VJWC – Page 4 – One Woman's Quest

In Search of Peace

Path to peace is circuitous –
having been modeled unrest,
schooled in denial…

Expectation envisions
a grassy peninsula –
gently rolling greens
and tranquil blue waters –
predictability that lulls

I am accustomed to together –
the perpetual state of empathic
measuring – one’s values aligned
to another’s emotional indicator

Looking outward, I contemplate;
force-feed my innards with fluff
of how-to’s and top ten ways –
nothing that sustains…

It’s dawning now that neither
upbringing, nor expectation,
nor the noise of expert wannabees,
will lead me to the peace I seek.

I turn my attention to nature –
study the steadfast confidence
of the Great Blue wading through
darkened waters, intently aware

Like a feathered shaman, he
mesmerizes me, commands respect,
calms the noise and lifts my soul –
the secret is within, his presence
whispers, and for once, I listen.

(This week, I am focusing on living with intent, specifically interested in the ways in which I invite peace into my life. My weekly challenge is open to all.)

The Un-Lived Marriage

Children’s laughter echoes
through these halls, and
we light on last log against
the gathering chill –
our hearts aglow
with memories –
some cherished,
some testament
to a love destined to be.

I’ll turn back the bed sheets,
while you check the doors,
and we’ll hold each other
beneath the covers
and talk of tomorrow
until sleep carries us
into enchanted dreams…

Except…I told you ‘no’
that day you asked me
to be yours – too shrouded
by shame to let you in –
and the ‘no’ hung between
us, heavy as brocade,
and though our love –
too bright to dim –
continued,
we remained apart –

and now and again,
you slip into my dreams
and we fall back into that easy
rhythm – as if this was our life
all along.

(My weekly challenge is un-lived lives. Still time to join in.)

Glass Caskets

What mysteries lie in ancestral roots,
what clues to illuminate the dysfunction
that permeated our familial ties, cursed
us with a pervasive sense of perversity?

We are a portrait of deviancy: still life
torsos, dismembered from birth, non-
conforming hormonal structures denied
reception in the aftermath of Victorianism.

An aunt, who despite her outer female
attributes earned the nickname Billy,
tried her best to acclimatize to girlie legs,
distracted herself with industry, could not

bear the swirl of dresses, nor the reek
of men’s cologne, banished herself to
far off lands, followed a brother – also
optically illusive – knew himself as Liz,

adapted arms and legs of steel to bury
his essence, donned military rags, and
macho outbursts, failed to escape his
inner truth. Raised by this disembodied

woman, whose embittered cries echoed
through our hollow chambers, shattered
any attempts at compassion, we were
observers at a funeral, where the casket,

made of glass, held a lonely figure – head
and shoulders solely visible – all but dead,
suspended, like a science experiment gone
terribly wrong, abandoned in a gel-like bath –

embalmed dysmorphia on private display.
Lacked the resources to understand the
complexity of their sufferings, too entwined
to be rational – ignorance blinded by shame.

Only now, in the light of current revelations,
is the depth of our misguided conclusions
made tragic – with I could reach back through
time, adjust the settings to acceptance, but

lack the currency, have no recourse, other
than these words, to communicate the sheer
brutality of discrimination – have witnessed
the bloodied carnage of authenticity oppressed.

(Glass Caskets first appeared December, 2016. It was published in Little Rose Magazine, March 2108. I submit it here for my weekly challenge: deviation.)

In Remembrance (for Father)

I hold a photo of my father –
on that last Remembrance Day –
am awed by the person we never knew.

Just fifteen, he signed on,
joined ranks with an elite squad,
trained for unarmed combat.

He wears his Commando’s beret,
medals proudly adorning his breast –
symbols whose meanings are now lost.

They were the best and the brightest –
sleuthing out enemy stores, carrying
operative data to oncoming troops.

He cried that day, as candles glowed –
tears for the fallen – “Good men,”
he muttered, squeezing my hand.

A suicide mission, he’d called it,
armed with a knife and hands
of steel – a black pill if caught.

By day, he never spoke of war,
at night, he screamed in terror.
Why such a mission? I asked.

He’d had his own secret cause –
a war waging within him –
bent on eradicating a tragic flaw.

War made my father – a disciplined,
regimented man of iron, intimidating,
fearless – machismo at its best.

