Tag: psyche

Next Door

Next door cultivates perfection –
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
shimmering with prideful confidence

My garden is overgrown vines,
chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows there will be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.

Life has schooled detachment
lessons in loss counsel defensiveness –
better to guard hope than plant it…

How can next door be so reckless;
do they not know this all for naught?

(This a rewrite of former poem also titled Next Door. Image my own.)

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Isolation’s Hold

Disability covets isolation –
this stripped-back, box-like state.

Rustic serenity, with room
to breathe would be preferable

but old memories creep in, and
lack of self-worth leaves the door open

phantoms of former torments
unwanted visitors, shadowy

invaders target loneliness,
misconstrue lack of health

for neediness, prey on weak –
hearted, presume incapability.

I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of

fellow travellers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach out

aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot

fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.

(Isolation’s Hold was first written in June of 2017.  I am resubmitting it here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: isolation.  Seems to me is also reflective of the times.  Image from personal collection.)

Return to Center

Centred, I project merit
directed by routines
grief securely stored

Anxiety, not so compartmentalized
reveals that I am outsider, pliable,
pursues a validating response.

Perfectionism despises vulnerability
balance embraces contradictions
complexity overwhelms – I breath.

(Image from personal collection.)

Interior Motives

Mother lives in me –
her hopes and fears
now embodied
in my choices,
this guilt borne
of her suffering…

and her mother –
who laboured often
with unwelcome toil,
her only respite
widowhood –
it’s her legacy
I bear.

Potential –
who once appeared
with all the radiant
charm of youth,
exists within, also,
although our connection –
drowned out by the banter
of those gone before –
lacks substance.

I remember how
we used to sing –
hearts joyful,
full of daring.

How even in the face
of rigidity, we raised
our voices, dreamed

Now, both distracted –
I, shaking off fragments
of Mother’s hapless life,
extracting splinters
of a grandmother
destined to woe;

potential,
glances away,
forlorn as
a forgotten child,
pouting.

Time to Re-Parent

Taking ownership of this mess
I call life, creates a priority of
care – a surrogate for the inner
sapling, not too motherly, just
accepting; to lead her past the
overpopulated vines of despair,
root out evil, restore the good –
a kindred spirit to ease her little
soul – no officious, insecure, put-
me-down parent, but dedicated,
motivational re-schooling, able
to fulfill needs, entertain, assist
in uncovering substance, insure
she has meaning to latch onto.

To help you find direction, Child,
I will tend to your needs, honour
the artistry of your growing mind –
a brilliance to nurture – encourage
flights of fancy: never fear pushing
boundaries of conventional thought  –
offer you strength of connection,
value your courage, prod hard work,
allow for wildness, questioning;
teach you not to quit before miracle
happens, demonstrate that life is
opportunity,  that character will be
tested, and that  comfort can be
found in the spiritual – deliverance
is possible – above all to know that
you are loved, nurtured, valued and
together, through it all, we will prevail.

(Image from private collection)

Weighted Down

Weighted down – I eat rocks
to anchor this restlessness –

unable to exit through any door,
trying to relocate self-assessment

to a sunnier place, contemplating
where I’d like to be; have checked

in, but no room is ready – shove it
all back underground – darkness

defining my horizons, my sister and I
meet here at the edge of denial, both

seeking calmer waters – she swims,
I crave a shower – we are haunted

in our sleep – shadows clouding our
dreams – projections of mermaid

possibilities, and electric blue skies;
I am gaining some ground, sifting

through basements, tossing old
ideals, cynically reminiscing, she

strokes through the debris of family
storms, ignores the rubbish polluting

her pool, maintains motion, while I
remain submerged, try to work out

a relationship with our father, long
since deceased, still present, find

solid ground – have opened the contents
of our stored horror, no choice but to carry

on, have been an actor in our staged
drama, no fame though to add acclaim,

only misguided endings, fragile audiences
and a sister who follows a different light.

(Image:  wallpapersblogspot.com)

Renovating The Psyche

Pardon the mess, but currently
renovating the psyche, moving
rape to a separate apartment,
trying to make room for God.

Heart is the crux of my home,
space for recreation essential,
my family is growing, roots
spreading outwards, Muslims

now amongst our beloveds.
I need to be present – useful
to communicate without
appearing challenged – hope

the elephant in the room
does not describe me, signs
of burning startling – smoking
is not permitted here – breath

is a requirement; I live here!
Dare I reveal, make a scene?
I’ve made my bed, better to
stay conservative, constrict

airways; don’t need much to
get by: a modest income,
marriage insurance, quiet
appliances, easy navigation.

Post overhaul, I’m hoping for
less complications, more flow,
compartmentalized sanity so
that God will stop questioning.

(Image: http://watersofnoah.blogspot.ca/2012/03/big-rock.html)

Dream House

There is a house that I often visit in my dreamtime.  I am either thinking about buying it, or have just moved in.  It is set in the country, high up on a bluff overlooking the water.  It is not a new house, nor does it stand alone; it shares the quiet street with other houses, different from itself.  Tall trees line the street, and green sloping lawns surround the house.  The setting is idyllic, but I have concerns about the house.  Sometimes the house appears as a yellow brick, two-story, older style home; other times it is a small white raised ranch.  Every time, I worry that the house is not big enough for comfort.

When I enter, the main living area appears cosy, and has a certain charm.  It is liveable, I think to myself.  Then I look around, and am amazed to find that there is so much more to this house than I first thought.  Always there is a second kitchen and living area, as well as endless bedrooms and bathrooms.  I awaken with a feeling of pleasant surprise and a longing to explore more.

* * * * *

None of the houses, nor the setting in the dream are places I’ve been to in my lifetime, however; there is a certain familiarity.  The setting is a feel good place:  quiet and serene, and off the beaten path.  Years ago, as a single mother, I used to drive up to the lake and admire the houses on the bluff, wishing one day that I could live there. I would dream of a simpler life, where I could be close to nature, and write.

The old, yellow house reminds me of a rental property my former husband and I bought, hoping it would be an investment that we would profit from.  The house turned out to be a money pit and a bit of a nightmare.  We just didn’t know enough about real estate values at the time.

The white house reminds me of the home my parents bought at the lake for their retirement; a home that became a wonderful gathering place for friends and family.

Often, I think the house in my dream represents me:  aging, and plain on the outside, although surrounded by beauty and comfort.  Inside, I appear uncomplicated at first, yet there is more to me than even I know.  I love the idea that there are many more rooms to discover within.