Tag: recovery

Shadows Echo

Reminds me of home –
Dad’s drinking,
dressing up,
keeping up appearances;
a woman without a voice,
public persona
all important:
must disguise
private hell.

Daddy was driven
by money
and compulsions;
could not see
desperation in our eyes,
we were running away,
seeking our own solace
in forbidden places,
hell’s legacy.

An overboard existence
too many extravagances
none of them sticking
to the wounded places,
only pretense
mocking reality.
Keep a positive attitude,
Daddy like to say,
Good Lord will provide.

But hell casts
a long shadow,
bony fingers taunt
present scenarios
confuse past
with present,
cloud the future,
cannot erase
warped beginnings.

Confrontation or Consolidation?

Long legs and a swift stride
partnered with an impulsive
nature, and willingness to
grasp at change, carry me.

Straight lines rarely define
my journey – sharp turns,
backwards loops, rabbit
holes – a labyrinth of sorts.

I am independent, a free
thinker, outsider, rebel –
on the run, moss adverse,
never-look-back woman.

Until life set a roadblock,
hampered my movement,
grounded panicked escape
forced a standstill, frozen

in time, isolated, fearful,
silence as an unknown,
immobility a sentence,
punishment interpreted.

The past, ever in pursuit,
momentum full-force,
crashes into me, topples
any semblance of stability.

I am dazed, shaken, take
a step back, circle, wonder
at this intrusion, try to re-
collect, construct meaning.

Does reconnecting merit
effort, or is the past too
clouded by faulty memory
and misplaced emotion?

Am I remiss to have left
so much behind, in search
of renewal, recovery; am I
deluded to believe in change?

Or is there some essence
of eternal light, of beauty
and goodness, revealed
under the shadow of ago?

Could it be value, not sin,
which triggers the pursuit,
a loving tribute, rather than
judgment and retribution?

I will myself to have faith,
to breathe and observe,
no longer able to flee, now
must trust in discernment.

Hope, Like a Breeze

Big city goals, and a skeptical side,
parked my independence, tagged
along with logic, pretended to fit in,
told stories tinted with wildness,

distracted by the me I’d left behind,
tired of my own game, too self-
conscious to ever belong, regressed
to the past, aging psyche crumbling

walls- time they came down, anyway –
emotionally soaked footings, leaky
pipes, memories are soiled, unfixable;
overwhelming sense of doom presides.

Youth visits, eyes innocent and full
of Springlike optimism, opens doors,
demonstrates possibility, breathes
new hope into this despairing mind.

Out of Step

Perpetually looking inward,
pondering commitment,
considering risks, projecting
humiliation, shame; daring

to dream of a second chance,
room to grow, opportunities
to demonstrate value – well
guarded, precarious being.

I am floundering in a fishbowl,
crowded by co-conspirators
operating out of step, trying
to acclimatize, compulsively

examining decisions, under-
whelmed by undeniable
growth, compensating with
dark, emotional outpourings.

Need to prove self-worth is
unappealing, disregards
viable efforts, disallows
definitions of acceptance.

This inwards, backwards
outlook critiques harshly,
harbours shame, sees
fault in successes, I am

stuck in the past, static,
abandoned, anxiously
forgetting, hindered by
confinement, jumping

to conclusions; I need
objectivity, to redirect
stored misgivings and
eyes outward, perceive

kindness, communicate
misunderstandings, shake
off disbelief, consider merit
as reflected by old friends.

Need a Big Ass Truck

Shit needs to be managed,
so much stinking sewage
requiring a massive truck
with a fat-bellied-snake
hose blocking the road.

Repairs are underway,
requiring crews of men
with clipboards, and hard
hats, and big-assed pick-
ups blocking the road.

Such industry obstructs
my passage – none of it
relates to me, surely –
I travel this road with
singular focus – home.

Impatient, unwilling to
wait, I squeeze my pint-
sized ego past the block-
ades, risking disruption,
disrespecting caution.

I am, after all, entitled
to my own destination,
require rest and solace,
do not possess the energy
for other people’s agendas.

Am intimidated by brute
ability to roll up sleeves,
tackle any job no matter
how dirty, the balls it takes
to block the road at all.

I am polite society,
go with the flow, prefer
to remain anonymous,
blush at causing ripples,
shudder at inconsideration.

Relieved to arrive at my
humble abode, shed the
wheels, brush off road dust,
surrender to the harmony
of private sanctuary, startled

to find my pristine turf
littered with the leftovers
of past failures, a dumping
ground for undigested,
and rotting intentions.

My path is blocked by
the debris, obviously left
by some disgruntled ex-
wishing to violate my
perfection, an intruder.

Except I recognize the
pots, see my own hand
in cooking up the contents,
am forced to admit that
I am culpable, need to

own the shit that calls
for management, commit
to the repairs, roll up my
sleeves, and grow balls;
there is dirty work ahead.

Salvaged

Delegated to the back room,
I am marginalized, invisible,
employ-ability in question.

I am a peripheral observer,
self-conscious of my status,
disintegrating at the edges.

Watch as relationships form,
people engage, socialize, find
purpose, ignore my presence.

Desperate, I grasp at meanings,
decipher holes in conversations,
measure lacking in interactions.
Ennui drives introspection –
a terrifying abyss of endless
confrontations and shortfalls.

Unable to bear the tedium –
madness threatening – I push
forward, reconsider stock

determine redundancies,
discern detrimental agendas,
am inspired to make changes.

Experience bears fruit, I can
salvage the situation, trim
excess, purge the sedentary.

Ideas flood, passion igniting,
prospects are not lost – creativity
fuels a new sense of belonging.

Fall from Grace

The proverbial can has exploded –
transparency of our deceit now lies
like swarms of glass snakes writhing
at our feet – litany of hissing truths.

Bent on keeping innocence alive,
I strategically attempt avoidance,
point to wealth, abundance, nurture
focus – the onslaught continues.

Slivers of slime, maggot-like hoards
mobilize – a sea of protestation, I
overwhelmed by filth and disgust
encroaching on my sanity – helpless.

Familiarity colours the devastation –
have witnessed it before, watched
as my mother bit into the same
serpent defiled apple – turned away.

There are no barriers to block out
the vile beasts – no refuge for broken
souls, whose lives – twisted in denial –
have mercilessly fallen to betrayal.

Under (Re)Construction

Stripped back constructs
of disguised suppression
stir hopeful postulations –

I am bare-boned, dreaming,
questioning realities marred
by incestuous suspicions,

intending renewal, probing
dank floorboards housing
codependent disharmony.

This state of disrepair
manifests ego-inundated
trivialities, reveals burial…

blackened circles of rage –
coffin-like – implode, emit
entombed screams – echo

tremors of past fault lines,
destabilizing augmentation –
the liability of renovation.