Tag: illness

Nightmare

This malaise
this undeniable melancholy
product of isolation…
of an unreliable mind

What shadows awaken me?
a flash of car beams
or something more sinister?

Illness heightens sensitivity
I am set on ‘wired’ –
Internally running,
externally frozen

Sleep will not return
I don bravado
call out the ghosts
“Show yourself!”

Nothing.
Now I am raging –
“Who dares to disrupt slumber
then cowers in corners?”

Shadows grow eyes
and the walls undulate
a figure emerges
self in negative

I cower
pray I am delusional
mirrored self points downward
where floorboards recede

Skeletal remains
fill the earthen pit
nonsensical bones
of immortal pasts

Danger lurking
and I am not immune
the time has come
to submit…

(Image my own)

The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided,
well worn,
briefcase
slouches
in a closet

One side agape,
a red lanyard
stuffed inside –
occupational identity

A row of black, brown, and gray pumps
line up beside it – a thin layer of dust
betraying idleness.

Silent, unblinking,
a television recedes
into the wall,
flanked on either side
by smiling images –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books
and journals
rumour
a scholarly mind.

The woman,
to whom all these trivialities
once had relevance
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(Originally written in 2014, The Pilgrimage strives to help me understand the purpose behind losing all to illness. Image my own)

Rebirthing

It came in the peak of summer
that most optimistic time, when
sunshine equates with health
and bodies glow with exertion
fit and in their prime – it came

with all the fury of a winter blast
harsh and cold and unyielding –
wrestling me from my complacency
annihilating vibrancy, self-definition
de-leafed, rendering me raw, exposed.

I clung to the darkness, blanketed
against the harshness of light,
the impossibility of sound, or scent –
was de-shelled, ungrounded, ravaged
by volatile nerves and misfiring impulses

praying for the certainty of death…
but it is spring that follows winter
and in time, restlessness set in –
the dogged whine of hope willing
my mind to stretch, my body to try

spirit, tired of withdrawal, pushed
against the wall of dysfunction,
bolstered by a shifting acceptance
found roots in an unspoken faith
and I felt possibility, like a tiny sprout

reaching for the sunshine,
ventured out of my cocoon –
still alive! Redefining purpose –
still precarious, highly vulnerable
but optimistic for the return of summer.

(Rebirthing first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II March, 2018. Image my own)

Shoebox Dreams

A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents

snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness

This one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice

how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so

much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning

But wait…this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?

That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom

does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.

(This is a rerun of a rerun. Still resonates. Image my own)

Shifting to Acceptance

In illness, I am passenger –
no matter how venturous
mind’s reach, the raw truth
is that limitations confine

This is not a sentence
for some perceived crime,
but a re-framing – attitude
shifting to acceptance

Choice becomes thoughtful –
time allows for that now –
and gratitude takes hold
in every corner of “I can”.

(Art my own)

Maybe

Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.

Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success-driven persona.

Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.

Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.

Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.

Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge,
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.

Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.

(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)

Survivor Instinct

Buried alive
by illness’ onset
only hope for escape
tunnel whose guilt-lined
walls oozed mucous
of neglect, sorrow
so raw, shredded
faith – no light
just a dull
pulse
screaming –
I am alive.

(Chronic illness is a game changer.  No amount of ambition can turn the tide.  One is left to face the onslaught of that which has been oppressed or skipped over.  I wrote this poem early in my journey with ME.  Amazingly, no matter what, spirit still clings to life.  Image from personal collection.)

Isolation’s Hold

Disability covets isolation –
this stripped-back, box-like state.

Rustic serenity, with room
to breathe would be preferable

but old memories creep in, and
lack of self-worth leaves the door open

phantoms of former torments
unwanted visitors, shadowy

invaders target loneliness,
misconstrue lack of health

for neediness, prey on weak –
hearted, presume incapability.

I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of

fellow travellers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach out

aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot

fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.

(Isolation’s Hold was first written in June of 2017.  I am resubmitting it here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: isolation.  Seems to me is also reflective of the times.  Image from personal collection.)