Framed perspectives –
I see shelter, a friend
whose branches shield;
you see obstruction,
prefer sunshine to shade –
our differences, like windows,
portioned previews
of a life segmented.
(My weekly challenge this week is to consider the symbolism of windows. Â Won’t you join us?)
Take a classroom of five-year-olds –
nimble-footed, names unintelligible –
add a dozen runny noses
and three boo-boos
and one unfortunate ‘accident’.
Introduce a teacher –
holiday hazed and overtired –
mix with a controversial curriculum,
a dash of micromanaging parents,
and splash of report cards due.
Blend cautiously,
taking care that all ingredients remain
in the bowl…er…classroom…
Bake for five days,
cool over the weekend.
(I taught Kindergarten for a day and still have nightmares about it, lol. Â To all the primary teachers out there – I am not worthy. Â You are amazing. Â Poem inspired by a recent dream, and written in the spirit of this week’s challenge: Â recipe. Challenge is open all week – would love it if you joined in.)
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. Â My weekly challenge is open to all.)
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.)
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.)
Two babies, two cars, a mortgage, and depression I just couldn’t shake. Â What was wrong with me, I wondered. Â Was I missing something? Â Is there more to life, I’m not seeing? Â I prayed to the Heavens.
Six months, I dreamt of returning to my childhood home. Â 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. Â Whereas we had a dog, the dream residents had a cat. Â 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. Â 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. Â The challenge is to write a haibun on the topic of transition. Â I am also linking this to my weekly challenge, where the prompt is veil. Â Although I did not use the term in this piece, I felt as if a veil had been lifted.)
Reposting this for my weekly challenge with the theme of river.
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.)
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. Â Image is a watercolour view of from our RV site. Linked to V.J’s weekly challenge: Â river. )
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.)
Where does a woman store her dreams
while children need chauffeuring
and parents’ health is in decline?
What goal does she dare strive for,
that won’t supersede obligation,
nor tax already waning energy?
Why is it that her efforts –
exceeding expectations –
often fail, demanding more?
How does she keep hope alive
when illness usurps functioning
and the off-ramp is miles behind?
Who will carry her when winter’s grasp
makes passage undependable, and
she has no choice but to surrender?
(V.J.’s challenge this week is questions.)
One Woman's Quest 