One Woman's Quest

Women Are Red

Women bleed –
red blots in an otherwise
black and white world –

have learned the language,
yet feel like foreigners,
undermined by nuances;

travel this patriarchal
landscape, would-be leaders
whose compassion like blood

unsettles the ambitious,
too exhausted to play the game
corporate agendas do not align

with weary-hearted
mothers who would slow
progress to raise wholeness.

We take back seats,
submit to sermons from self-
proclaimed prophets, who mime:

words without substance,
are starving for sustenance
in a fast food, quick fix world

where harm is overlooked
in praise of mass consumption –
crave relief from the imbalance –

seek woman-only refuge
to vent our quiet rebellion,
give voice to our marginalization.

Our blood is thick, heavy,
like our passion, offensive to some
and like our power, unstoppable.

(image: http://www.odditycentral.com)

Arachnophobia

Creativity –
eight-legged predator –
invades the decks
of my listing mind,
reproducing rapidly.

Her generous,
bejewelled appendages
skittering beneath
my plastic-boned
Caucasian frailty.

I hesitate –
friend or foe?
Should I trample
crush this invasion,
or surrender…
risk madness?

We are ocean –
bound, shoreless
prefer interior spaces
wary of open vistas
equally vulnerable
collapsible

Skittish
evaders
intent on
escape
future
uncertain…

I flee
creativity’s
lair – enter
into darker
passages

Destiny –
creativity’s cousin –
awaits, tail raised
in venomous arc –
dances a warning
does not
strike

body
glowing
phosphorus
green,
melts into
swirling,
flourescent
particles of
Kundalini
rising.

(Image: fineartamerica.com)

These are Warriors

Younger women than I
are giving birth, unaware
of indifference; joyous
expectancy blotting out
smells of disinfectant,
and decay – I am invisible
to them, my daughters.

Babies they are, bringing
forth life, unripened souls,
hopeful, ignorant, unaware
that I know what violations
have planted the seeds, am
no stranger to the cruelties
of humanity, my sisters.

I may be unknown here,
but neglect is universal –
it’s brutality unremarkable –
am praying for miracles,
while the world spins, lives
losing control, and all I can
do is stand witness, Mother.

(Photo credit: Huffington Post)

Reticent Poet

Find me in the audience,
three rows back, amidst
enthusiasts, humbled by
your expertise, perched,

questions burning tongue,
too reticent to find a voice,
afraid of being discovered,
ridiculed, or misconstrued,

as if you found my poetry,
see only the images formed
there, miss the raw emotion.
I’d want to scream “Stop!”

Too many polished writers
whose words, in black and
white, float through the web
while mine are immobilized

Yet, I return, hungry to feast
from the same banquet, miss
what is being served up, as I
have no plate ready to receive.

Compulsive Clotheshound

I would befriend hesitation,
take her shopping with me,
invest the time, but impulse
is my constant companion.

Hesitation, born of shared
trauma, labours over pain-
filled decisions; my need is
palpable, throbbing, must

suffocate it beneath layers
of numbing fabric, weight;
afraid to show myself, afraid
that she will find me, block

any progress, or worse, make
me pay for these layers of
stolen moments; encounter
crazy reflected in her eyes.

(Photo from getleashedmag.com)

If I were a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning – pickles, chutney, jam –
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike .

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

Strike Out

I would stand on my head,
call in the big leagues,
imagine fun, opportunity,

but constantly meet with
the wall of your limitations.

My desire is innocent – impish
maybe – dependable; hope to
create memorable moments,

but boredom is oppressive,
and you are shutting me out.

I am alone here, hoop jumping,
giving of myself, willing to take
ownership in this rejection play

but relationship is not one-sided
and this game piece is opting out.

Residential Horrors

This place is both school and residence,
where I have come to live and work –

‘Live’ is a stretch – these old walls hold
secrets, tension dissuading recreation.

The work is meant to be education, but
survival seems to be what we are learning,

the students and I, shivering in the isolation
of this cold setting – fields of rolling green

within our view torment us – the open air
as inaccessible as the homes we long for.

Inside, the heat is stifling and the constant
clatter of keys and rustle of gowns, starched

and unforgiving, remind us of the permanency
of our stay – perhaps, I am just too young,

too fresh to be a teacher here – have visited
this place before in the dream time, known

it’s horrors, am all too awake now, certain
that the hidden places exist, that evil lives

within these walls, is watching us, waiting –
have seen movement behind shutters, where

none was warranted, heard breathing at the
grates in the baseboard, am skin-crawling

paranoid, everywhere eyes, ears, but no voices.
All too afraid to speak – two children are missing.

The authorities have investigated; say the girl
ran off with some fellow, and that the boy went

home, but I know this not true – runners are brought
back and punished into submissions, and home is

not an option – something sinister is at work – my
heart aches. She was such a bright child, optimistic,

despite oppression, a light in our days, I cannot imagine
where she would have run to other than her own demise,

uncharacteristic really. And he, tall and strong – a silent
oak among us, gentle and peaceful – he endured much;

why is he suddenly gone? I cannot stand by, and let this
happen, must investigate – will myself to pry the grate

loose, peer beyond into the murky space below – spy
concrete, a warehouse like cellar – a single light bulb

burning in a corner, interrogation style. I shudder, am
compelled to learn more, search for an entrance,

encounter locked doors, my paranoia peaking – there
is movement – a man emerging from the horrid depths

an authority figure; I sigh with relief – I am not alone
in my suspicions – those in charge are on the case.

(photo from globalnews.ca)

Checked Out

Every woman needs a man,
her mother told her, to make
her complete. To submit,

she realizes, too late, soul
traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing

inner losses; she eats to
appease an inner sorrow,
a second-rate childhood,

afraid of being a burden,
loathe to create a stir,
conditioned complacency:

appeasing, pleasing, follows
plans, avoids decisions, never
really knows where she is going.

Can she fault the man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male taking
ownership/ charge? His child

lives here too, feeds on impulses,
craves attention, overcompensates
for fears of lacking with bravado;

cannot understand why she never
asserts her self, alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –

an eternally unsettled gnawing gut.
They stumble over one another, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss

repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues like the fact
that they are both suffocating, near

jumping off the ledge of their high
faluting existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them.

The noise of city living has negated
their ability to listen, the distractions
altered them; the distance between

is too far to bridge in a single sigh,
and she, no longer submissive,
has joined him, and checked out.

Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.