poetry – Page 57 – One Woman's Quest

I Did

My husband wears a band wrapped
around his head – a long, constantly
bobbing pole attached – where all
his ideas dangle like carrots,
just out of reach – propelling
him absent-mindedly forward.

He tries to stay in the moment,
begins with full intent, gathering,
for instance, the makings of a grand
sandwich, and assembling successfully
but wanders off, leaving a trail of
opened packets and jars and crumbs

Too bad the contraption is invisible
or I’d snatch it off his head, and demand,
lovingly of course, that he stop a moment,
take the time to complete the task;
It’s a trap I fall into once in a while:
the fatal expectation that he’ll change.

I’ve tried leaving the mess, willing
myself to be accepting, hoping surely
that he’ll take notice and tidy up,
but I am always deluding myself –
he is after all mid 60’s, and not
about to break the habit now.

So, I content myself with my chosen
role, plow through the piles of messes,
and thank God that his brain still functions,
and remember how that very same carrot
drew me in once, compelling me
wholeheartedly to say “I do”.

Maybe

Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
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.

Imagining Genius

Imagine befriending genius –
accepting social awkwardness
embracing habitual quirks as
incubation for enlightenment.

If I could strip down, release
preconceived notions, agendas,
lie naked, exposed, in shallow
waters, intimately entwined,

unencumbered by sexuality
or gender protocols, I would
shake this sensual impotency –
become one with creativity.

As my father, wounded, I
am inhibited by my feminine,
opting for compliance over
strength, a conditioned identity.

His mystery extends, flawless
sculpting, archetypal secrets,
pretense proclaiming normalcy,
usurping vitality, genius stifled.

Re-de-fine-d

Ask me how I’m doing
and I’ll say “fine”, not
because I’m actually “fine”
but because “fine” is the only
socially acceptable response.

If I said that I have been lying
here for three hours now trying
to will my body to movement
that would elicit unsolicited
advice and tarnish my “fine”

I’d berate myself for breaking
my promise not to complain
knowing that complaining
provokes compulsive needs
to fix which makes me angry

Because my concept of trying –
which is defined by getting dressed
every day – does not match trying
every new therapy, drug, exercise
offered by well-meaning but clueless

others, who may experience fatigue
at times, but have no understanding
of what it is to be exhausted after
something as simple as bathing,
let alone debating what I haven’t tried.

So, ask me how I’m feeling, and
I’ll say “fine” and we can get on
about the weather or the latest
movie must-see, and I can bask
in the warmth of the contact

carry the conversation into the
void of the rest of my day, smile
to think that I still have friends
who accept my “fine” even though
they know I am anything but.

Dear Charlotte Perkins Gilman

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:

https://www.nlm.nih.gov/literatureofprescription/exhibitionAssets/digitalDocs/The-Yellow-Wall-Paper.pdf )

Dragon Attack

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.

Leap-Froggin’

Always wanted to travel,
dreamed of exotic places,
thriving metropolises,
worthwhile destinations –
where I’d be
a somebody,
make a difference,
excel.

Aptitude tests proclaimed proclivity –
candidate for leadership –
confidence to reach to the top,
know-how unnecessary,
if the hat fits,
I’d wear it –
ambitious.

Wasn’t prepared for the halt
in progress – ending up
in rural Ontario, nothing
but a mall for entertainment –
told myself life is what
you make it –
keep your chin up,
and all that.

Let a few of my dreams slide,
convinced
they’d be better off
without me, moved on
before I could reclaim them,
abandoned common sense
for irrationality; a call
for help

Assured others I was all right,
not to worry,
swallowed anxiety,
choked on my confusion,
broke down when the road
ended again,
realized
there is no control center,
only ability

to respond,
and that sometimes
life leap-frogs
and sometimes
backwards is forwards;
reality
is topsy-turvy
and not a well-oiled machine,
and no matter the direction,
the journey
will be
trying.

Tragedy

A splash of icy water –
first personal assault
on an adopted persona –
marked each day’s start.

With military precision
the lie, perpetuated since
childhood, was carried out –
a ritualized euthanization.

Starched collar, tightly
knotted tie (hangman’s
accomplice), solidified
the tortured charade.

A stray, unyielding curl
atop neatly cropped hair –
lonely vestige – belied
the woman locked within.

Stiff comportment channelled
inner rage, buried beneath
driven pursuit of monetary
success professing normalcy.

Behind the mask, a gentler
soul watched, agonizingly
lonely – abandoned authenticity
imprisoned, denied expression.

Alcohol, sought to numb twisted
reality – exacerbated tensions,
propelled acts of violence, drowned
unwitting co-conspirators, diminished

hope – no viable solution – society
uncompromising – fantasies of death –
swift release – defined behaviours,
created a legacy, a prayer adopted

by a child left behind, incapacitated
by father’s anguish, smothered
by ashes of incredulous tragedy,
awaiting the phoenix’s rising.

Soul Stalker

Downy blankets of white settle softly,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.

Inside, my body craving hibernation
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.

My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.

She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.

Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less: a mere carcass.

Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.

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.