Tag: poetry

Day 246 The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided, well-worn briefcase sits slouched in a corner closet,
one side agape, a red lanyard hastily stuffed inside –
occupational identification.
A row of black, brown and gray pumps line up beside it,
a thin layer of dust betraying their idleness.
Silent, unblinking a television set recedes into the wall,
flanked on either side by images of smiling faces,
shadows of nostalgia.
Stacks of books and journals rumour
a once scholarly mind.

The woman, to whom all these trivialities once
had relevance is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

Day 245 Gain and Loss

The mistress, meticulously groomed
glows a sun-kissed bronze shimmery
invitation, promising seductive
sensations of pleasure and release.

The husband, tense, overworked,
emotionally overwrought
heeds the call like a sailor
following the lure of sirens.

The flirtation begins in innocence,
he sips from her splendour at a party,
tastes her bittersweetness and
feels himself losing all control.

She is a master, a pupeteer
mesmerizing him with her smooth,
easy ways – lulling him into compliance
and alone; for private indulgence.

The wife, tired, lies awake
the empty space beside her
echoing the hollow place within-
she no longer holds his desire.

Spent and reeking from his illicit encounter,
the husband stumbles into bed,
reassuringly reaching for his wife in the dark.
Unresponsive, she feigns sleep.

They’ll not speak of it tomorrow-
awake and re-engage in the routine they call life.
Not tonight, he’ll tell himself,
Not tonight, she’ll hope.

The mistress sits smugly in waiting,
a never ending supply of liquid gold,
bottled with a promise – subliminally
conditioned to bring personal gain.

Cycle of Life

Helpless and alone,
a young figure unconsciously
rubs her swelling belly,
hopelessly feeling the tremor within her begin.

Shunned for her sin,
impoverished of mind and body,
she falters, unable to speak
paralyzed with uncertainty for a future already tainted.

Society turns its back,
on the plight of the unwed mother,
revulsed by all she represents,
paralyzed by their own ineptitude in the face of inequity.

Uninhibited the baby arrives,
announcing her birth with a scratchy cry,
filling her lungs with hope and anticipation,
trusting that life will embrace and provide.

She does not know,
in her stark nakedness,
that she is born into tragedy –
fated for a life of hardship and misunderstandings.

Day 242 Arrogance and Humility

Humility prepares the way,
selfless, focused on servitude
lending a patient ear to each possibility
befriending challenge with an open mind.

Arrogance arrives late
a cloud of disruption, reeking
of too much perfume,
dressed like a dominatrix
commanding attention.

Such display of total disregard
triggers Humility’s vulnerability
causing hesitation and in that fateful
moment, surrendering control.
Arrogance thrives on chaos.

Humility chokes but regains
perspective, politely, assertively
suggesting Arrogance’s help
is appreciated, but not necessary.
Arrogance whirls and glares.

Feeling the pressure, Humility
holds firm and reaches deep within
and curiously, unexpectedly sees a light
Arrogance has ignited inspiration!

Day 241 Going With the Flow

I could cry tonight,
if it wasn’t so futile.

I would weep for all my losses –
not just this moment of weakness

but the well of energy that once drove me
is

dry

arid

sapped.

Shuffling steps
are punctuated
with

stumbles

and my grasp

falters

and with sorrow
I surrender

to rest

until the tide changes
and I am renewed
and life flows again.

Day 240 “Self-Sufficient”

isolated and incapacitated
I am prohibited from partaking
of the influx of information incessantly presented

consequently cut off
from prescribed expectations
dictating costuming and culture

external expressions of acceptance
are sorely missing, suggesting
an overall lacking of self-worth.

Interestingly inverse to such conclusions
is the sudden contentment that arises
from escaping the mayhem

Internal relief overrides dictated performance
surrendering willingly to intrinsic motivation
and renewed self-acceptance.

Superwoman’s Dark Side

fine-cut crystal, silver and gold
sparkle and entice.  the table is laid
for guests aplenty.

savory aromas conjure visions
of sumptuous gravy, delectable roast,
crisp-cooked vegetables, and decadent desserts.

she’d stop to admire her handiwork,
but the children, tired and hungry
and bored with the waiting, tug at her hem.

Waiting.  It is her greatest strength.
Prepare, prepare –
then wait.

