One Woman's Quest

(Un)Staged

So much rides on adherence to script –
carefully mapped out movements and
lines delivered with precise intonation.

Creativity stuffed into memorized
passages, rehearsed roles, timing
contrived for optimum reactions.

It’s all about the audience, approval,
the importance of positive acclaim,
aiming for that encore performance.

My soul is an improviser –
loathes conventionality,
fears stagnation,
disrupts routine scenarios
with flashes of spicy wit;

thrives on the unexpected,
fueled by gasps, or ohs, or titter,
ignores the pandemonium
as fellow players scramble
to find their cues,
fall in line.

A trickster-spirit
arrogantly hogging the stage
deliberately sabotaging
prescribed protocols;
chastised.

I am contrite, beg forgiveness,
swear to behave in character,
follow predetermined dialogue.

Curtain is set to rise on Act II;
pressure mounting; conformity
threatens to strangle my soul:

panic sets in –
I am not prepared,
have not committed to memory
this role I’ve been assigned –
am certain to disappoint,
again.

Gambler

The gambler puts in fifty-cents
expects hundreds in return;

a simple flick of the wrist,
and abundance will be his.

I feel like a slot machine,
paying dues for minimal input.

Tells himself there is more
to be had, if luck runs his way;

walks away from the richness
of family, joy of friendships –

I’d be a slot machine for him,
if only love equated money.

dreams of possibilities beyond
his daily reach, a fast track plan;

fortune is calling, palm itching
just one more roll of the die –

The die has been cast here;
no longer willing to gamble.

one more momentous win,
a promise to share the wealth;

what more could any woman want
from a man – half an empty dream?

Took a chance, myself once,
thought he was my windfall –

guess, in the end, all gamblers lose.

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)