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?
Tag: poetry
Need a Big Ass Truck
Shit needs to be managed,
so much stinking sewage
requiring a massive truck
with a fat-bellied-snake
hose blocking the road.
Repairs are underway,
requiring crews of men
with clipboards, and hard
hats, and big-assed pick-
ups blocking the road.
Such industry obstructs
my passage – none of it
relates to me, surely –
I travel this road with
singular focus – home.
Impatient, unwilling to
wait, I squeeze my pint-
sized ego past the block-
ades, risking disruption,
disrespecting caution.
I am, after all, entitled
to my own destination,
require rest and solace,
do not possess the energy
for other people’s agendas.
Am intimidated by brute
ability to roll up sleeves,
tackle any job no matter
how dirty, the balls it takes
to block the road at all.
I am polite society,
go with the flow, prefer
to remain anonymous,
blush at causing ripples,
shudder at inconsideration.
Relieved to arrive at my
humble abode, shed the
wheels, brush off road dust,
surrender to the harmony
of private sanctuary, startled
to find my pristine turf
littered with the leftovers
of past failures, a dumping
ground for undigested,
and rotting intentions.
My path is blocked by
the debris, obviously left
by some disgruntled ex-
wishing to violate my
perfection, an intruder.
Except I recognize the
pots, see my own hand
in cooking up the contents,
am forced to admit that
I am culpable, need to
own the shit that calls
for management, commit
to the repairs, roll up my
sleeves, and grow balls;
there is dirty work ahead.
Seasons of Love
Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.
Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.
Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.
She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.
Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected
lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware
that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.
Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered
how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated
ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.
She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her
that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice
her scorching, all-
embracing passion
that had united them
and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.
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:
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.
One Woman's Quest 