They’ll arrive shortly, noisily
full of their days, faintly aware
of the backdrop, happy to have left the babies.

And they’ll sit and be served
and remark on the deliciousness
and gobble up seconds
then push back their chairs
and wander off for a kip
or a smoke

and she’ll linger for a few minutes
picking at her congealed gravy- covered mashed
unconsciously dabbing at the red wine stain on the tablecloth
and marvel at how she accomplished it all
once again
without bitching
without protesting
a trouper till the end

What’s that you say?
She’s sounding a bit like the martyr?

Oh no, you’ve found her out.
Superwoman has a dark side.

Martyr’s Lament

I have waken before dawn
and driven through blinding snowstorms for you.
I have been lost, but without faltering, have altered course,
and when I could drive no further, I set out on foot
navigating treacherous snow and ice, risking my life
pushing forward against all odds,for you.

So you could get where you needed to go.
So you could succeed.
I risked it all for you.

All the while I kept you by my side,
So that you would be safe,
so that I could ensure your arrival.

But I grew weary, and my body just would not go on,
and all I asked is that we rest for awhile,
so that I could catch my breath.

And in that instance, you were gone,
no hesitation in your step, no looking back,
and when you finally stopped to wait for me,
it was too late.

A barrier had grown between us:  an eight foot, chain-link fence
separating me from protecting you.And you looked me at with that gaze of exasperation,
as if to say that you should have done it on your own.

But wait, I say.  Wait.
This wall may seem insurmountable, but I can do it.
I can do it, give me time.  I’ll just climb up to the top.
It’ll be easy, you’ll see.

Don’t walk away!  Give me one more chance
to prove my love for you.

I do it all for you.

Ride along with me

I am a passenger on the road of life
and I travel in the backseat
where my input is not asked for, nor appreciated.

I ride along.

I am a passenger on the road of life,
and if you ask me the direction in which I am travelling,
at best I can only speculate; the view back here is limited.

I am not driving.

Driver #1 is motivated and self-assured
and I sit back with confidence and relax
Until his mistress climbs aboard.

Wait a minute, who invited her?

Driver #2 was handsome once,
and still is except he lacks direction.
Should someone else be paying attention?

I am not alone.

There are others riding along too, including
a lackadaisical high school dropout, whose only motivation
is his parents’ pocketbook and the promise of a Friday night booze up.

How did he get here?

You can ride along with us if you like, but be warned
the vehicle is outdated, and there is no separation between seats
so we you’ll have to squish in.

They don’t make ’em like this anymore.

Oh yeah, and my crazy sister is aboard,
or that may be me, ’cause I swear I saw the ghost of another,
coming back to haunt me along the way.

Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not driving.

Night is falling, and we stop for gas
and the neon lights of the convenience store remind me,
if I’m going to make a break, it’d best be now.

Or I could find a new driver.

What if I put God at the wheel?
What if I said, God, give me direction, take me somewhere?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?

Would driver *1 have to be on his best behaviour,
and misguided #2 finally find guidance?

Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?

And we would fly above the obstacles
straight to the promised land?

No, this is just a fantasy, but a good one no doubt.
Instead, I’ll just ride along in this backseat
until life restores my vitality, and my head is clear again.

Then I’ll park this old vehicle.

And get a new one with GPS.

Day 225 “The Way of Life”

The sky is a cornflower blue, the sun bright, biting, as if in competition with the mustard gold, tangerine orange, and chartreuse leaves shimmering in the breeze.  This is the view from my window, and I close my eyes again, the scene too vivid for my newly awakened eyes.

I contemplate what I have witnessed and think life is like this:  too beautiful at times for words; glorious perfection.

I want to capture it, but when I open my eyes again, white clouds form the backdrop and the autumn wind is tossing the tree about. Branches dip and pull and the harmony of the past moment is gone.

And, I think, life is like this too:  it can turn in a moment, and what was once balance is suddenly lost, and we are left spinning.

I hear it now:  the wind rushing against the windowpane, taunting me:  Change!  Change! it leers.  Change is coming!

And I know what it speaks is true, for life is like this:  ever-fluctuating, never the same.

And the reminder is bittersweet.  I want it to be summer forever, but in my heart, I know it’s okay.  Change is okay.

It’s just the way of life.