Some say I’m away – spun
out of control: the dissolution
of so many years of denial.
With restlessness I circle
male species, perspective
skewed by parental fray;
have sweetness to offer,
ripeness – opposition’s grip
extinguishing marketability
we are all crazy, our seasons
passed, preferring the nests
we’ve built to new family ties
fear we will be forgotten, solo,
too self-centered to recognize
independence as exclusivity.
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?
(Image:Â www.abc.net.au)
What mysteries lie in ancestral roots,
what clues to illuminate the dysfunction
that permeated our familial ties, cursed
us with a pervasive sense of perversity?
We are a portrait of deviancy: still life
torsos, dismembered from birth, non-
conforming hormonal structures denied
reception in the aftermath of Victorianism.
An aunt, who despite her outer female
attributes earned the nickname Billy
tried her best to acclimatize to girlie legs,
distracted herself with industry, could not
bear the swirl of dresses, nor the reek
of men’s cologne, banished herself to
far off lands; followed a brother – also
optically illusive –Â knew himself as Liz,
adapted arms and legs of steel to bury
his essence, donned military rags, and
macho outbursts; failed to elude his
inner truth. Raised by this disembodied
woman, whose embittered cries echoed
through our hollow chambers, shattered
any attempts at compassion; we were
observers at a funeral, where the casket,
made of glass, held a lonely figure –Â head
and shoulders solely visible – all but dead,
suspended, like a science experiment gone
terribly wrong, abandoned, in a gel-like bath –
embalmed dysmorphia on private display.
Lacked the resources to understand the
complexity of their sufferings, too entwined
to be rational – ignorance blinded by shame.
Only now, in the light of current revelations,
is the depth of our misguided conclusions
made tragic – wish I could reach back through
time, adjust the settings to acceptance, but
lack the currency, have no resources, other
than these words, to communicate the sheer
brutality of discrimination – have witnessed
the bloodied carnage of authenticity oppressed.
(Image: Pinterest)
Onramp for freedom is just ahead
but all considered, I will not push
forward, am fragile, misinterpret
signs. Â Add to it isolation – who
can blame me….
Move! Move with the throngs!
Set your intentions, correct and
change direction – take a tangent
even – future is just around the
corner…..
Wears me out; I am shattered,
descending, would rejoin life’s
celebration, be a sister, but this
disability shows no compassion…
Couple with feminism; get ahold
of yourself, move forward – there
is no wrong time – be in support
of something; leap….
This reality is disparaging; in
the aftermath, I have no fight –
lightheadedness sabotaging –
an added foe….
Be independent. Â Righteousness
makes a good point of entrance…
Inability to motivate, emancipated,
confused on my own….
abandoning is not an option;
motor! Â Want to do the right thing;
come on, turn the page…
…too taxing, paralyzing to
show up, catch up with friends
clueless about ME/CFS….
…don’t you care that people
are being exploited, refuges
fleeing, can’t you feel the need…
impatience possesses; I am
beaten, am legless, spinning
keep pushing….harness strength…
..faint without a stance…
…defy fear…
… desperate…
Descending
into the mythical,
entranced,
supported by
the severity of
this current difficulty
call it fantasy,
but attempting
movement is
destroying my
passage
I am pulling,
shattering
this barricade
of a life; blue
progressing:
ocean bound.
(Image:Â nauticalcottageblog.com)
To see how I created this poem visit:Â Composing Poetry
No more out-on-the-town bustles –
the late afternoon light fading in
my corner – focus now turned to
higher issues; try to keep company
with mindfulness – a worthy educator,
facilitating release – but my inventory
is too spun. Achieving a semblance
of completion, something to reflect
my life’s toil, would be welcome, yet
I fear my story is cooked. Guidance
might suggest I’m not alone, but
without my professional footing
I’m at a loss for identity, prodding
to find answers – a woman without
substance, grasping at what is mine.
