Scorned Woman’s Rage

Before I jump into another man’s bed,
(especially one who has already cheated),
whisper my deepest yearnings to his
lusting heart, arch my hips to meet his
less than satisfactory thrust, I will make
sure that his compassion meets mine,
that he has the balls to prioritize, and
does not soften at crucial junctures.

I can look back at past follies, blame
hormonal rages, or beat myself over
shameless acts, but I am not the one
whose cojones, like deflated balloons,
lacked the wherewithal to differentiate
between brain and penis, and chose
to corrupt rather than protect the
sanctity of our children’s future.

Call it emasculation!  Call it female
wrath; accountability goes both ways,
and as long as we women are willing
to carry the burden of guilt, believe
messages shoved down our throats,
and submit to impossible ideation;
relationships will continue to crumble –
Stand up! Make a statement!  Be a man!

Herd or Heard

Society moves en masse,
flowing with the tides,
propelled by a shared
consciousness.

Destination unknown;
purpose undetermined.

We take flight, cling
to wings of promise,
ignore the stench
of destruction.

Reaching for the sky;
barely hanging on.

We land, school together
tell tales of adventure
document progress
avoid reality

proponents of diversity;
shunning differences

All among us has a story
shies from speaking aloud
fears castigation
deflects

fearlessly outspoken:
scapegoating sins.

Daring to speak a truth,
I falter, watch as the
crowd retreats in
shunning silence.

Destination unknown,
purpose undetermined.

th-1

Is Daddy Dead?

Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.

Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.

She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.

Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.

Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.

What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.

Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.

 

 

In Communion Prevails

Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.

Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,

tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.

Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end

conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.

Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.

th-2

Dear Child

I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.

I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.

I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her;  who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.

I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.

I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing;  praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.

Confrontation or Consolidation?

Long legs and a swift stride
partnered with an impulsive
nature, and willingness to
grasp at change, carry me.

Straight lines rarely define
my journey – sharp turns,
backwards loops, rabbit
holes – a labyrinth of sorts.

I am independent, a free
thinker, outsider, rebel –
on the run, moss adverse,
never-look-back woman.

Until life set a roadblock,
hampered my movement,
grounded panicked escape
forced a standstill, frozen

in time, isolated, fearful,
silence as an unknown,
immobility a sentence,
punishment interpreted.

The past, ever in pursuit,
momentum full-force,
crashes into me, topples
any semblance of stability.

I am dazed, shaken, take
a step back, circle, wonder
at this intrusion, try to re-
collect, construct meaning.

Does reconnecting merit
effort, or is the past too
clouded by faulty memory
and misplaced emotion?

Am I remiss to have left
so much behind, in search
of renewal, recovery; am I
deluded to believe in change?

Or is there some essence
of eternal light, of beauty
and goodness, revealed
under the shadow of ago?

Could it be value, not sin,
which triggers the pursuit,
a loving tribute, rather than
judgment and retribution?

I will myself to have faith,
to breathe and observe,
no longer able to flee, now
must trust in discernment.

Hope, Like a Breeze

Big city goals, and a skeptical side,
parked my independence, tagged
along with logic, pretended to fit in,
told stories tinted with wildness,

distracted by the me I’d left behind,
tired of my own game, too self-
conscious to ever belong, regressed
to the past, aging psyche crumbling

walls- time they came down, anyway –
emotionally soaked footings, leaky
pipes, memories are soiled, unfixable;
overwhelming sense of doom presides.

Youth visits, eyes innocent and full
of Springlike optimism, opens doors,
demonstrates possibility, breathes
new hope into this despairing mind.

Lights, Cameras, Heartache

Dressed herself in sequins,
sparkled from head to toe,
courted celebrity, falling for
the spell – could not see the
lies presented, nor the trail
of endless tears behind him.

He was drawn by her passion,
a radiant exuberance buoying
his spirit, her love reminiscent
of the mother he’d lost long ago,
like the family he never knew,
he followed her lead;  intrigued.

She set the scene for perfection,
fretted over each detail, prayed
that all would come together,
a relationship fated to be,
failed to see the patterns that
would surely sabotage her.

Love was never his intention,
preferred young women, was
already involved, thirsted only
for her charm, hungered for
the brilliance of her soul, it was
her mystery that he craved.

She immersed himself in his
cause,  committed to finding
his truth, failed to heed
inner authority, broke her
own rules, lost balance after
his abandonment; ashamed.

He’d never wanted saving,
thought he’d been clear all
along,  preferred being single
avoided tarnishing his star,
had merely liked his reflection
shimmering beneath her glow.

Out of Step

Perpetually looking inward,
pondering commitment,
considering risks, projecting
humiliation, shame; daring

to dream of a second chance,
room to grow, opportunities
to demonstrate value – well
guarded, precarious being.

I am floundering in a fishbowl,
crowded by co-conspirators
operating out of step, trying
to acclimatize, compulsively

examining decisions, under-
whelmed by undeniable
growth, compensating with
dark, emotional outpourings.

Need to prove self-worth is
unappealing, disregards
viable efforts, disallows
definitions of acceptance.

This inwards, backwards
outlook critiques harshly,
harbours shame, sees
fault in successes, I am

stuck in the past, static,
abandoned, anxiously
forgetting, hindered by
confinement, jumping

to conclusions; I need
objectivity, to redirect
stored misgivings and
eyes outward, perceive

kindness, communicate
misunderstandings, shake
off disbelief, consider merit
as reflected by old friends.

Poet’s Quandary

If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?