He returned a hero, celebrated
with his hometown, and left again –
the lie still burning within him.

Father was a valiant soldier –
counted himself privileged
to serve beside the honourable.

At fifteen, a girl whose body
belied her existence, enlisted
in a fight to become a man.

(The original version of In Remembrance appeared November 11, 2015. I resubmit it here, edited, for my weekly challenge: sacrifice. My father sacrificed his life during the war, and then went on to sacrifice his true identity for the rest of his years. November 11th is Remembrance Day in Canada, a time to honour those who fought for our freedom. )

Pivotal Moment

Two babies, two cars, a mortgage, and depression I just couldn’t shake. What was wrong with me, I wondered. Was I missing something? Is there more to life, I’m not seeing? I prayed to the Heavens.

Six months, I dreamt of returning to my childhood home. Every time, I remarked the same changes: the blue wall-to-wall carpet was replaced with red in the living and dining rooms, and geometric patterns running up the stairs; and one wall in my sister’s old bedroom was bricked. Whereas we had a dog, the dream residents had a cat. Always, I would exit through the back door, where I would fall and jolt awake.

One day, driving past the place, I noted an Open House sign and went in. There was the red carpet, the designs on the stairs, and the bricked wall in my sister’s old room.
Shaken, I passed the cat in my haste to exit – out the front door.

Ask and be answered –
Source listened, and delivered –
a resounding “Yes!”

(Written for dVerse pub, hosted tonight by Merrill. The challenge is to write a haibun on the topic of transition. I am also linking this to my weekly challenge, where the prompt is veil. Although I did not use the term in this piece, I felt as if a veil had been lifted.)

The River

Reposting this for my weekly challenge with the theme of river.

One Woman's Quest

There’s a river runs between us,
you and I; our thoughts, like tears,
are liquid carried by the current.

But you, and I,
we stand on the banks, oblivious,
ignoring the connection,
proudly touting our individualism.

Still the river flows
and all you’ve suffered
and all I’ve suffered
or dreamed, or imagined, or hoped
flows with it.

Step into the water with me,
feel our connection;
do not be afraid
for it is sacred –

wade deeper and know
you are not alone
for I am here
in this river
that runs between us.

(Originally posted in October, 2014. Edited here.)

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Mississippi

She flows,
unapologetic of her girth,
does not flinch
at barges scoring her surface,
nor paddle boats laden with curiosity.

Confident in her fluidity,
she bears the secrets of life –
the sludge of our humanity in her belly –
stirs the minds of merchants, and children,
tolerates those who gather at her banks.

The final word is hers; she knows
no boundaries can contain her wrath –
still waters rise and spill –
she is a dragon –
nature’s force,
and she is magnificent.

(Originally penned November, 2017. Edited here. Image is a watercolour view of from our RV site. Linked to V.J’s weekly challenge: river. )

Distance

Even in togetherness there is distance.

I am alone –
a central figure, distracted,
aiming for contact,
unable to eviscerate control,
repeatedly producing a singular confusion.

Define success…
Is it the one on top,
the know-it-all,
or are these the machinations
of estrangement?

I am unable to discern –
stability never more than a dalliance.

The pavement ahead whispers
promises of belonging –
can I tolerate the quest?

Unfulfilled, I am defensive,
fear off-shoots of depression,
shield tender inner places…

Bring on change;
others watch – look to me
as an example.

I can do this, on their behalf.

Never alone.

Always distances to cross.

(V.J.’s Weekly Challenge is distance. Also submitting this for Open Link Night at dVerse.)

It’s Not That I Don’t See…

Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.

Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by authority, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.

Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.

Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.

Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just

need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,

yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen TV, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims

of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;

feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.

(Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse. I am also linking this up with One Woman’s Quest II weekly challenge: attention. “It’s Not That I Don’t See” first appeared September 2016.)

Regrets

When love,
open-eyed
and uplifting
appeared

she shuddered,
withdrew,
Shame’s shadow
casting putrid
projections

fear and uncertainty
cloaked her, masked
desire as repulsion –
wore her tragedy
as identity – could not

make the leap –
would choose, instead,
a legacy of abuse –
reaffirming the guilt
and self-loathing

Never could forget
the time that love
showed up –
opened-eyed
and uplifting.

(VJ’s weekly Challenge is shadows)