adversity · current affairs · health · poetry · writing

Roar!

Situational –
term used to describe
this current state –

illness a thief
perpetuates the crime –

loss cavernous
depression real

and still,
Spirit roars.

disability · health · ME/ CFS · mental-health · poetry · writing

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.)

disability · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

Sleeping Alone

Sleeping alone
with so much intrusion –

child born of good intentions
awash in a trail of barricades

I cope, cook up breezes, strike
wet ground – stuff myself to satiate

the onslaught, ground rapidly shifting –
Earth Mother exerting presence –

too stubborn, I turn away, look for
God but my cup keeps moving –

I am unreachable, charmed by
a broken tale, aimless, oppositional

overwhelmed – cry out but absence
holds no listeners – need adhesive

to fix this urgency – a peerless torrent –
if only I could simply these wounds

find a stopgap – emotion overflows,
exerts turmoil, sorrow replaying

sleep offers no repair, alone,
tormented by the issue at hand.

(Every so often, I revisit old poems and revise.  Sleeping Alone first appeared here in December of 2017, when I was still in the throes of severe illness.  I’ve come along way and it’s good to look back and see the progress. I am also linking this up to my weekly challenge, reaching.)

adversity · disability · life · poetry · spirituality

Application Submitted

Eager, I am, but limited,
somehow stuck in the past,
revisiting old disruptions –
as unmanageable as before –
Why do I seek validation there?

Vow to write a solution –
end up re-committing –
am I growing extra skin?
naiveté blocks me –
am fascinated with fame

Want to believe I am magical,
possess gifts that inspire, but
I am no more than a circus act,
possess the skills to mesmerize
only the young, uneducated

lack the resilience to adhere
to protocols, abide rules –
destined to repeat mistakes,
easily persuaded to take on
the guise of others – no matter

how poor the fit – will don
unsupported risks, expose
insecurities – for sufficient
flattery – have no boundaries
to counter this need to belong

I am principled, but socially
awkward, have prayed to
a higher power, proposed
promotion – need approval
to make this fractured life work.

(Image: bellapetite.com)

 

dreams · Family · life · mental-health · poetry · relationships

A Bee’s Perspective

(Note:  I draw much of my inspiration from dreams, and recently I’ve been challenging myself to write prose as well as poetry.   This poem and the piece, The Vortex, are inspired by the same dream.)

A bee, caught
in a violent draught,
collides with woman

her body a salty
concrete wall
of frenzy, she is rigid,
obsessed, unspoken rage

emanating from her pores –
a gale force spiral, woman-made
vortex threatening the sanctity
of her contrived domesticity

Normally, she would swat at him –
is aware of the potential for venom
delivered via puncture – cannot pull
herself out of the vacuum of fixation

eyes riveted, hands locked on video
controls, breath shallow, heart pounding
a rabid diatribe of self – loathing:

useless woman,
irresponsible,
neglectful,
unworthy,
guilty,
fat

with each beat the tempest grows
perceptibly, the bee breaks free,
encircles the figure of a lone man
bent over a fragrant cup of brew,
is dismissed by a distracted swat

lazily careens upward, buzzing
past a sleeping child, and settling
on a sweet sticky cheek, startling
its owner, who lashes out then rises

unsteady legs toddling in search
of Momma! , the whine a catalyst,
piercing his mother’s mania –
her instincts now cat-like, body

pouncing past the insolent insect,
arms reaching towards pudgy limbs
thrusting forward into loosely
attached guard rails, now plunging

the bee surveilles the scene –
a final circuitous flight before
finding escape, the drone of his wings
a testament to the glory of being a bee.

(Image: www.flickr.com)

disability · dreams · mental-health · poetry · women's issues

Watery Fate

Unconsciousness –
like an iron anchor –
has dragged my lifeless
body, abandoned her
on the ocean floor

I am afraid to stir,
even a little, certain
that pieces of me will
break away drifting into
the unknown, irretrievable.

Somehow, I have learned
to breathe under water,
have memory of wholeness,
but am unglued, earthly
images floating past –

years spent in study,
hoping to be somebody
but like Dickinson, I am
nobody; only sediment
now, contemplating

girlhood dreams, memories
of parading in wedding white
mothers encouraging from
sidelines – I watch, sidelined
with muted amusement

so many dreams, now losses
the ocean’s flow a steady
stream of forgotten tears –
a watery graveyard for
shipwrecked vessels.

What fate awaits me
should immobility win –
will I disintegrate, particles
becoming algae, ever-reaching
tentacles of desperation?

Or, will I evolve into coral –
fragility guarded by venom,
attach myself to colonies –
life fragmented, now sustaining –
one existence traded for another?

Or, shall I gather forces – will
defying fate – propel myself
upwards, lungs and heart pumping,
mind commanding limbs, declare
myself substance, face another day?

(Image:  aquaviews.net)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dreams · health · Humour · life · mental-health · poetry · recovery

Party Adverse

Will not catch me gavotting
at a party in the Carly Simon
vein – am reluctant at best,
certain my flaws are neon,
fear scrutinizing attention.

Throw a boss in the mix
and I am all bumble, cringe
with each idiotic phrase I
utter, terrified to implode –
immortalize my inadequacy.

Course, it’s all nonsense –
arrogance really, to imagine
others give me a second
thought, and typically, once
I settle in, I find a groove.

Seems I possess a certain
expertise, have endeared
trust;  in fact, in my self –
absorption have forgotten
to prepare my boundaries

protect against the influx
of attention seekers craving
validation or advice from me.
Isn’t this a strange state of
affairs; I the coward suddenly

thrust into such a position,
but such is life – pain begets
compassion; a trained listener
when it comes to issues of
the heart and mind – despite

personal misgivings, I find
a place, am challenged to set
aside imagined criticisms, even
actual betrayals, and extend a
hand to someone in greater need.

Might even be inspired to offer
an invitation – momentarily losing
sight of social anxiety – dress
myself up in empathy and break
bread with another – imagine!