On Growing Old

Comfort is where we’ve settled,
a well-appointed existence
with commodities on the side.

I dawdle with grandchildren
casting pink thread for slugs
ignoring the sludge in my veins

while he wrestles with fallen
leaves and closing the pool
and readying for the cold ahead.

Even now, there is no security
no locks to protect against invasion;
we live a permanent transience.

When complacency is threatened
we steel ourselves, steadying
against the pull of anxiousness

telling ourselves it’s all expected
we’ve known all along that life
is tenuous, control a fallacy.

Current upsets prove hollow
and we, precariously plodding,
hover once again at the edges.

Come Back, Mr. Sandman

He’s comes each day at seven,
wearing the cloak of night
humming a lulling lullaby
hypnotically taunting me
with the dance of fatigue.

I resist, of course,
too early for sleep,
brush off his advances
busy myself, pretending
he doesn’t matter to me.

He pulls me onto the bed
lures me with shady promises
Just close your eyes, Love,
rest your weary head awhile;
I won’t keep you long.

I push away, incensed
by the indecency of it –
no one goes to bed so early!
What does he think I am?
Who does he think I am?

He shrugs and tips his hat
letting himself out as
quietly as he came.
See you tomorrow Babe;
you know I’ll be back.

I shake off his residue
slap myself out of his reverie,
ready myself for another night –
of what – monotonous routine?
Did I really have a better plan?

By ten I’ve caught up on the pvr
and restlessness sets in –
should I start a new book,
sketch a thing or two,
or eat to ease the blahs?

I choose, instead, to write
this silly poem, hoping to
soothe this aching regret
for chasing away the Sandman
I’ve bought myself a guarantee
that slumber will not be mine.

 

Disability’s Dilemnas

Clutter defines my surroundings:
accumulation intended to simplify
only complicates, suffocates.

I am roommate, burden, dependent
confined to a singular existence
no longer lover, wife, companion.

While I lament the past –
ghosts of horrors and indecencies –
he drinks to forget lost dreams.

We have vowed to mend the cracks
carefully secured our footing
and yet our foundations rots.

Is it our over-active need to please
or the cold civility of our interactions
that causes us to withdraw?

My mind drowns me with shoulds
that my body can’t possibly fulfill,
guilt flooding my conscience.

How do we reconcile this distance
imposed by so much tragedy,
right the impotency of loss?

Life rolls on and I with it
humour and meditated calm
wrangling doubt and criticism.

He wears the projections
of my dissatisfaction: unresolved
remnants of old wounds resurfaced.

I can no longer ignore my needs
and reel at the mounting imbalance
grasping for sustenance and equilibrium.

Pulling away, I stubbornly proclaim
self-reliance, hindering progress
endangering self for dubious promises.

These life-altered eyes perceiving
only disappointing, unpalatable options
grasp for an end to this perpetual ache.

I am lost, disoriented, tired
communication clouded by fear
I hardly understand myself.

There is no solid footing on
a voyage as rocky as ours,
no answers to allay uncertainty.

Now is not a time for walls,
tenderness alone will guard our hearts
and patience lighten the way.

What’s In a Name

If my life was a book and each of my addresses was a chapter it would read like this:

Chapter 1: Dawn : Early Years

Chapter 2: King’s Way: Learning Who’s In Charge

Chapter 3: Towering Heights : Oppression

Chapter 4: Wake 1: Something Has to Give

Chapter 5: Black Acres: The Angst of Adolescence

Chapter 6: Break shire: The Only Choice is to Leave

Chapter 7: Wonderland: Free at Last

Chapter 8: Will I Am: Establishing Myself as an Adult

Chapter 9: Topping: The End of A Marriage

Chapter 10: Wonderland: Returning to Freedom

Chapter 11: Kill Worth: The Beginning of a New Era of Abuse

Chapter 12: Beached Wood: Learning to Drift

Chapter 13: Hardsley: Life with Children and a Disappearing Husband

Chapter 14: High View: An Attempt at Having It All

Chapter 15: Deck Her: Abuse Isn’t Always Physical

Chapter 16: Bricks Ham: Living a Bare Bone Existence

Chapter 17: Base Line: Starting All Over Again

Chapter 18: Griffiths: Chasing the Fantasy

Chapter 19: Base Line: Starting All Over Again, Again

Chapter 20: Crest Lea: At Last, Refuge

Chapter 21: Mark Us: A Noteworthy Time

Chapter 22: Iron Wood: This is the Stuff We’re Made Of!

