Really want to be gainfully
engaged, embrace learning
but disability is in charge,
like an uneducated thug,
skulking behind my back,
sneering at my attempts
to demonstrate capability.
I am slow processing,
easily distracted, socially
driven, control slipping,
botching efforts to show
potential, suspect that
disability, the hard-headed
tough guy that he is, revels
in my failure, despising me.
(image from: www.greatschools.org)
We are peacemakers,
declaring commitment;
celebrating life, diversity.
We stand at the water’s edge,
contemplate forever, pray for
serenity, believe in harmony.
Watch as past dalliances,
like old lovers, drift away,
become memories forgotten.
We are supporters, lift up
the down trodden, extend
hearts and hands in aid.
Rescuers, fearless vessels
surfing the ocean of tears
saving lives for the cause.
Withdrawal is preferential
to conflict, introspective
in our peace-loving stance.
We are hosts, expecting
hospitality, unprepared
for hostility, taken aback
Submission lost to fear;
partnering with revenge
spoon out poison, turn
the tables, defend sanctity,
reposition selves as victims
flee our former stance; attack.
Alarmists engage in paranoia,
see only turbulent skies at
the water’s edge, disbelieve
We must hold fast to ideals,
embrace humanity’s potential
be responders, not reactors
Recover our sanctity, reunite
in a vision of peace, remember
that celebration trumps strife.
(Image: marketplace.secondlife.com)
The gambler puts in fifty-cents
expects hundreds in return;
a simple flick of the wrist,
and abundance will be his.
I feel like a slot machine,
paying dues for minimal input.
Tells himself there is more
to be had, if luck runs his way;
walks away from the richness
of family, joy of friendships –
I’d be a slot machine for him,
if only love equated money.
dreams of possibilities beyond
his daily reach, a fast track plan;
fortune is calling, palm itching
just one more roll of the die –
The die has been cast here;
no longer willing to gamble.
one more momentous win,
a promise to share the wealth;
what more could any woman want
from a man – half an empty dream?
Took a chance, myself once,
thought he was my windfall –
guess, in the end, all gamblers lose.
Women bleed –
red blots in an otherwise
black and white world –
have learned the language,
yet feel like foreigners,
undermined by nuances;
travel this patriarchal
landscape, would-be leaders
whose compassion like blood
unsettles the ambitious,
too exhausted to play the game
corporate agendas do not align
with weary-hearted
mothers who would slow
progress to raise wholeness.
We take back seats,
submit to sermons from self-
proclaimed prophets, who mime:
words without substance,
are starving for sustenance
in a fast food, quick fix world
where harm is overlooked
in praise of mass consumption –
crave relief from the imbalance –
seek woman-only refuge
to vent our quiet rebellion,
give voice to our marginalization.
Our blood is thick, heavy,
like our passion, offensive to some
and like our power, unstoppable.
(image:Â http://www.odditycentral.com)
Find me in the audience,
three rows back, amidst
enthusiasts, humbled by
your expertise, perched,
questions burning tongue,
too reticent to find a voice,
afraid of being discovered,
ridiculed, or misconstrued,
as if you found my poetry,
see only the images formed
there, miss the raw emotion.
I’d want to scream “Stop!”
Too many polished writers
whose words, in black and
white, float through the web
while mine are immobilized
Yet, I return, hungry to feast
from the same banquet, miss
what is being served up, as I
have no plate ready to receive.
I would befriend hesitation,
take her shopping with me,
invest the time, but impulse
is my constant companion.
Hesitation, born of shared
trauma, labours over pain-
filled decisions; my need is
palpable, throbbing, must
suffocate it beneath layers
of numbing fabric, weight;
afraid to show myself, afraid
that she will find me, block
any progress, or worse, make
me pay for these layers of
stolen moments; encounter
crazy reflected in her eyes.
(Photo from getleashedmag.com)
If I were a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning – pickles, chutney, jam –
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike .
Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.
Every woman needs a man,
her mother told her, to make
her complete. To submit,
she realizes, too late, soul
traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing
inner losses; she eats to
appease an inner sorrow,
a second-rate childhood,
afraid of being a burden,
loathe to create a stir,
conditioned complacency:
appeasing, pleasing, follows
plans, avoids decisions, never
really knows where she is going.
Can she fault the man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male taking
ownership/ charge? His child
lives here too, feeds on impulses,
craves attention, overcompensates
for fears of lacking with bravado;
cannot understand why she never
asserts her self, alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –
an eternally unsettled gnawing gut.
They stumble over one another, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss
repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues like the fact
that they are both suffocating, near
jumping off the ledge of their high
faluting existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them.
The noise of city living has negated
their ability to listen, the distractions
altered them; the distance between
is too far to bridge in a single sigh,
and she, no longer submissive,
has joined him, and checked out.
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
Anticipation that life will one day recommence –
as if a curtain will open and there I’ll be, sitting
in the audience, hungrily waiting for the play –
has drawn me from my solitude, encouraged.
Have a friendly enough disposition, once graced
the boards myself – a lifetime ago now – confident
in my ability to engage, find kindred conversation,
may even make a friend or two, unless I disappear
again, slip back into the silence, abandon others
without a trace, grow restless, search for meaning
among the sheepish drones –a preponderance of
perpetual inactivity begetting obesity, choosing
comfort over confrontation – the curtain is drawn
the drama unfolding and we idol sitters, we fickle
non-committers watch agape, dumbfounded by
the acts, defy our better instincts, remain inert,
prefer to go back to sleep, but the dogged truths
of inhumanity are playing out on life’s stage, and
we are called to brush off the lull of anxious
politeness and dare to rise to anger, find passion
claim a role and be cast into the action, no time
for auditions, the script is unfolding, the ending
assured, unless we are willing to awaken, prod
the masses, and re-envision a less tragic ending.
(Image from camstage.com)
