The Wind and I

Followed the wind –
a child without boundaries –

Experience, especially hardship
clipped those wings

Lost faith in the wind,
pushed against her flow

Till nothing was left of me
fight diminished by final blow

The wind, though, she persisted
picked up my diminished spirit

tossed me in her whimsical way
rekindled the child.

(Image my own.)

Reflecting and Rebuilding

Considering
refurbishing
childhood home

Unrecognizable now
numerous makeovers
and even re-purposing

But my heart is invested
and well, I can see potential
and, oh…I know it will take work

All the walls I’ve torn down
and the excess furniture
and how I’ve imagined duplicity

Is this folly on my part
this revisionist thinking
see…I’m sure there is treasure

hidden amongst the forgotten
buried perhaps in the attic
or other overlooked nook

And as I remember it,
the backyard is an oasis –
Yes! I think I’ll do it!

Reflection and a good dose
of elbow grease, and I’m in!
Recreating an upbringing.

(for Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: reflection. Image my own.)

Confessions To A Dreamcatcher

Rebellion rages in my veins, Dreamcatcher,
so tightly wound I have blocked hope
I want to be good – a good girl –
like that man of God says
but his preaching ways violate
prophecies a cover for sin
and I am so sullied that I fear
love will distain me.

How did I get here, Dreamcatcher
childhood a lost notion –
I try to minister to the past,
but Father’s sermonizing possesses
even in death, his will a barricade
I need guidance to help me emerge

I’m an unreliable navigator, Dreamcatcher,
oppression’s familiar, no high able to release me
suspicion of promises nauseates
I’m tired of facades – good girl facades –
locked in this nightmare
won’t you please help me out?

(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dreamcatcher. Art my own)


Untamed

Too young to understand
ethos of beauty regimes
she rejects girlish rituals
sees beauty in nature
in glitter of make-believe

This abnegation of grooming
not rebellion, but appreciation
a nuance that escapes
Mother’s frustrated efforts.

(My granddaughters balk at having their hair done, something that drove me crazy as a parent, but now reminds me of myself as a child. One generation removed, I view the issue from a new perspective. Image from personal collection.)


A Convertible Summer

Summer of ’67
British invasion
Canada claiming 100 –
Dad arrives home
in a powder puff
blue convertible.

Back seat sisters
long hair flapping
bellowing along
with 8-track tunes:
Loving Spoonful
“Do you believe in magic?”

I, barely nine
idolizing a sister
sixteen – a model
with go-go boots
and hippie style

Cottaged at Sauble
muscle cars prowling
oiled bodies lounging
and all eyes lit
on sister, and I
wondering at the draw
made castles in the sand.

Surfing the waves
avoiding the baby
whose brash cries
and quick, chubby legs
keep Mom distracted,
I am observer of the life
Neil Diamond is promising:
“Girl, you’ll be a woman soon.”

Ah, to be 9, in summertime
few the cares, and ideas
like popcorn, burst and pop,
forgotten in each watery plunge
still content to be a child.

(A Convertible Summer first appeared here in June of 2018.  I submit this edited version for Eugi’s Causerie Weekly challenge:  summer.  Image my own.)

 

 

Childhood Home

The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…

Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes

Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection

What if I could go back
now that I can breathe

Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity
would I discover a sudden windfall

makeover conditioned motifs
reevaluate ceiling heights

with resources to remodel
heart open, connected

might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.

(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge: featured image.)