Daddy yelled
and Mommy cried
and new dresses appeared.
A pattern
my young heart
vowed to break.
Chose a man,
reticent in nature,
pursued a career.
Then babies came
and I stayed home
and he withheld cash.
Pendulum swings
left to right – money
holds the key to powers.
Patterns, it seems,
twist and morph,
leave me impoverished.
Mother said: “Look after your sister!”
What she meant was:Â Take these
burdens off my shoulders, I am
no longer able to cope.
Father said: “Do as I say, not as I do!”
What he meant was:Â I don’t have
the wherewithal to deal with my own
problems, so don’t bring me yours.
Sister said: Â “Be a good auntie!”
What she meant was:Â I am too
young to be a mother, and you are so
much more responsible, please take on
the consequences of my poor choices.
So I ran away to build my own life.
Met a man and married, bought a house,
had children and hopes and dreams
for a future that would erase the past.
Husband said: “If you really loved me
you’d try harder to lose weight, be less
effusive in public, control your temper,
and be more supportive of my choices.
What he meant was: Â I’m going to grind
you so far into the ground and then I’m
going to cheat and cheat and you’ll have
nothing left inside to do anything about it.
And without a word, I left, and
what I meant was:Â I am a real person
with needs and faults and limitations
and it’s about time I honour me.
What mysteries lie in ancestral roots,
what clues to illuminate the dysfunction
that permeated our familial ties, cursed
us with a pervasive sense of perversity?
We are a portrait of deviancy: still life
torsos, dismembered from birth, non-
conforming hormonal structures denied
reception in the aftermath of Victorianism.
An aunt, who despite her outer female
attributes earned the nickname Billy,
tried her best to acclimatize to girlie legs,
distracted herself with industry, could not
bear the swirl of dresses, nor the reek
of men’s cologne, banished herself to
far off lands, followed a brother – also
optically illusive – knew himself as Liz,
adapted arms and legs of steel to bury
his essence, donned military rags, and
macho outbursts, failed to escape his
inner truth. Raised by this disembodied
woman, whose embittered cries echoed
through our hollow chambers, shattered
any attempts at compassion, we were
observers at a funeral, where the casket,
made of glass, held a lonely figure – head
and shoulders solely visible – all but dead,
suspended, like a science experiment gone
terribly wrong, abandoned in a gel-like bath –
embalmed dysmorphia on private display.
Lacked the resources to understand the
complexity of their sufferings, too entwined
to be rational – ignorance blinded by shame.
Only now, in the light of current revelations,
is the depth of our misguided conclusions
made tragic – with I could reach back through
time, adjust the settings to acceptance, but
lack the currency, have no recourse, other
than these words, to communicate the sheer
brutality of discrimination – have witnessed
the bloodied carnage of authenticity oppressed.
(Glass Caskets first appeared December, 2016. It was published in Little Rose Magazine, March 2108. I submit it here for my weekly challenge: deviation.)
I hold a photo of my father –
on that last Remembrance Day –
am awed by the person we never knew.
Just fifteen, he signed on,
joined ranks with an elite squad,
trained for unarmed combat.
He wears his Commando’s beret,
medals proudly adorning his breast –
symbols whose meanings are now lost.
They were the best and the brightest –
sleuthing out enemy stores, carrying
operative data to oncoming troops.
He cried that day, as candles glowed –
tears for the fallen – “Good men,”
he muttered, squeezing my hand.
A suicide mission, he’d called it,
armed with a knife and hands
of steel – a black pill if caught.
By day, he never spoke of war,
at night, he screamed in terror.
Why such a mission? I asked.
He’d had his own secret cause –
a war waging within him –Â
bent on eradicating a tragic flaw.
War made my father – a disciplined,
regimented man of iron, intimidating,
fearless – machismo at its best.
He returned a hero, celebrated
with his hometown, and left again –
the lie still burning within him.
Father was a valiant soldier –
counted himself privileged
to serve beside the honourable.
At fifteen, a girl whose body
belied her existence, enlisted
in a fight to become a man.
