Emotions don wheels,
tear about, burn rubber,
congest – psychic traffic jam.
Alone, there is no outlet,
no scapegoat for this tirade,
just a damned discomfort.
No worries – I will pace
from distraction to distraction,
until sanity makes a comeback.
(Thanks to all the prompters for providing the words to describe today’s state of mind: Ragtag Community (comeback), Fandango (traffic), Manic Mondays 3 Way (damned), and Daily Addictions (tirade).)
A familial gathering – rock balanced upon rock – stands at the Rideau’s edge, one amongst several such groupings, each a masterpiece unto itself, and yet one small, insignificant creation begs attention: a small duck-like figure, turned away from the rest, facing north rather than south, as if it hears a different call. Â Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance. Â Body of fossil, head carved by erosion – he ponders other horizons. Even the artist – albeit working with spartan tools – could not bend the will of this little being, could not mold him into conformity. Â He is childlike innocence and brash determination, and I imagine that as the sun goes down and the tourists disappear, he glides through the water, travels against the current and revels in the freedom.
At the river’s edge
figures rise, stoic families
hailing passersby.
(Written for dVerse pub, and for Ragtag Communities prompt: spartan. Â The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)
Memories are boats
anchored, idle,
awaiting calm –
quaint ideals
keep them docked,
undermine progress
never intended to harbour
so many secrets –
lack a personal compass
reliable enough
to navigate solo –
a necessary tactic
to release these boats
cluttering my
story’s shoreline.
(Written for dVerse, whose host Lillian challenges us to write a quadrille (44 words) around the theme: harbour. Â Hats off to the daily prompts from Ragtag Community: quaint, Fandango: personal, and Daily Addictions: solo. Image from personal collection.)
Slippery performed
and my eight-year-old
heart applauded
cheered when he escaped,
mourned the capture,
prayed for flight’s courage
but survival skills
eluded – was certain
I would starve, die
in a cave where
animals would gnaw
on my bones, and
family, unconcerned,
would sigh and say:
She’s just being Slippery.
(Slippery was the name of a sea lion who performed at a local’s children’s attraction in the 60’s. Â He escaped into the Thames River and was captured again. Â I can remember being torn between sorrow for him that he didn’t want to be there, and sorrow for us that he didn’t love us the way loved him.
It’s Open Link Night at dVerse, and I am also submitting this for 50 Word Thursday, Fandango’s: guess, and Ragtag Community’s prompt: slippery.)
The Boondocks,
my sisters told me,
was not a desirable
place to be –
‘cool’ being the theme
of our generation –
the line between
what was ‘in’
and what was not,
seemed fragile
to my imagination,
mind climbing
to copious possibilities
constantly slammed
by uptight, in-the-know
older siblings
Is it any wonder
that I never belonged,
the line of inclusion
always just out of reach?
Grew fond of
tucked away
spaces –
isolation
Adapted to
the “boonies” –
more refuge
than exile.
(Poem is brought to you by the inspirational prompting of Ragtag Community (copious), Daily Addictions (theme), Fandango’s (fragile), and Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt (Boondocks).
Rain-drenched
roads kick up
blinding mist,
Eight hours –
construction,
accidents,
snarly traffic
ignoring
neon:
Adjust speed for weather
We arrive
at five –
multi-lanes
jammed –
Quick!
Wrong lane!
Merge right!
Weary commuters –
tourists
a rush-hour pain –
graciously acquiesce.
Welcome
to Ottawa.
(Inspired by today’s road trip and written for dVerse’s quadrille: quick, and Ragtag Community’s: grace)
This actor,
this ego
demanding
submissive idolatry
Humanity is distracted –
controversy, like celebrity,
vying for social attention.
Opposition barks
obediently in response
to dick-waving antics
their questions only
inciting more rage –
he is inaccessible
gloating,
publicity-sapping
ignores the plight
of dreamers,
of marginalized
human rights
inopportune
for his pocket-
lining agenda
Heroic action
is called for –
there is strength
in quiet amassing
of information
the harvesting
of underhanded
self-serving
motivations
this monstrosity
must be de-throned
before democracy
is completely defiled.
(It’s open link night at dVerse, and I have compiled this poem from the prompts of Fandango (question), Ragtag Community (bark), and Daily Addictions (controversy). Â Oh, and maybe I’m feeling a little riled by the gong show coming out of Washington.)
Rumi’s dawn breezes – once sage advice – now taunt me. Â I am loathe to greet the day, not that I despise its arrival, rather that waking has become laborious since the onset of chronic illness. Â Daughter of a military man, I am conditioned to rise before the sun, have a lifetime of such anecdotes to my credit, however; while the brain is still willing, the body groans, and aches wail with renewed emphasis as the numbing cocoon of sleep loosens. Â Hours dwindle from the first inkling of consciousness till muscles comply with movement, and I am lucky if I’m actually able to utter ‘Good Morning”.
Rays, like razors, slice,
invade sleep’s cocoon – absent
winged emergence.
(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with the prompt of morning. Â I have also worked in the promptings of Fandango (loathe), Ragtag Community (labour), and Daily Addictions (sage). Â Thank you all for your inspiration.)
He’s an ingénue
don’t you know;
precious time
for lollygagging –
Dressed for success,
polished head to toe,
he’s a sight to see;
look at him stride by
Please don’t ask
for personal favours –
there’s no time for that
he’s an important man
Where is he going, you ask?
No one is ever quite sure,
but I’ve been here all day,
watched him pass ten times.
(Ragtag’s word of the day is coddiwomple, Fandango – ingenuity, Daily Addictions – precious.)
Set the stones
with reverence
for the directions
for the spirits
for the elders –
stories,
like sacred threads,
weave legacy,
Bodies decline,
but spirit is fire –
built with sacred intent,
sparks become flames;
fire has ears
hears our prayers
transforms
the message –
praises
for the gods,
inspiring peace.
(Sacred Fire is dedicated to my mentor and friend, Emmagene, who taught me the importance of ritual and ceremony.  I am linking up to 50 Word Thursday, dVerse Open Link, Fandango’s inspire, Ragtag community’s elder, and Daily Addictions’ decline.)
One Woman's Quest 