Keep distance!
Inner child
intimate with abuse;
a sad comedian
spontaneity ploy
masking deadness –
major screwup –
God’s grace
unscathed
minus mishaps
hip movement
frozen scream
roads collide
life on periphery
repercussions
cognitive gears
breaking ice
encountering foes
reflexes delayed
safety intangible
borrowing time
health a trial
defeat conceded
relinquished control
Keep distance!
Inner child
driving the show.
Insanity meticulously recreates
the murder scene – a minute
replica of the house bloodied;
builds it on the front lawn
where passersby can see,
cannot purge herself of it;
turns on me, annihalation
in her eyes; I will chase her
down, cease this madness;
she is intent on destroying
new life, cutting it into pieces,
re-perpetrating the slaughter;
I must render her defenseless,
wrestle her into submission,
dare not look her in the face
the familiarity of her misery
a mirror of self-loathing; this
sometimes sister/daughter.
Disability covets isolation, this
stripped-back, box-like state.
Rustic serenity, with breathing
room would be preferable, but
nostalgia creeps in and lack of
self-worth leaves the door open
to unwanted visitors, phantoms
of former torments, nondescript
invaders targeting the lonely,
misconstruing lack of health
for neediness, preying on weak-
hearted, presuming incapability.
I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of
fellow travelers, 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.
I would celebrate the day,
enjoy the spoils of my work,
receive abundance of blessings
but guilt showed up, floated in
wearing a sexy red overcoat,
and I couldn’t turn her away.
Camouflaged by fiery passion,
she tried to force feed me pearls
of wisdom, passed her gems
like bestowing an inheritance;
I choked, then resisted, invited
paranoia to join the party fray;
ducked accusations of treachery,
projectiles of blame targeting
unwitting intentions – employed
only to serve – was villainized
when I refused to take part,
openly defied her nonsensical
attacks, realized that dubious
mismanagement makes a poor
companion; guides my tainted
conscience with manipulation,
marries me to scrambled ideals,
births chirping perfection, (talent
undeniable), I am hopeful till
guilt chimes in, catching me off-
guard, forcefully convincing;
appealing to a death wish;
suspicion arrives, interrogates,
deflects responsibility, denies
truth – how did it all turn out
so wrong, this day that was
meant to celebrate my birth?
This old house wraps itself around me,
radiates the warmth of memories,
a solid testament to the passage of time,
offers space to grow,
a hospitable and loving place,
I am safe here.
In my dreams,
the ocean awaits,
a rhythmic keeper of time,
reflecting clouds, moonlight,
raging with the storms,
in quiet times, calming –
a blessed, imaginary,
companion.
The rains have come,
swamped our intentions,
forced us indoors,
inconvenienced play,
turned our solid ground
to clay – a soggy tribulation –
they will subside
and new growth
will follow,
I tell myself.
I am an eternal student,
in love with life,
education unfinished,
a stumbler,
not a scholar,
temporarily lost,
seeking direction
in unfamiliar territory.
I am a neophyte,
longing for guidance,
recognizing my vulnerability,
a delicate balance this
emotional wading,
mindfulness needed.
I project the mud of the past
see only insurmountable hills
outside these walls,
anticipate setbacks,
fear a lack of tenacity –
abhor my own ugliness;
rally myself with hopes
of solid footing ahead
and the ocean beyond.
On the other side of madness
stands a mighty fortress –
a castle to hold court –
we have all passed that way,
the passage is well-marked,
communally served,
I have committed
to the descent, am
Earth’s child.
Life is but a station,
a temporary stopping place,
we are all time travellers –
destinations varied –
called to take action,
choose a route.
I have been distracted,
missed signals,
opportunities,
find myself left behind
shamed, alone, uncertain,
aborted my search,
preferring retreat
need to reorient.
The kingdom harbours
an abundance of offerings,
sustenance abounding,
fruitful, flourishing
delights, uniquely
appealing, perhaps
an acquired taste.
Spring, like a faerie nymph,
draws me in, a harbinger,
hopeful, playful, promising
new adventures,
calling me to indulge
in fantasies, dine on
wild imagination,
recreate myself.
