It’s Not That I Don’t See…

Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.

Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by authority, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.

Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.

Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.

Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just

need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,

yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen TV, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims

of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;

feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.

(Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse.  I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention.  “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)

Anguish

Emotions don wheels,
tear about, burn rubber,
congest – psychic traffic jam.

Alone, there is no outlet,
no scapegoat for this tirade,
just a damned discomfort.

No worries – I will pace
from distraction to distraction,
until sanity makes a comeback.

(Thanks to all the prompters for providing the words to describe today’s state of mind: Ragtag Community (comeback), Fandango (traffic), Manic Mondays 3 Way (damned), and Daily Addictions (tirade).)

Aromatherapy

School days meant up-before-dawn,
carpools across town,
tuna-sandwiches and rotting
bananas shoved in brown
paper sacks.

Then home by bus – exhaust,
the stench of old men, stale
lunchbags, gym shoes and
pre-adolescent sweat.

Four blocks to home
by foot, the locals taunting,
the inevitable tussle –
blood mixing with moldy
leaves and mud.

I’d burst through the front door,
anger peaked, hunger havoc, and
the waft of cinnamon and cloves,
warm apple pie, or the sugary syrup
of cherry – after dinner promises –
and gooey chocolate melting
into sweet chewy dough –
mom’s recipe for calm.

(Gina is hosting tonight at the dVerse Pub, and she challenges to write about comfort smells.)

Independent, En-Masse

A familial gathering – rock balanced upon rock – stands at the Rideau’s edge, one amongst several such groupings, each a masterpiece unto itself, and yet one small, insignificant creation begs attention: a small duck-like figure, turned away from the rest, facing north rather than south, as if it hears a different call.   Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance.  Body of fossil, head carved by erosion – he ponders other horizons. Even the artist – albeit working with spartan tools – could not bend the will of this little being, could not mold him into conformity.  He is childlike innocence and brash determination, and I imagine that as the sun goes down and the tourists disappear, he glides through the water, travels against the current and revels in the freedom.

At the river’s edge
figures rise, stoic families
hailing passersby.

(Written for dVerse pub, and for Ragtag Communities prompt: spartan.  The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)

 

Genetics

I search for father
in this pain, recall
limbs wrapped,
liniment-lathered,
how he cried out
relief beyond reach

judged his suffering
as emotional –
a karmic penalty
for a life of tyranny –
compassion lapsed.

Now, I fight with legs
that will not settle,
arms that ache to bone,
moments inconsolable
spiralling into moodiness

seems I misunderstood –
overlooked the possibility
of genetics – pain compounded
by the guilt of impotence

curse my failure
to express sympathy,
offer comfort – the habit
of retracting into defensiveness
enacted till his death –

softness not a component
of the barriers that stood
between us…

Lapses in Light

The sky donned a mask today –
clouds contriving a hoax –
like a great, feathered beast
emerging from the heavens,
bearing down on me –

Silly, this trepidation, this
superstitious sentimentality –
both clouds and I know
this is only illusion – sun
still rules the skies…

(Willow Poetry poses the weekly challenge:  What Do You See?  based on the featured image.)

The Pact

“What happens after death?”
she asked one Sunday, her long, thin body,
stretched weakly across the settee, her cousin,
balancing his dinner plate at her feet.

Sundays they came together – all the family –
for Grandmother’s dinners – the warm waft
of fresh-baked pies, the clank of dishes,
and voices raised over the old farm table.

He shrugged, knowing it was an ongoing
concern – she’d been frail from birth,
this girl he loved – two years younger,
but in every way his peer – said nothing.

“Let’s make a pact,” she blurted with sudden
fervour.  “The first to die will leave a sign.”
“Grandpa’s bells!” They shook on it, and
then with a satisfied grin, she fell asleep.

A more sombre clan gathered mid-week,
eyes red and faces pale with the shock
of loss – no smells of warmth to greet them,
just cold platters prepared by church ladies.

Slumped bodies, heads leaning close,
sipped tea on the place where she’d lain,
that last day – no sound of children’s
laughter, just a hole too hard to bear.

And when the sound came, metal
clanging on metal ringing a joyous
clamour, she was the first to see –
Grandpa’s bells stirring  – her sign!

She knew then that he’d be waiting –
told me so before that last breath,
and as I watched her go, I swear
I could hear the far off ringing of bells.

(Bjorn is hosting at dVerse tonight and challenges to write narrative poetry.  This story of the pact was told to me by my cousin Caroline before she died.  The bells were not as pictured here, but were sleigh bells her Grandfather kept hanging inside the back door.)