Educated in curriculums
qualified to lesson plan
and structure evaluations
far reach from current course –
platform inaccessible, only student
self – a disagreeable sort
take my grievances higher –
no response, boss is asleep
indifference snoring.
Passenger, I am –
delegated to back seat –
input seldom asked for,
even less appreciated.
I ride along.
Passenger, I am –
at best can only speculate
about direction – limited
sight lines here in the back.
I am not driving.
Had a driver once,
motivated and self-assured –
could sit back and relax –
until his mistress climbed in.
Who invited her?
Driver #2 is handsome,
but lacks directions, so
no one is paying attention.
Others ride along too.
There’s a high school dropout,
who likes to pick his parents pockets,
and get boozed up on Friday nights.
How did he get here?
Ride along, if you wish, but be warned –
this vehicle is outdated, and likely unsafe –
we’ll just have to squish together.
They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.
Oh yeah, my crazy sister is aboard too,
Or maybe it is me, ‘cause I swear
I saw the ghost of another –
bent on haunting me along the way.
Probably a good thing I’m not driving.
Night is falling, and we stop for gas,
and the neon lights remind me –
if I’ m going to make a break,
it’d best be now.
Or, I could find a new driver.
What I put God at the wheel?
What if I said: God, give me direction?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?
Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?
And would we fly above the obstacles,
straight to the Promised Land?
Fantasy, unfortunately –
for now, I’ll remain back here,
until life restores vitality,
and my head is clear again.
Then I’ll park this old vehicle.
And get a new model with GPS.
(I’m revisiting old posts, editing, and re-introducing some of them.  Ride Along With Me  was written in November of 2014, six months after being bedridden with ME.  It was inspired by a dream, and understandably, represents a woman who has lost everything, trying to make sense of life.  I thought it is actually quite fun, and may have a wider application, so I resubmit it here.)
Finely cut crystal –
silver and gold –
sparkle and entice.
A table fit for royalty.
Savoury aromas evoke visions
of sumptuous gravy,
delectable roast,
crisp-cooked vegetables,
and decadent desserts.
She’d stop to admire her handiwork,
but the children, hungry
and bored with the waiting,
tug at her hem.
Waiting.
It is her greatest strength.
Prepare, prepare,
then wait.
They’ll arrive shortly, noisily
full of their days,
fail to remark on the preparations
They’ll sit
be served
praise the deliciousness
gobble up seconds
push back their chairs
wander off
for a kip
or a smoke
and she’ll linger
picking at congealed gravy- covered mashed
unconsciously dabbing at a red wine stain
and marvel at how she accomplished it all
without bitching
without protesting
a trouper till the end
What’s that you say?
She’s sounding a bit like the martyr?
Oh no, you’ve found her out.
Superwoman has a dark side.
(This was originally penned a few years back, and I resubmitting it here, edited, for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Photo is courtesy of Deb Whittam as part of her prompt.)
A wink?
Seriously?
Am I meant to smile
in conspiratorial culpability,
was that a Colgate
bright teeth,
complete with chime
wink, or…
a big bad wolf,
I’m coming to get you
later wink, or…
hand-in-cookie-jar,
you didn’t see this –
in which case,
I wink.
(Written for dVerse‘s quadrille night – a poem in 44 words – with the prompt, wink; and for Ragtag Community’s, chime.)
I have eggs,
she cooed,
here in my basket –
care to have a peek?
Considered his response
carefully, not wanting to
count this chicken, even as
the plot was hatching.
Hesitation,
she scolded,
only ever loses.
Yes, he concurred,
but if I act too early
all you’ll get is a worm.
(Twisted Adages is the theme for Tuesday night poetics at dVerse. Â Thanks to our host Jilly for the inspiration.)
Insults and mockery
and off the cuff remarks
all marks of authenticity
merely plain talking larks
so says the republican
in the president’s defence –
we are just oversensitive
those who take offence.
When was it disclosed,
I ask the figure on the screen,
that authenticity is ascribed
to spewing things obscene?
Now I am not American,
so neither right nor left,
still I cannot help but object
when justification is so bereft.
Authenticity, I cry out
implies honesty and trust,
building a self that is hospitable –
openness and compassion a must.
To equate such a concept
with this poor excuse of a man
has really pushed the boundaries;
I’m ready for a Trumpian ban.
(Today’s prompts are as follows: Â Fandango’s word of the day: Â object; Ragtag Community:Â hospitable; and Daily Addictions is disclose. Â I am not usually political but hearing Trump’s recent comments described as authentic got me going – apparently. Photo is from my personal collection – reminds me of an angry forest spirit.)
Let’s resurrect the fireworks
pretend we’re young again
we laugh to hide the sorrow
the ludicrousness of it all
reliability applicable only
to sentiments, little else
post surgeries, chronic
illness and radiation’s turn
fireworks are for the young,
we agree returning to our screens.
(We’ll blame this poem on the prompts of the day: Â Fandango’s: fireworks, Ragtag Communities: resurrect, and Daily Addictions: reliable.)
via Daily Prompt: Observe Short Unsolicited Advice on Writing Poetry write long poems on short days short poems on long days you don’t need a drummer but you do need rhythm avoid melodrama your head cannot explode all the time, there is uncharted territory between ecstasy and despair look after your images they should splash […]
via Short Unsolicited Advice on Writing Poetry — Stopdraggingthepanda
Listen up!
My words, like children,
need tending to, codling
I can’t just go all willy nilly and let them run amuck
although
they are liking the idea
and what’s that knocking at my door
strange ideas….
oh, this will never do –
I keep a tight ship here –
order and perfection
those are my mottos
the children are getting out of hand
best banish them to the basement
until they calm down, but wait…
there’s sawdust
and garbage down here
(how could I have been so reckless)
Really, I wasn’t expecting all this commotion
and there’s the door again –
Oh dear! Â Just as I feared –
the church ladies are here
and any moment they’ll
start sermonizing
and I’ll feel guilty
for having
let the children
loose
for
having
entertained
imperfect thoughts
for…
What the hell!
I’m an artist not a babysitter! Â Why am I worrying about judgment from a bunch of prudish old ideas about how poetry should be executed? Â I’m in charge here, right?
Children, gather round
I’ve got some tidbits –
snack-sized morsels of ideas
for us to nibble on –
we need to start a rebellion.
(Today’s challenge is to rebel.)
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.
One Woman's Quest 