Untethered

Tether me
to the riverbank
I will resist

There are currents
to follow, contours
to memorize

Let me soar
these wings capable
imagination intact.

(Image mine)

Flee The Cult

A life of servitude,
the guru said,
surely leads to Nirvana

No debate permitted –
we are but plebes
answer his every need

mere women, born
to serve, to nurture…

I flee the cult

Why? Because I can.
Servitude does not
negate free will.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)

Tempting

Escape sits
stalled,
waiting,
one small key
an ounce of courage
and off I’d go,
a wake of water
heralding my exit.

Instead,
I retreat –
courage resides elsewhere,
such exhilaration
belongs to youth –
will ponder adventure
another day –
wait,
stall,
escape
into a nap.

(Written for Twenty Four’s: 50 word Thursday.  Photo supplied with challenge.)

Of Wings

Winged things
are meant to fly,
like birds, and planes,
and dragonflies…
angels…

I had dreams once –
winged creatures
who soared
limitless skies…
free…

Until fear –
a cruel master –
caged my heart,
clipped my spirit…
broken…

Age and loss
turned the page,
locks illusions
unravelled…
escape…

Vulnerable,
I walk, remember
wings, lift my face
to inclement  weather…
fly…

(Written in response to Willow Poetry’s weekly challenge:  What do you See?)

Complexity of Freedom

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:  Complexity of Freedom prompt.)

Authenticity

The freedom to be unafraid,
even alone, connected
to a sense of purpose,
a trust in a higher being.

Never a thought given
to whether the attire is right,
hair just so, or whether or not
there’s enough money to live on.

Unfiltered honesty, a heart
full of wonder, a mind open
and eager to learn – will
unblemished by vanity.

Some call it naiveté
some call it innocence
I call it authenticity

this five-year-old sprite
whose simplicity of being
defies any other reality.

Ancestral Rot

British roots define
particular brand of
peculiarity – shared
claustrophobia –

fear of closeness;
need to lie down,
separate myself,
am married now

childless dreams
dust; I am cook,
cleaner – project
sparkle where dirt

still lingers, losing
rationality, not quite
catching on; want
to send flowers,

honour passings
but soul wounds,
unbandaged, gape –
hunger to be free.

(Image: www.apa.org)

Meaning of Life, Anyone?

If I could, I would ask the dead
about the secrets of life, raise
spirits to help me understand
this phenomena of cancer, the
need to find relief in addictions,
the key to successful relations.

Or perhaps It is the youth, set
on creating the next YouTube
sensation, who have insights
I should pay attention to, but
they seem to prefer contrived
reality, ignoring mundane life.

Asking the heads of education
what the guiding principles are
for living a good life seems use-
less; they are too buried beneath
the red tape of bureaucracy, out
of touch with front line teaching.

I might ask new immigrants who
carry with them an accented
authority and certainty about the
meaning of life that I have not
considered – their faith and hope
badges of courage that betray
our lack of social cohesiveness.

I feel compelled to investigate
why this hard-working, caring
soul has sold herself three times
for love and continues to come up
victim; is it an insatiable need
for attention or lack of willingness
to let go of the past and just be?

(Image: btloc.com)

 

Mastery

“Why can’t I play hockey, Mom?”

John and I were watching boy after boy try to shoot a puck through a hole punched out of the middle of a cardboard goalie.  It was a fundraising event for his older sisters’ school.

Truth was, I didn’t have a good answer; I just didn’t like the violence that playing hockey entailed.  How could I tell him that?  At four-years-old, John was already demonstrating a natural athletic talent.  Did I have a right to choose sports for him?

“Tell you what,”  I offered, “If you can hit a puck through that hole, I’ll let you play hockey.”

The odds were in my favour.  So far no one had been able to do it.

John shot four out of five.

As a goalie, he excelled at shutouts.  His quick reflexes and ability to anticipate his opponents moves served him well.

My fears about hockey were never founded.  John himself dropped out once body contact became part of the sport.  He had found a new passion to focus on:  skateboarding.

For fifteen years now, John has practiced diligently, pushing himself through the fear and pain, to become an accomplished skateboarder.   To onlookers he is “The King”, gliding through any course with grace and ease.  He makes it look so simple.

Only John knows how hard he has worked to hone this skill:  hour upon hour, overcoming disappointment and frustration, always willing to try again.  He talks about a ‘zone’ – a state of mind – that he strives for, which helps him maintain balance and focus.  His art is very disciplined.

When John rides the board, he is free.  A freedom only someone who has mastered the art of movement can  understand.