Call It Wisdom

Get back to work! Bravado punches,
but my pick up is shelved – would love
to wheel out of here and take flight –
and interview skills are ungrounded,
fear I will let fly unfiltered gibberish.

Go for it! Boisterousness cajoles –
but boldness is dangerous, and pushy
only puts up walls; shifting gears might
be an option, but the road ahead’s a steep
decline, and I have to carefully find footing.

You have to try! Good-heartedness offers,
but the path and I are both handicapped,
movement needs support, and my focus
is failing – am more tortoise than hare –
regressing into this pedestrian existence.

You can’t just give up! Impatience scowls,
but not only is the party of energetics with
its social antics out of my reach – nuances
included – but to be honest, I am no longer
interested in being a part. Call it wisdom.

(Image: http://www.astrolog.org)

Re-Purposing the Garage

It’s complicated, really, but so much
is defined by the presence of a garage.

Here is a stand-alone, connected by
a breezeway, single-car with storage;

could have been so much more –
had planned for it, but life changes.

Once had an oversized garage, direct
access, housed two vehicles, custom

built, but the cars are gone now, and
the single stands vacant, like my mind.

Except, the other day, I swore I glimpsed
an animal there, perched on the shelving

fierce, cat-like eyes caught in the dim
light of the open doorway, a tigress,

body crouched, poised to strike, backed
away, convinced it was a hallucination,

but then there she was again, clawing
at my imagination, piercing my senses;

I tended to the bleeding, chastising my
foolishness – of course she wasn’t real –

I lost my feminine prowess long ago,
am more of a groundhog now – slow

moving, podgy, sniffing the air for hints
of change, burrowing in face of trouble,

more a scrounger than a dweller, prefer
underground to domesticated storage.

A family lived here once: a tightly knit
portrait of three, lulled by the protection

offered – no storms to weather, just
sheltered transitions until the husband

left, daughter in tow; ducked beneath
the closing of the automated door –

left me, trapped under the layers of
debris, choking on their fumes, a flea-

bitten heap of a woman, homeless,
buried in a mound of bitter regrets;

almost missed her existence, except
for those grasping, white-knuckled

fingers emerging from the heap,
pleading for rescue, begging for

revival; I would shoulder her, one
more responsibility burdening

progress, shuddered to host such
destruction within my walls, would

have tended to her suffering more
promptly had not my daughter’s

malingering, suspiciously bent on
thievery, robbed me of equilibrium –

this state of heightened vigilance
a cause for neglecting self – have

humoured too many who would take
advantage of me, cannot trust my own

instincts, am disillusioned, no longer
content with inconsistencies, need to

confront the condition of my garage,
clean out the accumulation of stored

nonessentials; maybe hold a sale,
whitewash the interior and buy a car.

th

(Feature image from: maiko-girl.deviantart.com)

Dear Child

I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.

I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.

I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her;  who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.

I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.

I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing;  praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.

Confrontation or Consolidation?

Long legs and a swift stride
partnered with an impulsive
nature, and willingness to
grasp at change, carry me.

Straight lines rarely define
my journey – sharp turns,
backwards loops, rabbit
holes – a labyrinth of sorts.

I am independent, a free
thinker, outsider, rebel –
on the run, moss adverse,
never-look-back woman.

Until life set a roadblock,
hampered my movement,
grounded panicked escape
forced a standstill, frozen

in time, isolated, fearful,
silence as an unknown,
immobility a sentence,
punishment interpreted.

The past, ever in pursuit,
momentum full-force,
crashes into me, topples
any semblance of stability.

I am dazed, shaken, take
a step back, circle, wonder
at this intrusion, try to re-
collect, construct meaning.

Does reconnecting merit
effort, or is the past too
clouded by faulty memory
and misplaced emotion?

Am I remiss to have left
so much behind, in search
of renewal, recovery; am I
deluded to believe in change?

Or is there some essence
of eternal light, of beauty
and goodness, revealed
under the shadow of ago?

Could it be value, not sin,
which triggers the pursuit,
a loving tribute, rather than
judgment and retribution?

I will myself to have faith,
to breathe and observe,
no longer able to flee, now
must trust in discernment.

Hope, Like a Breeze

Big city goals, and a skeptical side,
parked my independence, tagged
along with logic, pretended to fit in,
told stories tinted with wildness,

distracted by the me I’d left behind,
tired of my own game, too self-
conscious to ever belong, regressed
to the past, aging psyche crumbling

walls- time they came down, anyway –
emotionally soaked footings, leaky
pipes, memories are soiled, unfixable;
overwhelming sense of doom presides.

