Of Wings

Winged things
are meant to fly,
like birds, and planes,
and dragonflies…
angels…

I had dreams once –
winged creatures
who soared
limitless skies…
free…

Until fear –
a cruel master –
caged my heart,
clipped my spirit…
broken…

Age and loss
turned the page,
locks illusions
unravelled…
escape…

Vulnerable,
I walk, remember
wings, lift my face
to inclement  weather…
fly…

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s weekly challenge:  What do you See?)

The Lady Calls It

Shipwrecked –
tossed ashore by blatant lies,
women’s cries lost
in political gales

Collins says
#MeToo
is valid,
should be continued

Just not this time

Might as well
throw one life preserver
for the millions drowning

Hope GOP have
their own life jackets
handy for the tsunami
that is imminent.

(Written for 50 Word Thursday.)

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.)