I am wondering
if I can accommodate,
fulfill my soul’s longing
know the wonders of
heaven, play host
to the mysteries of beauty
without ever leaving
the warmth of this old house.
The ocean calls me,
from the dream time,
will not let me sleep –
her tidal pull a magnet
for this weary sojourner,
beckons me to rise,
to strive, to succeed.
She is my destination.
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
when the light of day has faded,
and the noise of life subsided,
and all the world is slumbering.
Then my heart beats with a single
lone drum, a heaviness weighing
on me, chest punctured with grief,
distractions losing their hold.
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
a deep-seated darkness, void of
hope, the deafening echo of unshed
tears, the brutality of solitude.
When all have surrendered to dreams,
my soul – tired of the daily effort to be
courageous, to smile when I want to
rage, to protect my beloveds – weeps.
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
the grief of knowing that this defective
existence is too much for others to
bear, whose hearts have glazed over,
who will me to wellness, shake
their heads, and spew frustration,
as if I am somehow an accomplice
in this state of vile stagnation,
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
when questions rob me of sleep,
and the passage of time fails to
ease the injustice of so much loss.
And while acceptance is the best
progress, and I know that faith
will sustain me, they are fickle
companions when the sun sets.
There is sorrow in the nighttime
a restless amalgamation of so
much emotional angst, with no
shelter for relief…
If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?
I have examined your wallpaper,
discussed the scholarly attributes
of shades of yellow, traced the edges
of your unravelling with my mind,
argued the merits of Gothic horror;
marvelled at the brilliance of wording,
the courage to define the nature of
feminine madness, the boldness to
highlight inequalities long before the
establishment of a Person’s Act.
Forgive me, but I need to set aside
this keyboard for a moment, for I tire
easily, am suffering from an exhaustion
that is systemic and calls for elimination
of all stimulus in favour of rest, you see
I share your sentence of confinement,
isolated to a room with windows, my
mind wandering to ancestral gardens,
contemplating shadows and movement
cognizant of underlying forces, creeping.
My husband has just left, dear man, having
checked on me, taking on my burden,
concerned that I am not sleeping at night
thinks that by reading and rereading your
words I am only fueling an already over-
active imagination; begging me to be still
as the doctor has recommended; but I am
burning to tell you that time has no
relevance between us and that you and I
exist simultaneously – a secret we dare
not confess – how correct your impulse
that there was more than one woman,
that we are many, barred by the designs
of society, papered over by irrational,
outdated shades of yellow, lacking
symmetry, or sensibility, suffocating
our creativity, tortuously contorting
ourselves to been seen, accepted.
It is the smell of our discordant souls
that pervades your consciousness
the rotted withering of a stifled
existence – a yellowed existence –
once hopeful, sunny, now molding
mucous, desperately torn away
at the edges, pleading for escape
How grateful I am that you see –
may I call you Charlotte – that you
have smelled the angst, witnessed
the struggle, are willing to tear at
the sticking places, to set us free.
( The Yellow Wallpaper, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman [not sure why 1899 edition depicted here bears a different surname] in its entirety can be found here:
Long-bodied,
gelatinous
creatures cling
to the walls
of this hole
I’m buried in,
repulsive,
relentless,
fluorescent
tubes of
serpentine
slime
suctioning
space,
I am
breathless,
helpless.
More eel-like
than snake,
propelled by winged apertures –
underdeveloped versions of the full-
bodied inhabitants
swarming around
my head –
panic
will be
my
demise.
Movements,
I recognize
are juvenile,
impulsive,
floundering,
not menacing,
mid-air capture
will curtail
the onslaught,
minimize
damage –
tame
these
dragons.
Your voice, he said, it sounds…different…
Project your voice
I learned in drama;
speak to the back,
keep it strong;
don’t let it falter.
I had to replay your message several times…
Hold that note,
dig deep –
from the diaphragm;
sing from your belly.
Must be something wrong with the machine…
Demonstrate conviction
let your tone convey passion
stand tall, be confident
motivate your audience
my orator Dad told me.
I couldn’t make out your words…
Performance demands voice;
activism relies on voice;
change requires voice.
You sound so weak…
not yourself at all.
I am losing my voice,
but not my words,
I have so much to say,
who will say it for me?
One Woman's Quest 