Youth visits, eyes innocent and full
of Springlike optimism, opens doors,
demonstrates possibility, breathes
new hope into this despairing mind.

Need a Big Ass Truck

Shit needs to be managed,
so much stinking sewage
requiring a massive truck
with a fat-bellied-snake
hose blocking the road.

Repairs are underway,
requiring crews of men
with clipboards, and hard
hats, and big-assed pick-
ups blocking the road.

Such industry obstructs
my passage – none of it
relates to me, surely –
I travel this road with
singular focus – home.

Impatient, unwilling to
wait, I squeeze my pint-
sized ego past the block-
ades, risking disruption,
disrespecting caution.

I am, after all, entitled
to my own destination,
require rest and solace,
do not possess the energy
for other people’s agendas.

Am intimidated by brute
ability to roll up sleeves,
tackle any job no matter
how dirty, the balls it takes
to block the road at all.

I am polite society,
go with the flow, prefer
to remain anonymous,
blush at causing ripples,
shudder at inconsideration.

Relieved to arrive at my
humble abode, shed the
wheels, brush off road dust,
surrender to the harmony
of private sanctuary, startled

to find my pristine turf
littered with the leftovers
of past failures, a dumping
ground for undigested,
and rotting intentions.

My path is blocked by
the debris, obviously left
by some disgruntled ex-
wishing to violate my
perfection, an intruder.

Except I recognize the
pots, see my own hand
in cooking up the contents,
am forced to admit that
I am culpable, need to

own the shit that calls
for management, commit
to the repairs, roll up my
sleeves, and grow balls;
there is dirty work ahead.

Seeking Release

Days confined to a four-walled cell
morose gray skies mirroring gloom
drumming of an overworked heart
breaking this suffocating silence.

Twenty months sentence served
release date uncertain, life altered
beyond recognition, hope elusive
as the sun – I am powered down.

Pocketed energy calls for efficiency
integrity challenged by wavering
brain; peace a butterfly chained
by depression, praying for release.

Stability relies on yielding, practice
demonstrating caring, gentleness,
giving to self, mourning spontaneity,
I stretch to find perfection, believe.

Convince myself of synchronicity,
celebrate creativity, ideas, feedback,
focus on glimpses of well-being,
treasure merriment, inspiration.

Ego mistakes self-preservation
for selfishness, attacks motives,
loveability, invites depression,
awareness gained obliterated.

I cycle back; imprisoned anew,
am salvaged through interaction
simple sharing magically uplifts
rebirthing perspective; healing.

Through grace, I embrace gifts
surrender control, self-rejection,
retire the victim, and remaining
open, recognize response-ability.

Salvaged

Delegated to the back room,
I am marginalized, invisible,
employ-ability in question.

I am a peripheral observer,
self-conscious of my status,
disintegrating at the edges.

Watch as relationships form,
people engage, socialize, find
purpose, ignore my presence.

Desperate, I grasp at meanings,
decipher holes in conversations,
measure lacking in interactions.
Ennui drives introspection –
a terrifying abyss of endless
confrontations and shortfalls.

Unable to bear the tedium –
madness threatening – I push
forward, reconsider stock

determine redundancies,
discern detrimental agendas,
am inspired to make changes.

Experience bears fruit, I can
salvage the situation, trim
excess, purge the sedentary.

Ideas flood, passion igniting,
prospects are not lost – creativity
fuels a new sense of belonging.

Reform Called For

Placed without consultation
in an undesirable position –
certainly didn’t ask for this –
I am decidedly displeased.

Princess tendencies expected
pampered outcomes – exalted
deployment – hypochondriacal
drama despises responsibility.

Lack of working boundaries
merits complaints, too many
unknowns counterproductive,
yet I will forge ahead, accept.

Cross-purposes: reckless regard
for what’s important, and a need
to make things right (regardless
of cost) drive me to distraction.

Craving simplicity, am motivated
to create a suitable environment,
encounter more obstacles, feel
sabotaged from all angles, despair

lash out – not maliciously – only
begging for accountability, willing
understanding of consequences –
without collaboration futility arises.

Clear guidelines are needed here,
unrealistic expectations not helping,
need predictability, healthy protocols,
reinforcements to calm the chaos.

Foundational barriers breaking down,
the royal tower is crumbling – radical
change in the offing – reset, commit,
we can do this with duel dual effort!

tower