The Great Blue heron declares me an annoyance
to which the Blue Jays rasp accordance –
I know I am akin to predator
but I come here with need
to this bug-infested
weed-ridden
riverbed
To be
Torn
as I am
by an undefinable
rustle, an inner bleed
that craves patterns, or signs
naturally occurring rhythms to define
my place within this current worldly disorder
(Image my own)
How did this chasm,
this canyon of lies
become our normal?
Facts, once the sword
of intellect, redundant –
we fight with hyperbole
Voices raised, egos puffed –
I long for calm, doubt
we have the wherewithal
to bridge the divide.
(Image my own)
Does illness have a voice,
and if so; is it melancholy,
or dark and dank, divulging
deepest despair, or revealing
a vileness of nature?
Discord creeps along my veins,
disrupts muscles, systems failing
under the oppression –
“Stay strong,” friends counsel,
cannot hear the gathering storm,
feel the heaviness cloaking me.
I am not myself, but then;
who am I? Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…
(Written for Reena’s Exploration challenge: featured image as prompt.)
Every woman needs a man,
Mother told her, to be complete.
To submit, she realizes, too late
soul traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing
inner losses.
She eats to appease inner sorrow –
a second-rate childhood – afraid
of being a burden, loathe
to create a stir – conditioned
complacency:
appeasing,
pleasing,
follows plans,
avoids decisions…
never really knows where she is going.
Can she fault her man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male
taking ownership/charge?
His own lack, like a child,
feeding on impulses, craving
attention, overcompensating
for fears with bravado…
cannot understand her fear
of assertiveness – alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –
gut gnawing incessantly.
They stumble over each other, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss
repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues such as the fact
that they are both suffocating, near
jumping off the ledge of their high-
falutin’ existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them,
the noise of city living negating
their ability to listen, distractions
altering identities, until the distance
between
is too far
to bridge
in a single sigh and she
no longer submissive
has joined him
and checked out.
(This is a rewrite of a poem, by the same name, written in June 2016. Shared here for DVerse’s Open Link Night.)
Drunken bodies –
silhouettes of adults –
ignore posted warnings
and locked gates –
clumsily scale fences
and plunge into dark,
their hoots echoing
between uniformly
lined-up balconies –
pristine rows of duplicate
houses, trimmed beds
and cement curbs
punctuating order.
I watch, horrified,
feel the bile rise,
have signed responsibility,
will bear the brunt
of any damage –
am burdened with worry
unwilling and unable
to take such a risk;
walk away and await
the fallout…
A vainless fret –
two old women
testing the rules,
stretching the limits
of structured guidelines
more ridiculed than
prosecuted, but the rift
has been solidified
used, I feel, and
disrespected, enraged –
not yet able to examine
the tension settings
of self-imposed restraints,
carefully guarded decorum
choking out compassion –
sensibility rattled.
(The story behind the poem is posted at One Woman’s Quest II)
One Woman's Quest 