to bury
his essence, donned military rags, and
macho outbursts, failed to escape his
inner truth.  Raised by this disembodied

woman, whose embittered cries echoed
through our hollow chambers, shattered
any attempts at compassion, we were
observers at a funeral, where the casket,

made of glass, held a lonely figure – head
and shoulders solely visible – all but dead,
suspended, like a science experiment gone
terribly wrong, abandoned in a gel-like bath –

embalmed dysmorphia on private display.
Lacked the resources to understand the
complexity of their sufferings, too entwined
to be rational – ignorance blinded by shame.

Only now, in the light of current revelations,
is the depth of our misguided conclusions
made tragic – with I could reach back through
time, adjust the settings to acceptance, but

lack the currency, have no recourse, other
than these words, to communicate the sheer
brutality of discrimination – have witnessed
the bloodied carnage of authenticity oppressed.

(Glass Caskets first appeared December, 2016.  It was published in Little Rose Magazine, March 2108.  I submit it here for my weekly challenge:  deviation.)

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