Tag: poetry

Levitating

Suits meet, banter about deals,
conspiratorial heads bent, deep
throaty laughs, confidence reeking.

I glide by, imperceptibly, am a whisper
on the window of their intensity.

Families congregate on front lawns,
squeals of delight trailing blurs,
adult murmurs lost in shrill echoes.

I float on by, an ethereal witness,
no more than the wisp of a cloud.

Only a dog, unleashed, catches
a whiff of something inexplicable,
gives chase, nips at nothingness.

I am elusive, lacking substance,
he retreats bewildered, interest lost.

Am I somehow flawed,  I wonder
aloud to the gathering of females
draped across my bed, intrigued

Have landed now, solidly connected
to this other-abled reality, grounded.

Intimate discussions of life’s mystery
peaks interest, all want to learn to fly,
beg me to demonstrate, inspired to try.

Detachment is the secret, I reveal;
just launch yourself and release.

Instincts grasp to offer support,
arms reaching out in assistance,
roots hindering their deliverance.

Alone, I swirl above reeling minds
dissolve into the mist, am free.

(Image from scipio164.deviantart.com)

The Ocean Awaits

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.

Sorrow’s Vigil

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…

 

Intolerance

 No longer tolerating
highly processed,
artificially sweetened
offerings; am sickened
by the whiteness of
bleached presentations;
bloat at the suggest of
southern fried coatings,
am pained by inorganic
solutions, or beefed up
regimens; cannot digest
milking; find the endless
pursuit of bread gut-
wrenching; have no palate
for genetically modified
ideas; find fatty concepts
unappetizing; am loathe
to consume further fishy
tales; avoid intoxication
by heady bouquets; have
no stomach for saucy
accompaniments; am
intolerant of gluttony;
craving a sustainable
form of nourishment.
th

Response to Scorned

Hey, I didn’t force you into my bed,
seem to recall you came willingly,
never pretended to be Prince Charming,
was actually intimidated by your Disney
fantasies – thought you liked our
intimacy, would have got up to look
after the children, but you were already
on it, and besides, I never do it right.

The other woman was never about you,
it was about me, feeling inadequate in
face of your uber-confidence, getting
my ego stroked, and …well, you know –
never imagined it would lead here, value
my family – leave the children out of it!

Emasculation?! Let me tell you, working
my ass off to make you happy, when one
minute you say you want one thing, and
the next you chastise my for not knowing
that was a ploy and that I should know
what you actually want, because I am
supposed to be a mind reader – and how
did I know that your great-uncle Bob was
a leach, so I’m expected to make reparation.

Okay, I made a mistake, gave into temptation,
went for the bait, but it was never her I wanted.
All I want is the couple we used to be, that
happy go-lucky, hotter than hell twosome,
who dreamed of a family, and a mortgage,
two cars, two kids, and a dog – I just didn’t
realize it would all be so hard – and somehow
I just started to feel left out of the party, and
don’t worry I’m getting my payback – will
be punished forever – you try being a man!
th-1

Scorned Woman’s Rage

Before I jump into another man’s bed,
(especially one who has already cheated),
whisper my deepest yearnings to his
lusting heart, arch my hips to meet his
less than satisfactory thrust, I will make
sure that his compassion meets mine,
that he has the balls to prioritize, and
does not soften at crucial junctures.

I can look back at past follies, blame
hormonal rages, or beat myself over
shameless acts, but I am not the one
whose cojones, like deflated balloons,
lacked the wherewithal to differentiate
between brain and penis, and chose
to corrupt rather than protect the
sanctity of our children’s future.

Call it emasculation!  Call it female
wrath; accountability goes both ways,
and as long as we women are willing
to carry the burden of guilt, believe
messages shoved down our throats,
and submit to impossible ideation;
relationships will continue to crumble –
Stand up! Make a statement!  Be a man!

Herd or Heard

Society moves en masse,
flowing with the tides,
propelled by a shared
consciousness.

Destination unknown;
purpose undetermined.

We take flight, cling
to wings of promise,
ignore the stench
of destruction.

Reaching for the sky;
barely hanging on.

We land, school together
tell tales of adventure
document progress
avoid reality

proponents of diversity;
shunning differences

All among us has a story
shies from speaking aloud
fears castigation
deflects

fearlessly outspoken:
scapegoating sins.

Daring to speak a truth,
I falter, watch as the
crowd retreats in
shunning silence.

Destination unknown,
purpose undetermined.

th-1

Is Daddy Dead?

Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.

Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.

She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.

Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.

Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.

What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.

Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.

 

 

In Communion Prevails

Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.

Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,

tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.

Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end

conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.

Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.

th-2

Dear Child

I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.

I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.

I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her;  who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.

I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.

I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing;  praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.