Strawberries ripen, their scarlet-red sweetness staining the cheeks of students whose bodies, unripened, rail against the conformity of stiff backed chairs and bolted down desks. Spring has dared to don the cloak of summer – green emboldened fields trampling over delicate beginnings; and we are splash pad, motorcycle revving, boom box crazy, ready to plunge into the swelter, restless.
Strawberries ripen
Spring’s sweet offerings foretell –
Summer games begin.
(Image my own)
The stillness within these walls contrasts the frazzled buzzing in town. Shops lined with Christmas must-haves will entice those running on impulse. Buy, buy, buy! This season, more than any other, evokes a yearning for perfection. I am weary of it all, defiantly resisting the urge to dress and venture out for that one last thing. We will gather soon enough, exchange gifts, gorge ourselves on seasonal specialities. Afterward, I will be content to find a quiet corner, reflect and give thanks for another holiday season survived.
Christmas lights sparkle
We’re meant to be of good cheer –
Parched Spruce sheds its charm.
(Image my own)
Can we acknowledge the richness of our resources:
that which sustains and endures? Always looking for the next shiny thing,
craving the exotic, the surprising… pushing purpose, movement… toward what? Telling ourselves we want lifelong commitment, and then moving on… emotions depleted. How do we define standards, intuit and reassemble a frame, counsel a collective, when expectations, creeping and woven into consciousness, resemble oppression? Hope -as sold by patriarchal mindsets, striving to mutilate common sense – is useless to revive when society teaches us to blindly follow the unintelligible…
Full moon a warning –
reverence for mystery
not conspiracy
Society’s light
waning on the back of lies-
hopelessness surreal
Hate is born from fear
disinformation a tool –
We are being played.
Step back! Cautions moon
observe under a new light –
reconnect with love.
(This poem, derived from a dream, started as a haibun – prose followed by a haiku – but the haiku multiplied. Guess we will call it a variation on a haibun. Image my own.)
“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”
She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply. I considered her: an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.
Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say. Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.
Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment: ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.
History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.
(Reposting The History Lesson as it remains pertinent. Photo collage my own)
Dawn breathes an invitation and Rumi’s words taunt me: Do not go back to sleep. I am loathe to greet the day – not that I despise its arrival, rather that waking has become laborious since the onset of chronic illness. Daughter of a military man, I am conditioned to rise before the sun, have a lifetime of such anecdotes to my credit, however; while the brain is still willing, the body groans, and aches wail with renewed emphasis as the numbing cocoon of sleep loosens. Hours dwindle from the first inkling of consciousness until muscles comply with movement, and I am lucky if I’m actually able to utter “Good Morning.”
Rays, like razors, slice,
invade sleep’s cocoon – absent
winged emergence.
(Good Afternoon first appeared here Sept 2018. Edited for this edition. The poetry form is haibun. I am pleased to report that waking has become easier, and most days I am able to greet the morning.)
Odd, this gift of solitude. Perched canal side, I affirm my connection to the earth, and offer thanks. Late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way, lighting up the mirror-still water. Vibrant reflections.
Two winters ago, I fought to breathe as temperatures fell below zero. Impassible walkways trapped me indoors. Depression fought for possession. Hope struggles in imposed isolation.
“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now –
how just when it feels as if one sentence has been handed down, sealed, an opening appears. I am fortunate, savour the moment.
Heron’s watchful stride
invites reflection, respect –
Winter’s solitude.
(Rapture first appeared here February 2019. I offer an edited version here.
Winds picked up yesterday, gathering grey. Cold seeped in through the windowsills, and we set the furnace on high. Forecast for today is just above zero, even though we are in a tropical zone. Oh well, I decide, a nice spicy soup will warm our innards.
Seems my body mirrors the weather: health declining, forcing me to bedrest frequently. Have slept most the morning. In between, I check emails, the blog, and we speculate about what will happen next with Mother Nature. Soon, it will be time to venture home – a both welcome and sorrowful thought.
Confused winds blow cold,
winter reversing itself –
piquant soup simmers.
(It’s haibun night at the dVerse pub, hosted by Merril who challenges us to write about March Madness. I am also linking up to Ragtag Community’s prompt: speculate and Fandango’s: health.)
It’s odd, this gift of solitude. Perched beside the canal that runs behind our site, I affirm my connection to the earth, give thanks for this place and moment, and acknowledge that I am a part of all that surrounds me. The late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way lighting up the mirror-still water with vibrant reflections.
Two winters ago, I was fighting to breathe as temperatures dropped below zero. Trapped inside my home by impassible walkways, I was desperately trying to stave off depression. It’s hard to be hopeful when isolation is imposed.
“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now – how just when we think our sentence has been handed down and sealed, an opening appears. I have been most fortunate. I savour each moment this current state of solitude offers.
Heron’s watchful stride
invites reflection, respect –
winter’s solitude.
(Kim is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with solitude being the prompt for our haibun.)
As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis. Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.
Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,
crave a touch of warmth.
(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight. I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)
I alternate between vigorous activity and coma-like crash. It’s the nature of this disease. No middle ground, it seems. Or maybe that’s just the nature of this personality.
We celebrated Christmas early this year. A Saturday afternoon gathering, and I cooked. First time in four years. I felt a certain sense of pride till the last guests left and I turned to face the aftermath. Now, just two days later, I am packing up the household and preparing for a four-month excursion. I think I’ve defined a new breed of crazy: waiting for a spurt of energy and then frenetically doing until I hit the next wall.
Winter pelts windows,
stirs frenzied need to escape –
waiting for recharge.
(Imelda is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with the prompt: waiting. Coincidentally, waiting is also the prompt for Manic Monday’s 3 way challenge. I have also received inspiration from Ragtag Community: vigorous, and Fandango: coma. Tomorrow is load up day and then we hit the road, so not sure how often I’ll be around until we get settled somewhere.)
One Woman's Quest 