(I took liberties with the street names.)

What would your life chapters be?

Re-Righting the Past

Wittingly, I engage in flirtations
hoping to purge self-loathing
wanting to escape this prison,
protective instincts set aside.

Men hold such appeal for me –
strong muscular machismo
distorting intentions, civility,
with smooth talking hands.

My perceptions toyed with
I succumb, despite myself,
sexually drawing a line –
baseless without focus.

Lure of belonging lingers
clouding my options,
I fail to appreciate the plot
discover my folly too late.

Withdrawing, I will calm,
vomiting pure emotion
unable to handle the
trickles of dirty feelings.

My good-girl breeding
excludes boundaries
strips me of autonomy
I need to regroup –

re-evaluate, debunk
roots of conditioning,
empower autonomy,
release worthless guilt.

I will re-write
this powerless script,
cast myself in a leading role
put an end to exploitation.

If I can ever forgive
the misguided sins
perpetuated against self
tarnishing the past.

Spider Woman

Noiselessly, I meander
industry my motivation
slipping through cracks
undaunted by darkness.

I skitter and hop,
avoiding detection
wary of the fear-frenzied,
not wanting to displease

(my thick-bodied hairy-ness
tends to invoke repulsion;
my weak and spindly legs
beget sweats and tremors

I am the stuff of legend –
the black widowed
man-killing, horror queen
with venomous fangs.)

Tragically misunderstood
by overblown accusations,
overlooking the deficiency of size
and the precariousness of my being.

(Sure, I’ve been known to
eat a husband or two,
but who can blame me,
I carry the children alone.)

I am a weaver of tales –
I spew silken threads
whose poetic intertwining
produces the perfect trap

enchanting artistry
of undeniable beauty –
carefully construed tapestries
to ensnare the unsuspecting.

I am not a flesh eater.
I turn my prey to liquid
devour their essence
live off their emotions.

Vulnerability propels
constant motion
I’ve been crushed,
brushed aside, exiled

(sometimes swallowed alive;
it’s a hazard of life –
the unfortunate outcome
of dropping into open mouths.)

My strength is in the telling,
gossamer fibers of truth
spewed from the belly
of this decided ugliness.

I am, in fact, a warrrioress
capturing and annihilating –
through patience and deliberation-
impertinent pestilence.

 

*Note:  this poem is inspired by a series of dreams, in which spiders were the central symbol.  See Dream Along With Me

Morning Fog

sludge is my body
sludge is my mind
in the early hours

consciousness fights
for breath
awareness

is swallowed up
submersed
resurfaces
fragmented
overloaded

messages chime
phones ring
voices
worlds away

the altered reality
of disability
has claimed me.

 

A Sorry State

Stubbornly, I follow
my desires and motivations
over the edge,  humbly
rediscovering
my sorry limitations.

Calling home, hoping
for a sensible response –
reliable, clear-headed –
(I should know better –
no one like that exists
where I come from).

Miss Vanity and Ms. Martyr
come to the rescue, with
Perfect baby, Spirited baby
and the Despondent One
in tow, along with
adolescent Asperger,
awkwardly incapable
of social intercourse.

Doubtful of their intentions,
certain of their impracticability
and suspicious of neglect
I pull back, angered,
threatening to exert independence;
I don’t need anybody
least of all, you people.

Miss Selfless smiles reassuringly
gesturing for my compliance –
she has everything under control
there is room for everybody –
I climb on board –
surprisingly comforted,
conceding assumptions.

I am embarrassed by my situation,
in need of repair…
Approach cautiously, I warn
it’s a steep state of decline.
My stories, exposed, overlap,
piles of debris cluttering
where hope should dwell.
This is not a place for children,
or the pure of heart.

I feel trapped, but don’t express it.
Ms Forever Up and Miss I’ll Pray For You
smile as if to say:
Don’t worry, Silly,
we’ll clean this up in no time.
And look after the babies?
And look after the babies.

Weariness begs me to surrender,
trust these dubious cons –
too overwhelmed and overcome
to care, resigned to repeat
the drama of the past –
fearing this is my lot.

Dissatisfaction niggles
Don’t give up –
there is more to aspire to
a greater dream to dream
give it time, give it time
and quit driving yourself
beyond the confines
of this current state
of dis-able-ment.