Living With The Enemy

Thought I’d divorced myself from
indifference, recovered from abject
betrayal, but; here I am, co-habiting
with deceit again, occupying uneven
ground, reduced to questioning
motives and reactions.

I’ve been down this road before,
dragged through the shame of
behind my back whispers – need
to confront the perpetrator,
and any co-conspirators, stop
the home-wrecker before she
strikes again, convince them all

that this is not self-perpetuated,
but a sham, and a crime, and
that my heart is breaking here,
and damn it; I deserve better, but
as I said, I am living with the enemy
residing in this single story, one-body
hell, and I’m not sure if I can take any
more self-destructive examinations –
pretty sure one of us is about to
implode, and then what?

#TimeForUnrest

Anxiety, like fog, closes in
suffocates, I gasp, fight for air –
this disease so pervasive, lungs
spasm, panic multiplies; help!

Tests, drugs – all speculative,
experimental – symptoms persist
absent treatment protocols, a cure;
so much ignorance, uncertainty

Lie down, they say, refer me
to psychology as if immobility
and exhaustion are tricks of mind,
an overactive emotional imagination.

I am sentenced to seclusion, sensory
deprivation, muscles, nerves, immunity
all defunct, cells failing to produce energy –
a lifeless, inert blob, cognition failing.

But I am not alone; millions of others,
also missing, untreated, abandoned –
but not giving up – Can you hear us?
grief oozing from our pours, unwilling

to be further shamed into silence –
our suffering may be invisible, our
voices weak, but the warriors among us
are beginning to speak – please listen!

(ME/CFS is a debilitating disease that affects millions worldwide.  Absence of funding restricts much needed research.  Not enough is known about this disease to help the many bedridden or homebound.  It affects people of all ages, including children.  In Canada, there are no treatment options, and often medical personnel are not educated about the disease, which can lead to harmful interventions.

Jennifer Brea has become the voice of ME/CFS due to her recent documentary, Unrest.  She can also be found on TedTalks, discussing the implications of having a disease not recognized in medical circles.  Unrest is an awarding winning documentary that sheds light on this disease.   It is apparently being shown on PBS Monday, January 8th.  It’s also available through iTunes.

Please watch.  If you or a loved one suffers from this disease, or any other mystery illness, the film may just trigger new understanding.  If you are a medical professional who has not heard of the disease, the documentary is very informative.)

Seasons of Love

Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.

Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.

Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.

She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.

Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected

lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware

that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.

Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered

how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated

ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.

She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her

that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice

her scorching, all –
embracing passion
that had united them

and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.

(Seasons Of Love originally appeared in February 2016.)

Idle Mind and All That

What I wouldn’t resort to –
just to get away – meals
prepared by others,
cleaned up, too…

but really, is there
any coming back once
it’s all handed over –
I’d be afraid I’d lose

my identity, come up empty
embarrassed by how little
of value I have to give –
and the guilt would taunt

slap my silly ego, criticize
me for laziness,  acting all
privileged; worth is directly
linked to service…isn’t it?

And my shadow self would
appear – just break in uninvited –
and threaten complicity, beat me
down further, hope doomed

no way to justify my absence,
to keep the critics at bay,
I need to work, need to lose
myself in the routine of endless

chatter, a blanket of small talk
to keep me safe – busy noise
to drown out the thieving voices
and help me find myself again.

Can We Talk About It?

As mothers, who are concerned,
as sons, who are seeking guidance,
as daughters, for whom our fears mount?

I don’t have the answers, maybe
not even the beginning of a response,
but I’m trying to get through to some level

of sensibility, need to know what it takes
to instill respect, to restore reverence for
all that in is feminine; seems we are numbed

lulled into complacency, brainwashed by
a consumer-driven machine that pumps
out sexuality as entertainment, infiltrates

our collective psyche, equates exploitation
with attainment, debasement with reward;
are we so desensitized as to not recognize

that merely turning off the television, or
ignoring the images in the check out line
still amounts to complicity; what amount

of surgical intervention is required to
eradicate this societal disease; restore
compassion and caring to our culture?
(This poem, inspired by a series of dreams, responds to the The Daily Post prompt: conversation.)

 

 

Face It

Tie myself to instability,
conditioned to believe
that sensibility fluctuating
with insanity is acceptable.

Insert responsibility
to compensate for
immaturity, am idle
unemployable, would

pack up and move
my ass out of this
stagnation, except
anger is brewing

as turmoil intensifies
and how far can one
really go to escape
such legacies, knowing

I will only return
to the same, better
to stay and face
the devil himself.

(Image: www.viral.us)

I am Listening, Child

Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?

What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?

Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.

If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.

Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;  linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.

Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.

(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)

 

To Old Friends

There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.

(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)

Protocols for Leadership

Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion

remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take

that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others

beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens

never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator

all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.