(The original version of In Remembrance appeared November 11, 2015. Â I resubmit it here, edited, for my weekly challenge: sacrifice. Â My father sacrificed his life during the war, and then went on to sacrifice his true identity for the rest of his years. November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada, a time to honour those who fought for our freedom. )
Our roots are spreading,
the umbrella of our tree broadening –
Muslims now amongst our beloveds
a progression, nurtured by
a Divine plan – trees are meant
to branch – hearts’ capacity unlimited
an outcome that evolved – not because
of that day when the impact reverberated
across borders, dislodging fears – but despite it
Praise goes to youth, whose willingness
to embrace possibility beyond stereotypes,
beyond hatred, opened doors, enticed
this hometown gal, and a backward father
to set aside prejudice (ignorance, really), and invite
the light of love to transform darkened passages.
brave souls, willing to defy the legacy
of downed towers, the lies of politicians –
carving out a path for an enlightened future.
(Written for dVerse, who on the anniversary of 9/11 challenged us to go back to a previous poem penned on this date and write a new one, based on one line.  I revisited  Renovating the Psyche from 9/11/2016 and chose the line:  “roots spreading outwards, Muslims now amongst our beloveds.” )
Freedom is four hundred and fifty square feet of moveable tin, wheeling down the highway, destination unknown. It is long walks through exotic forests, where focus lasts only as long as it takes to capture an image. It is the privilege of sleeping and waking according to whim, routine an estranged concept. It is the breeding ground for creativity – passion unleashed – and it is tainted by the hue of loneliness, the stark awareness that ties are strained, and those left behind feel abandoned.
Freedom’s highway calls –
hearts follow, passions flow, flee
guilt’s far-reaching pull.
(Written for DVerse’s Halibun Monday: Â Complexity of Freedom prompt.)
April, in Ontario, is as unpredictable
as my father’s temperament –
sometimes warm and encouraging,
sometimes icily treacherous
like that morning, in 1973, when
coaxed by the early appearance of buds
and the mildness of a morning breeze,
we donned confidence instead of coats.
By noon the winds has shifted direction –
rain rapidly turned to sleet then freezing,
and we children escaped school early,
sliding our way across yards, marvelling
at the force that had turned trees into
glass sculptures, imagined ourselves
arctic explorers returning home to
hot chocolate and mother’s worried brow.
Father had not been heard from in hours,
and the absence of traffic attested to
the impossibility of the roads, and we
felt the weight of helplessness descend
fearful for our father’s life,
fearful for his state of mind –
his storms no less frightening
than the one that raged outdoors.
A scratching on the front door
set us all on high alert, and in
stumbled father, a ringer for
the abominable snowman
his hair and brows dripping
icicles, his pallor wan despite
the blueness of lips, the reddish
chafing of cheeks and nose –
one hand clenched in an icy fist
the other clamped onto a box
hoisted upon his shoulder – and
before anyone could utter a word
the ludicrousness of the situation
hit me, and unfiltered, I cried:
“You could have died out there,
but you saved your case of beer?”
Our challenge to day is to write about a family anecdote.
I know my sister’s wicked,
have been witness to her acts,
but believe me when I say
the fault is not her own –
You see she had a tenuous start,
was fragile at her birth, and
well, the coddling that ensued
instilled her beastly ways –
tantrums, she found, effective,
threats quite useful too, in fact
I can’t ever remember a time
when ‘no’ meant no for her.
So now that she’s a real Queen
ruling with treachery and wrath,
well whose to blame but those
who set her on this path, and
this is not the full confession,
I’m ashamed to say, you see
the mirror to which she turns
for advice, well it’s another
one of our contrivances –
no magic actually involved –
holograph and distorted voice –
a sibling’s nasty parlour trick
So I hope you’ll understand
that when Snow White entered
our midst – all purity of heart
and youth’s radiant beauty
we saw the perfect opportunity
to make our sister writhe, plotted
to avenge the years condemned
to her shadow – the evil all ours.
(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to demonstrate the human side of a classic villain.)
If I was a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning  pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.
(Originally posted on June, 2016)
Father told me I had no problems –
didn’t even know what problems were,
so I tucked away grief, pretended,
mastered the art of suppression –
what did I matter, after all?
Failed to grasp the underlying message –
ignored the extent of his personal pain,
translated indifference into selfish agendas,
set up walls to protect myself, against him,
projecting rejection onto others.
Too late now, I understand, hurt for the
distance created by misunderstandings,
recognize with deep sorrow that our timing
was out of rhythm – society unable to fathom
the secrets that we held – unnecessary burdens
Wonder if I will ever unravel the deceit,
unwrap the loss of self, the shame, recover
a sense of self-worth that allows for acceptance
of problems without self-reproach, or guilt;
will gain the capacity for far-reaching forgiveness.
One Woman's Quest 