The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well worn, briefcase
sits slouched in a closet corner,
one side agape, a red lanyard
hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.

A row of black, brown and gray
pumps line up beside it, a thin
layer of dust betraying idleness.

Silent, unblinking, a television
recedes into the wall, flanked
by images of smiling faces –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books and journals
rumour a once scholarly mind.

The woman, once defined
by these trivialities,
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(The Pilgrimage was first written in December of 2014, as I came to terms with the loss of my career due to ME/CFS.  Now, as we embark on a new path, I find the poem has new relevance.  This version is edited from the original.)

 

 

A Torn Christmas

The wind blows,
a steady beat,
disperses Texas heat
palms succumb
to the rhythm
seduce the cerulean sky,
my heart a bird in flight

Back home winds cut
squalls threaten, snow
swirls nipping children’s
cheeks, while inside
hearths glow, eyes sparkle,
an anticipation my heart
aches to behold

This year, we’ve balked
tradition, chosen sunnier
vistas, the selfishness of two
will limit our Christmas
to FaceTime chats, snapshots
of excitement; my heart torn
between bliss and guilt.

(The Daily Post prompt:  torn.  Image and baking by my daughter.  Missing limb courtesy of a granddaughter.)

Fight

Pride hounds
sneaky, invasive
ugly determination

guards a conception
family, grandchildren,
a portrait of comfort

disregards treacherous
likeness to poisonous
histories, past loathing

offender venomous
untrustworthy, slithers
hunts, eludes detection

fleeing only abandons
face culprit, wrestle
pummel, decapitate

denial, disembowel
falsehoods, render
the serpent impotent

peace endures when
life examined marries
humility and gratitude

(Image: Pinterest)

Always a Teacher

Set me on the open road,
encourage me to cross borders;
I am hungry for knowledge,
to hear a higher calling.

Cannot tolerate chained-to-
chairs education, imposed
immobility, socratic hierarchy
demanding conformity

spoon-fed compliance –
am too much my father’s
daughter, born rebellious
unable to mold myself
to prescribed slots

would rather initiate
discussion, engage, listen –
let shoes emote, tell their
story, develop compassion

never felt more than a visitor
in institutions, marks adequate
but brain absent, spirit numbed –
more punishment for delinquency
than awakening.

How can we convey the future,
instill optimism in prospects,
when the language of education
is secondary to how students
communicate in real-time?

Minds are energetic, curiosity
a given, youth crave elevation,
opportunity, measure themselves
against a system defined by rows.

How can I cross this barrier
of disability, open the dialogue
to ignite passions, propel learning
to open road scenarios, encourage
minds to cross borders?

(Reposted from December, 2106 in response to The Daily Post prompt:  calling.  Teaching, I’ve always believed to be my calling – loved it passionately, until I had to give it up in 2014 due to ME/CFS)

 

When Fantasy Usurps Reality

Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return

this place, this longing, this subterfuge

Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in

this place, this longing, this subterfuge.

(Image: findingjackie.com)

Fear Like a Tarantula

Fear, like a tarantula,
descends on me, lands
on my sense of responsibility
I am unhinged, panicked

think only of casting it off
repulsed by its ugliness
its unbearable horror
its unnatural weight

and then I remember
that terror can be illusory
and tarantulas are fragile too
and I control my impulse

recognize that it is threat
that activates attack,
relax into the situation and
let the intrusion crawl away.

In-just-ice

Be done short patience,
chores!  I need libation
(preferably organic) –
not that I’m dependent

I’m just a bit anxious,
could use a boost of fun,
imbibing makes me less
mechanical, loosens edges

none of that hard stuff,
a little nip will do, keep
the dream alive – feeling
a little lame here, seems

my supply, having waned,
needs replenishing, and since
I’m semi-aware with spirit,
and my driver has left me

I’m making social calls –
won’t be repeating any
dangerous family patterns –
this outage’s unscheduled

seems no one is home –
surely, I am capable, I mean
this need is understandable,
allowances can be made, right?

Maybe if I just go quietly,
without causing a scene –
I really need a shot of patience
just to get through this day.

(Image: www.boldrugs.com)

Shed Insecurity

At what point does insecurity subside,
shift into confidence, or are we destined
to infinite life lessons, half-hearted attempts
at moving on, convinced that the past holds
the answers, not willing to admit there is no
going back, and what does that even mean?

We elevate the educated to positions of power,
never questioning the depth of their experience,
nor whether wisdom gained is part of the equation;
what qualifications should someone have to critique
our capabilities, and why let the expectation of other
carve our performances, dictate circumstances that
may or may not couple with our aspirations?

We are creators in our own right: our ideas,
our dreams, all valid testament to our right to be;
we need to speak up when conditions don’t meet
our needs, when obligations exploit or humiliate,
take ourselves seriously, overlook insecurity and
step into the righteousness of our personal path.

(Image: tinybuddha.com)

 

The Pen Is To Blame

This is pen is far too vociferous,
illuminates the disabled rage,
dismissing my concerns, as if
outgoing messages are company
for its dispassionate agenda.

No privacy for ailing, sleeping,
I would physically eject the offending
appendage, but cannot bear reopening
of wounds, recognizing the sins are
mine, no matter how unintentional.

Words can be a trap, take on a beat
of their own, history rearing on page,
leaving me raw-nerved, reeling, their
thoughtlessness a venomous refusal
to remain a victim – I am inflamed.

How to banish the thoughts smouldering
like a cigarette, daring me to inhale,
choke on my own toxicity; I must expunge
the intrusion, recall this maddening vow
to create; withdraw to the safety of illness

shuttered away from the crowd, a blue
silence warming this frozen heart –
maybe, I’ll write a note and leave it
on the dashboard, command the pen
and its itinerary to leave me alone.

(Image: hellenmasido.wordpress.com)