Tag: poetry

Reaching the Inner Child

If pain spoke
less with intimidation
more with invitation

then I might dare
to shuffle closer
attentive and open

Find a fear cornered there
set behind the tautness
barred vulnerability

Speak softly,
intuition would counsel,
approach with tenderness

I would behold
the extent of the injury
length and breadth of abuse

A child dwells in these spaces
believing she’s protected
lonely and alive

Neglect having brutalized her edges
she cowers and yet, curiosity and
hope still hold space in her eyes

I will sit with her in silence
match my rhythm to hers
settle on a calmer resonance

Pain, I’ll offer
is not your fault –
You don’t need to bear it alone

And when, or if
she sidles closer
I will hold steady

Ignore the stench of bleeding
the disarray of matted locks
the sweat of abandonment

And tell her she is beautiful
a soul created in God’s likeness
a cherished one

She’ll not believe me, of course
For that will take time
and the building of trust

But should I stay
soft and warm
and listening

One day I’ll hear her speak:
Would it be okay
if we went outside to play?

(Image my own)

White Noise

(Warning: foul language)

Rallies, hired guards,
warnings of revolution
and God knows what

Ambition is a cruel cage

Freak offs, and hitmen,
made-up masculinity
unintelligible banter

Power wields cold chains

Misogyny is not a win
archaic ideations –
not the mark of divinity-

Free the barbed emotions
of Patriarchal walls
unstable…and now…
exposed

Despair is paralysis
a surrender to the lies

Shooter drills no solution

It’s fear that motivates
and righteousness that binds
and in the white noise
of rising awareness

The perpetrators
calmly walk away
Exit strategy preplanned

While we pray
that karma is a bitch
and limp back
to our wasted lives.

(Art my own)

Strawberry Season

Strawberries ripen, their scarlet-red sweetness staining the cheeks of students whose bodies, unripened, rail against the conformity of stiff backed chairs and bolted down desks.  Spring has dared to don the cloak of summer – green emboldened fields trampling over delicate beginnings; and we are splash pad, motorcycle revving, boom box crazy, ready to plunge into the swelter, restless.

Strawberries ripen
Spring’s sweet offerings foretell –
Summer games begin.

(Image my own)

We Are Not Islands

We are not islands
isolated
insulated
to be ignored

We are hearts engaged
in a relational dance:
intertwining stories
weaving new tales

Yearning for love’s reciprocity
Delighting in wonder of discovery

Slugging through painful demise
Striving to be better

We build walls
construct towers
follow paths leading nowhere –
the pitfalls of our quest

Artificial barriers
lofty ideals
dead ends…
and still we push on

Dreaming of hands that hold
and gentle waters
soothing and war
passionate kisses
Love’s rewards

We exist
not for accumulation
but for the gifts that arise
when open hearts dance.

(Image my own)

Snake Woman

To lounge
perched oblivious
nature vs domesticity
decision in limbo

I call upon the rains
pray for cleansing
this too-worn skin
eager to shed

I welcome the Divine
sweet messages
of birdsong
serenading

It’s fear that draws me
away from Nature’s charm
a creeping compulsion
that I don’t belong

I am hungry
swallow my prayers whole
wallow in the acidic burn
of betrayal’s ashes

I am greedy in my misery
will stuff myself
with expectation
and forgo pleasure

What am I but baggage?
A burden
locked in my shame

A side show
whose lethargy renders me
incompetent

Illness is a thief
have lost what is sacred
choking on the feathers
of the song that once fed me.

Passion the cloth
that contains me
Time a transformer
if only I surrender

I’ll grow a new skin
confident and fearsome
am I not afterall
reptilian born?

(Art my own)

Nested

Nestled in with childhood truths –
secondhand
perspective missing

Nursing a creeping creativity –
insignificant lucidity expanding
measurably hurried

Once social, now retreating
papered over failure
have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating
chronically pained
over and over
contemplating flight
freedom

Voiceless
expressionless
flat
even revelation muted
unmoving

protective boundaries
discussed
now crumbling
underestimated the struggle
the pervasiveness

Consider a militant approach
strident restrictions
nullifying passions
but I am a weaver

open to uncovering
blessings in failure,
compensated by soaring –
grounded yet questing
unsettled

disease is not a repellent for the mind
conjures movement in the sedentary
creatures born of defensiveness

I am motivated to find renewal
dank, moist, lacking flame
in this explosive personal nest.

(Written during my bedbound days, 2017. Edited for this edition. Image my own)


Blessings

Mother’s feet scream –
agony of her miserable condition,
underlying disease eating her.
My feet, free of calluses,
paddles slightly bent and fallen,
carry on with forgiving kindness.

Husband’s knees are red-hot pokers
shooting knife-sharp volts
with every rickety step.
Mine are knots in spindly
trunks that bear movement
graciously, allot me flexibility.

Father’s back grew weak
faltering in the end, hunched,
as if he’d born a cumbersome burden.
My back, not without its moaning,
carries me proudly erect –
like the spring sapling, winter endured.

Uncle’s heart beats erratically,
ceasing despite its mechanical support,
his life a testimony to modern science.
My heart flutters with expectancy,
aches with disappointment,
and soars with each new birdsong.

Sister’s tension rises,
the stiffness in her neck suffocating,
headaches blinding her vision.
My neck, slung now like a rooster’s,
puffs around my face like an old friend,
allows me the comfort of perspective.

Brother’s mind has seized,
lost somewhere between today
and yesteryear – never certain of either.
Mine, a constant churning cog,
gathers information, spews ideas
and bends in the face of creativity.

My eyes have seen suffering,
my hands throbbed with desire to help;
yet each bears their cross stoically,
and so I watch with compassion
and gratitude for the life I might have lived,
had my own vessel not been so blessed.

(Image my own)

Who Am I?

(Trigger warning: this poem alludes to child abuse)

Who I am
if not a harbinger –
eyes turned to the sky
diligent?

And what defines me
beyond calm in a crisis
action-taking, firmly
responsible?

No bystander here
I will fight injustice
free the wrongfully accused
capable

Driven
driving
fearless
awake

No sleeping
when danger presents
turmoil relentless
nightmares persist

Visions of uprising
and natural disasters
filling my dreams –
I grow weary

I cry, but no one is listening
the bustle outside reflective
of lives being lived
while I cower

Worried that the sky will fall
and I will be too torn
too bruised
to rise to the occasion

That child I coddled
now questioning my motives
that woman I saved
scoffing at my delusion

I am neither saint nor saviour
I am just a woman/child running
from the drunk under the table
still trying to define herself
as anything but his prey.

(Drawing is my own)