creativity · culture · poetry · writing

Dead Are Unimpressed

A cruel master
the ticking clock
So much potential
Get it done!

I rush past shadows
crumple the pages
failed attempts

What of dreams?
Of life’s destiny?
How I worship
at the altar of should

Even with positivity
fantastical notions fall short
I argue against uncertainty
meet only disapproval

There is no magic
no pre-destined fame
just dust gathering
the dead are unimpressed.

(Linking up with Reena’s Exploration challenge: follow link for video prompt. Image my own.)

aging · Humour · poetry · relationships · writing

Old Codgers

Idleness fills his hours
as if time knows no limits

I devour moments, afraid
tomorrow will forget me

we see-saw between
treacherous righteousness
and fusty avoidance

ignoring balance –
a sensible response.

(Inspired by the perils of an aging marriage, and submitted for Ragtag Community’s prompt:  fusty.)  Image from personal collection.


He’s Gone

In darkened room
I lie, willing blackness
to obliterate blackness.

A scream, unearthed
from dankness
shatters the silence,
echoes off heartless walls,

shock waves reverberate
relentless torment

seventeen years…
committed, no…

ripped away

leaving me


I fall, spiral
reel out of control

breaking down

the children will return
the house will fill again,
and I will pick up
these shards,
piece together
some semblance
of normalcy,
and begin
to rebuild

in the dark.

(Written for dVerse pub, where Lillian is hosting with a challenge to focus on time:  “To everything there is a season…”)


aging · dreams · life · poetry

Wasted Time

It’s Monday again –
days passing through
my hands like sand,
no receptacle in which
to catch the granules –
why this sense of urgency?

In high school, I played hooky
wiped away the hours in empty
places, sought answers for
questions I could not articulate,
chased dust while others formulated
dreams – how is this any different?

Am I not just recreating the pattern,
painting over efforts with adult hues,
donning the pretence of self-importance
while occupied with vapid tasks – time
continues to slip by, and what have I
to show for it other than incessant panic?

health · life · ME/ CFS · poetry

Investment Talk

It’s all about investment, really
life, I mean – make a deposit,
withdraw – hope that in the end
the gain is worth more than
the cost – a healthy balance.

Have been running deficits,
too focused on serving others,
practicing the art of giveaways –
incentives to capture attention
(affection too, if I’m honest.)

I’m every marketer’s dream –
impulsive, in the moment,
disbelieve that time is money –
illness having dumped time
on my lap in massive dollops

I’d say energy equates with
income, begets funds – all
redundant now, overdrawn
as I am, no safety deposit
securing balanced health.

culture · Grandparenting · life · poetry · women's issues


Tender as a fledgling, angelic
curls confrontational, she bears
emotions with courage, femininity
unkempt, pridefully engages
creatures – pests to most – believes

in messengers, blessed with manna,
heaven-sent; draws her strength
from within, a daring soul, plunges
deep, pursues wholeness – cherished
vulnerability, unpolished, loyal

mimics nature, her innocence persuasive,
fear and protectiveness retreat, helpless
in face of the adventures that call to her;
she is submerged, infiltrating enchantment,
unruly – does not measure progress by scars

unaware of wounding, responds only
to the magical sense of play – a limbo –
instinctively trusting, sweet, views the
world from perches treetop high, wills
herself to fly with dragonfly wings.

In time, innocence will be intercepted
by practicality: Fate’s swift hand cutting
her down, she will be victim, react to
adversity, learn to mother, the wildness
of her youth chiseled by expectations

She will learn to wade through swamps,
acknowledge pain and her own inadequacy,
overcome and face life anew, the memory
of a freer time, a more wily self, fleeting –
the child in her more myth than memory.

(Photo from Pinterest, attributed to:
Joanne Quirante Escober)

dreams · life · nonfiction

Full Circle

The day was unusually warm and sunny, and like most young people my age, I was anxious to break out of school and enjoy it.   Instead of boarding the bus at my usual stop, I decided to attempt walking to the transfer point downtown.  Not a seasoned driver myself – I was only nine – I knew no other way to get downtown then to follow the bus route, so I set out nonchalantly, skipping and humming happily along.

After close to an hour of walking, with nothing familiar in sight, I grew weary.  Spotting an approaching bus, I made the decision to board.  Finding a seat near the back, I was relieved to finally be sitting down.  I glanced out the window to see if I could gauge how far I had come, and guessed I was probably close to where I would have to get off and transfer.

I glanced across the street, and was suddenly struck by a feeling of deja-vu.  The building across from me was not one that I had ever noted before, and when I read the name, I didn’t recognize it, yet, something about this place seemed known to me.  There was a bus stop in front of the building, but I knew I had never taken a bus from that point.  A woman was looking in my direction and as our eyes met, she had a sudden look of recognition.  I smiled back, but couldn’t place her either.  The bus moved on.

Years passed and the incident on the bus was forgotten, until the first night I decided to record my dreams.

I had enrolled in a course at the local university that examined the relationship between visions, dreams and God.  The first assignment was to record our dreams.  I had fourteen dreams that night.

In one, an unseen person has hold of my hand and is flying me through the city, leading me downtown to where we stop in front of a building.  It is not a building I am familiar with, although something is twigging in my mind.  As I stand there, contemplating its significance, I glance across the street to where a bus has stopped to take on passengers.  I lock eyes with a young girl seated on the bus, and in an instant I know where I am.  My twenty-eight-year old self has circumvented time and space, and come face to face with my nine-year old self.  I am the other side of my deja-vu.

A full circle.