Seems silly to think that breathing
might offer consolation for this no-
return-on-investment outcome; have
hit a wall, would rage if not numb, so
many parts of self lost in passage…
Midnight approaches and I am tapped
out – a social passenger hitching a ride
on hopelessness – flat broke, empty
(tried to dial up creativity – wrong#)
Contemplate sorrow, luck, temporary
breakdown’s, orchestrated scenes,
a lifelong inability to keep quiet (sorry
kids), a callous bitch – could never get
her to work in my corner, channel that
energy into fitness or financial success –
she just likes to stir things up, doesn’t
believe in peace of mind, jolts me awake
out of my comfort zone. Â Maybe I need
her now – forgo relaxation and surrender –
to shake this inactivity, give a hand up
to those repressed, forgotten selves –
get her to lift me out this self-conscious
mire – she doesn’t care about feelings –
markets herself with confidence, breathes
assertiveness, knows her own business…
can you see me sitting up a little straighter,
composing myself in the light of this new
possibility, readying myself to relaunch –
reconsidering my stance on corners?
There’s remodelling to be done here –
and orienting to the new will take a bit,
given my age, but I’m willing to concede
that there is community to serve, and
that as long as human rights are being
violated there is a place for compassion,
and no town is immune to need, so I’d
better get my bustle on and start painting.
( Image: lokeshsomu.blogspot.com )
An earlier post that seemed to be fitting to post here, in the spirit of “Black Madonna”.
Like silk
whispering across my skin;
a gentle mist
kissing my soul;
kindness unburdening me;
warmth, and cinnamon spice;
She comes.
Of the Earth, is She
whose heart beats with mine
a rhythm of life
renewal
and deepest bliss
Her essence luminous and night
shimmering at the water’s edge
or pulsating at the core
of darkness
Alive. Very much alive.
No fanfare proceeds Her,
No choir of angels.
In stillness, know Her.
In openness, receive Her.
She is here.
She is here.
Remember that autumn
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spirituality forming –
felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation.
Giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades of
our socially careful existences – we were
like lesbian lovers unafraid to explore our
crevices, our souls hungering for release,
we were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching our
capacity to believe, awakened by the crones
among us, sisters united, standing in the
flood of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringings,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity –
weavers, once paralyzed by the guck of
patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy of
true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.
How is it that the passion faded so abruptly,
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?
Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, willing to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?
(Image:Â paradisefoundsantabarbara.com)
Methodical might be successful –
ask for assistance; help granted
pass over fixation;Â Â will not stir
this appalling head to toe disease.
Dependability would be welcome –
I beg for it – but this rodent-like
Illness will not acquiesce, runs
amuck, operates at will – not mine.
I can allude to my needs all I want,
reach out for loving, but perspective
is lacking when I am vertically unable
to manipulate, shaken, appear the joker.
Illness is a trickster – labels me freak,
this vessel’s malfunctioning limits
the broader vision – I shudder to think
this is what life has amounted to.
Bought tickets once for Spain,
planned to escape the fading
autumn golds to find brilliance
of Spanish hillsides, vibrancy
of villages, radiance of smiles.
Succumbed, instead, to illness
a fate whose grip defied urges
to flee, thrust us headlong into
the ravages of a blustery winter
remorseless in its stormy rage.
Only dream now of exotic locals,
of sun-baked vistas and cobbled
streets, of busy marketplaces and
houses tucked behind hidden doors
where mothers gather their broods
Motherhood, I imagine, universally
driven to offer comfort, provide
security, no matter the resources –
a call to protect the inner richness
of the family – places that draw me.
Envision plates of home cooked
delicacies, offerings delightful to
the eyes, aromatic, appetizing, and
likely beyond my ability to digest –
this disease imposing sensitivity.
Travelling is a catalyst for change:
exploring cultures, encountering
residents, inspires reflection, the
magic of communicating without
words – languages no barricade
I am marred now, an ungracious
guest – such is the sentence of
this disability – unable to bear the
disappointment on the faces of
those who would extend welcome.
(Image:Â www.expanish.com)
One Woman's Quest 