creativity · poetry · relationships · writing

Is Optimism Enough?

Are you happy?

The question hits
my gut,
down the hall
at optimism

Of course, I respond.

What else can I say…
Sure life needs tweaking…
I am learning to be better…
I can make this work…

Why?  What do see?
Thoughts unspoken
but the bell has been rung…

(For Reena’s Exploration challenge:  How far can optimism go?  Image my own.)

creativity · Humour · life · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

Finding Corners in Fitted Sheets

Intensity drops in,
early, before I have a chance
to set the day in order –
puts me on the defensive.

She clings, encourages me
to hold on, her sick creativity
awake with impulsivity –
I am ailing, loyal, compelled

to launder the linens,
desperately trying to find corners
in the circular fitted sheet –
dependent on daily chores.

She wants to talk about feelings –
but I am still numbed from sleep,
from this never-ending illness,
from this perfectionist drive for optimism.

She wants to embrace, hug me
into submission, lecture me on the benefits
of organics and loose-leaf teas, and I am
too busy avoiding her to be grateful.


(My chosen prompt for today’s challenge is “circles can’t have corners”)

Love · poetry · relationships


A mother wakes moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A sister calls in timely fashion
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side , senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

Then, why when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?

Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.

(The Daily Post prompt is premonition.)

abuse · Family · poetry


Be done short patience,
chores!  I need libation
(preferably organic) –
not that I’m dependent

I’m just a bit anxious,
could use a boost of fun,
imbibing makes me less
mechanical, loosens edges

none of that hard stuff,
a little nip will do, keep
the dream alive – feeling
a little lame here, seems

my supply, having waned,
needs replenishing, and since
I’m semi-aware with spirit,
and my driver has left me

I’m making social calls –
won’t be repeating any
dangerous family patterns –
this outage’s unscheduled

seems no one is home –
surely, I am capable, I mean
this need is understandable,
allowances can be made, right?

Maybe if I just go quietly,
without causing a scene –
I really need a shot of patience
just to get through this day.


dreams · Humour · recovery

Need a Big Ass Truck

Shit needs to be managed,
so much stinking sewage
requiring a massive truck
with a fat-bellied-snake
hose blocking the road.

Repairs are underway,
requiring crews of men
with clipboards, and hard
hats, and big-assed pick-
ups blocking the road.

Such industry obstructs
my passage – none of it
relates to me, surely –
I travel this road with
singular focus – home.

Impatient, unwilling to
wait, I squeeze my pint-
sized ego past the block-
ades, risking disruption,
disrespecting caution.

I am, after all, entitled
to my own destination,
require rest and solace,
do not possess the energy
for other people’s agendas.

Am intimidated by brute
ability to roll up sleeves,
tackle any job no matter
how dirty, the balls it takes
to block the road at all.

I am polite society,
go with the flow, prefer
to remain anonymous,
blush at causing ripples,
shudder at inconsideration.

Relieved to arrive at my
humble abode, shed the
wheels, brush off road dust,
surrender to the harmony
of private sanctuary, startled

to find my pristine turf
littered with the leftovers
of past failures, a dumping
ground for undigested,
and rotting intentions.

My path is blocked by
the debris, obviously left
by some disgruntled ex-
wishing to violate my
perfection, an intruder.

Except I recognize the
pots, see my own hand
in cooking up the contents,
am forced to admit that
I am culpable, need to

own the shit that calls
for management, commit
to the repairs, roll up my
sleeves, and grow balls;
there is dirty work ahead.

dreams · Family · recovery

Fall from Grace

The proverbial can has exploded –
transparency of our deceit now lies
like swarms of glass snakes writhing
at our feet – litany of hissing truths.

Bent on keeping innocence alive,
I strategically attempt avoidance,
point to wealth, abundance, nurture
focus – the onslaught continues.

Slivers of slime, maggot-like hoards
mobilize – a sea of protestation, I
overwhelmed by filth and disgust
encroaching on my sanity – helpless.

Familiarity colours the devastation –
have witnessed it before, watched
as my mother bit into the same
serpent defiled apple – turned away.

There are no barriers to block out
the vile beasts – no refuge for broken
souls, whose lives – twisted in denial –
have mercilessly fallen to betrayal.


Procrastination’s Fallout

Deadline’s coming –
prepare to duck!

Every available surface
strewn with papers,
warning: Stay away!

Body splayed on bed,
bemoaning undeniable
stress: Whoa is me!

Tiptoeing commentary
begets snappy response:
I work best under pressure!

Expletives erupt, slicing
the early morning calm,
wall of tension follows.

Deadline’s here –
run for cover!

Unthinkable happens –
computers disable,
programs run amuck –

Tongues bite back
told you so’s, temper
peaks:  crunch time.

Hold your breath –
sudden silence –
is it progress?

Deadline’s here –
nobody move.

A shuffle, a click,
a sigh signaling
relief – an end?

Damn, I’m good
lightness of tone
stress deflating…

Deadline’s here –
are we in the clear?

Assess damage,
step over debris,
resurrect living…

Shaking heads,
clucking disapproval
only re-perpetuate.

Deadline’s coming –
prepare for onslaught!