Social Media Blues

LinkedIn wants me to connect
with former colleagues, ignores
the fact that they haven’t opted
to reach out to me, fails to
recognize the state of my disability
sets me on the margins of society

Facebook likes to remind me
of things I did in the past, drags
up conversations, or outings
no longer valid, refuses to
honour the value of letting go –
that moving on is moving up.

twitter wakes me up at night
when I’ve forgotten to mute
the phone, announces likes
and new follows of people
I do not know, rubbing salt
in the wounds of isolation

instagram has shut me out
seems I constantly forget
my password, but they never
fail to send me updates of
the picture perfect events
of those whose minds work.

I sometimes visit snapchat,
whose messages make me laugh
and I know that there are others
more hip to possess, but just
the thought of sign ups has me
reeling with new-found anxiety

Please don’t misunderstand me,
of social media, I’m a fan; it’s just
that I don’t need further indications
of my compromised state, and in the
flesh interactions are a preference,
so technology needs to step down.

(The Daily Post prompt today is fact.)



A mother wakes moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A sister calls in timely fashion
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side , senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness.

Call it instinct, or premonition.

Then, why when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?

Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.

(The Daily Post prompt is premonition.)


We dream of knights
to lift us from our woes

men of steel, whose arms
hold us tight, protect us

for we are weak…wait,
what?  We’re not weak

lift ourselves up, thank you!
It is softness and encouragement

we seek, not dominant males
to oppress our spirits and wrestle

our hearts into submission –
we are not prey to be hunted,

trophies to be won – fend off
those who would swoop in

carry us away, for their intention
is to slay, then devour our essence.

(The Daily Post prompt is dominant.
Photo from personal collection)




Marry Well

Can we talk? said he
chest burdened,
bursting to confess

It’s about our living
situation, you see…
well, maybe you don’t

It’s just that, I have
noticed things are
getting out of hand

and I know you try
hard, and all, but
I’m having trouble

seeing, and I thought,
well, wondered if,
maybe we could…

Whatever are you
rambling on about?
she snapped, clearly

disgruntled; get to
the point – she wasn’t
listening, mind fixed on

task at hand – needed
to find a solution to
growing dissatisfaction

could not longer tolerate
the hellish conditions
of their cesspool lives

to be perfectly candid
she said, we are swimming
around in our own shit

it’s time we moved on!
I couldn’t agree more,
he sighed with relief

content again that he’d
made the right choice
wedding a frank woman.

(The Daily Post prompt is candid.  Photo from personal collection)

Devilish Young Men

Young men are pursuing me,
in my dreams, I am too old
and wily not to recognize
the evil of this intent

wonder if I’m being stalked
by a stroke, or worse –
I wake up, overheated
fling the bedclothes off

as if they are the offending
infiltrators, dismayed to see
how little I have slept, knowing
that the relief will now pass me by

Young men possess a virility
redundant in my life – sexuality
long ago sacrificed on the altar of cancer –
their presence is disconcerting at best

stirring up old emotions, luring me
into nostalgic memories – trickery, I say
to think that masculinity would entertain
intimacy with a mad old hag like me.

(The Daily Post prompt:  entertain.
Image:  Daily Mail)

Relocate. Reset.

Mom said she was going to leave Dad
couldn’t take it anymore
we moved.

Relocate. Reset.

Bullying at school was out of control
I couldn’t take it anymore
we moved.

Relocate. Reset.

Truancy became a problem
then there was the rape
school said I had to go

Relocate. Reset.

Sisters moved back home
one unhinged,  the other battered
Mom said it’d be better if I left

Relocate. Reset.

Shuffled boxes from one relationship
to another, changed careers
like hairstyles – bored?

Relocate. Reset.

Never did grow roots
too good at packing up
trouble comes

Relocate. Reset.

Tell you more, but we’re about
to pull out, the road is calling –
you know how it goes.

(Written in response to The Daily Post prompt: relocate)