Family · poetry · relationships

Parental Passages

Carefully we construct
security for offspring –
add luxuries to entertain
accommodate growth
play host to revolving-
door friends and dates.

And yet, we are graded
on performance – met
or unmet expectations –
held up against a stack
of other super parents,
silhouettes of perfection.

Still, we celebrate goals,
sprouting family, ignore
the slanders, and ease
into age with a tad of kook,
or wild inappropriateness –
all expressions of our love.

(First edition of this poem appeared Feb/’18.  Image from personal collection.  Submitted for Reena’s Exploration challenge, choosing the prompt: silhouette.)

aging · culture · poetry · writing

Unexpected

Expectations safely stowed
pursed alongside judgment,
I am bent on finding an outlet
for already disgruntled disposition.

Encounter inexperience
fumbling responsibility –
an overwhelmed innocent
lacking in accountability

I offer a suggestion,
to roll up my sleeves
and before I know it
compassion’s employed

This was not my intention –
I am ill-equipped for such
a commitment, surely
I am of no practical use.

Yet, here I am, engaged
expectations tossed
in favour of service –
please don’t judge.

 

 

 

 

aging · Family · Grandparenting · Humour · life · poetry

Parental Passage

Carefully we construct
security for offspring,
add luxuries to entertain,
accommodate growth
with additions, play host
to revolving-door friends.

And yet, we are graded
on performance – met
or unmet expectations –
help up against a stack
of other super parents –
silhouettes of perfection.

Still, we celebrate growing
aspirations, sprouting family,
ignore the slanders, and ease
into age with a tad of kook,
or wild inappropriateness –
all expressions of our love.

life · poetry · recovery · spirituality

Letting Go

One hand clutches expectations
while the other clings to walls,
desperately seeking purpose

I have prayed for direction,
a driving need for acceptance,
a longing to be acknowledged

look for openings to procure
success, willing to commit
to hard work, self-sacrifice

have dreamt of a doorway
backlit with brilliant promise,
radiance waiting for release

Am I on the right path, will
this stumbling hope lead me
forward, help me find the way

I could not bear another fall
hands too full to stop the hurt
I am burdened by this quest

Not paying attention to the ground
before me, hit a pot hole, lose my
footing, knees buckle, arms flail

hands release their coveted hold
reflexively reach out, I am down
forced to look up, shame burning

startled to witness a single ray –
a beacon of light in the darkness,
signalling a turn in the road ahead

I pick myself up, hands smarting,
feel the openness of heart and mind
renewed inspiration guiding me

(Image: jackeavesart.deviantart.com)

disability · dreams · health · Love · poetry · relationships · spirituality

The Red Box

box-01

“I am sending you a red box,”
the voice says in my dream
(a dream within a dream, really).
“Will you be there to receive it?”

An image of a lipstick-red, life-sized,
shiny red box dances in my head.
“I will!” I say, wondering who would
send me such an extravagant gift.

“Will you be coming, too?”
I add quickly, remembering manners.
I am asleep, if you recall, have no idea
who I am speaking to: a poor connection.

“Do you know who I am?” asks caller.
“Yes, of course!” I respond, not actually
knowing at all,  trying to be polite.
“Looking forward to it.” Am I?

“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Surprised and delighted!” I assure,
falsely – in this semi-consciousness,
sensibility has not yet set in.

Only when I disconnect, do I panic.
Some distant memory surfaces,
a vague recollection of indiscretion –
have I invited danger into my house?

Now, I am awake – faculties firing,
heart still beating, curious/ alert.
What could this mean, this
dream within a dream?

Look to where my mind went –
larger than life expectations,
when no such detail was revealed –
was the panic just as unwarranted?

Am I subconsciously mocking:
commenting on the instability
of thought processes, in this
altered state of health?

I ponder meaning, wonder at
the significance of red boxes,
when my husband delivers –
a small, red patterned box.

“I won this for you,” he says.
Three beaded necklaces inside.
I thank him, dismissively, rapt
in my mystery, inattentive –

I’m sending you a red box;
was the message, will you be
present to receive it? –
Oh God!
The pieces fall in place.

Presence alone heals
weakening connections,
honest communication,
with expectations aside.

Distraction, fear, anxiety
are the undermining factors
that rape relationships
turn us from the actual gift.

I am awake, but dreaming
suspended between fantasies
of promising futures, and insults
from the past – selfish indulgence.

Marriage is the red box,
in its ever altered form –
offering endless gifts if
only we’d receive it.