Passion Exposed

Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…

step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope

my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.

(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic.  Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)

The Journey So Far

From the North we travelled,
left just as autumn’s brilliance
retreated under the startling
white of winter’s cold breath

Drove through towns grayed
by overcast skies, witnessed
a reversal of seasons, return
of burnt oranges, rusted reds

until green gave over to desert
hues – chalky yellow hills with
dusty, low shrubs, burnt umbers
and muted violet prickly pears

Westward we drove, over wide
open spaces, followed rivers
into mountains, tracked birds,
wildlife, the mystery of saguaro

Encountered red rocks and black
mountains, the Colorado, and
further expanses of barren land
desolation betraying hard times

Continued on till highways widened
and the congestion of civilization
startled us out of our desert sedation
tossed us back into urban bustle

Then we turned north, headed back
to the mountains, now green, rolling,
promising milder temperatures and
the reassurance of flowing river beds

In time, we’ll turn eastward, set our
compass for home, knowing that
there will be disquiet, this lust for
wandering settling in old bones.

(The image is from my personal collection.  To read more about our adventures on the road, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)

All I Need

All I need is a pair of pink boots,
the audacity to wear my hair
as if no one is looking,
the nonchalance to wear skirts
even on the days I plan to climb,
to adopt a no-limits, thumbs-up
attitude and smile triumphant
as if my world is a bubble
of contentment, needs met,
and no worries about
tomorrow – then I’d be
on top of the world.

Zen In Hand

A dear friend of mine passed away recently. She was a potter, and the gifts of her creations fill my home. This poem by Jazz J is as exquisitely crafted as Nadine’s works. I share it with you today to honour both women.

Jazz Kendrick's avatarstepsandpauses

March 16, 2018.  This poem emerged while studying Zen poets – mostly male, but one female poet made the syllabus.  Otagaki Rengetsu (1791–1875) became a Japanese Buddhist nun and one of the country’s most respected female artists – combining her poetry, calligraphy, and pottery.  She learned from Kyoto potters and decorated her rough and rugged bowls, cups, and other vessels with her poetry, either painted on or scored into the clay in flowing calligraphy. Orders from tea masters and others kept her very busy.  This collage of found images shows both her pottery and calligraphy styles.

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Retreat

Immersed in the spiritual –
not yet fully present –
participating,
considering
new beginnings,
openings

so much easier
to go back to sleep
leave the living
to the younger
more energetic

generations
surpassing me
clued in to
technology,
modern nuances

yet, even they
slumber, lulled
by a confidence
I too once donned,
before immersing
myself in the spiritual.

History Lesson

Adolescence holds lessons,
I failed to absorb, the leap
into adulthood premature.

Have a son of my own now,
wish to guide him to solace,
help him to settle into a place

where the sky is prominent,
teach him to live without
walls, proud and confident

but I fear the price is too steep
that he will not manage the cost,
recognize that the legacy lives on

that he too has been thrust into
adulthood, a product of his mother’s
failure – an example poorly set.

Building on Uneven Ground

We are builders –
constructing isolation
with fortified walls
imagining security
in separation.

We are battlers –
projecting foes
in outer forces
ignoring the dangers
of faulty foundations.

How warped are the stories
on which we lay our floors;
how misguided our efforts?

We need level ground
on which to erect stability,
a balanced understanding
cemented in commitment,

a universal, master plan
motivated by communal
accessibility, developed
with careful consideration.

Alas, we are consumers –
trusting the blueprints
of those whose architectural
designs are self-serving.

What price will we pay
for residing in a house
dangerously slanted
towards destruction?

Snapshot of L.A.

Batman cruises by in a compact,
adjusts his speed for a photo-op,
and the woman in front applies
mascara without slowing down –
all on the way to Los Angeles.

My eyes burn in the smog
where traffic creeps along
the freeway like post- concert
attendees pushing their way
out of the crowd, and I wonder

are they visitors like us, or
trapped in this swell of compressed
stress, immune to the claustrophobia
of L.A. where elegance poses next to
the indecorous, apparently desensitized?

We lunch in Marina del Ray –
watch grebes swim amongst
the yachts, while the woman
next to us, with over-plumped
lips, has difficulty enunciating

and I try not to gawk, but she
is loud and sends shards of light
scattering everytime she moves
drawing attention to blonde,
boobs, and leathered skin.

We drive up Sunset Boulevard,
entranced by the towering trees,
and stop at a neighbourhood
Starbucks, where moms in spandex
buy frothy drinks for school-aged kids

and mutter under grimacing breath
about ex-husbands, and rigorous
routines; and we ponder the cost
of real estate, as we coast past homes
sets atop hilltops with ocean views

before rejoining the parking-lot
highway, inching our way back
to the suburbs, still choking on
far-reaching pollutants, mountain
views clouded in a haze of disdain.

(Our visit to L.A. is documented on One Woman’s Quest II.)