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One Woman's Quest

Navigating life through grandparenthood, chronic illness, dream work, and other inspirations

Business Venture

Victim, whose season is always Autumn,
bloodied tears like fallen leaves trailing;
and Martyr, for whom worship and self-
sacrifice is a dietary requirement; propose
to venture into retail ownership – recreating

a former failed attempt; believing that if
you build it (again) they will come, as Ego
has promised.  “Well, it worked for that
Kevin guy,” Victim agrees; Martyr’s eyes
shine with adoration and eager anticipation.

Spirit says:  Let it rest.  Leave the past
where it belongs; there is a time for
everything and with patience your
future will reveal itself.  No need to
grasp; learn from failure and move on.

But Victim is headstrong, has something
to prove, believes her finest moments
are in the past, is certain she can change
it all if given another a chance, and Martyr
well, she goes along willingly, has faith…

They’ll serve the public, create a niche
that no one can ignore, save the world
with each item they sell, market health
and cure-alls, and invite miracles to
grace their square footage and forget

about reality, and bills, and licenses –
refuse to let overheads dictate downfalls,
convinced they are divinely guided,see
evidence in the motley crowds drawn
to their recycled vision, scheme to find

a new location, mooch off the unsuspecting;
Victim swearing not to repeat old patterns,
Martyr offering up her life, her family, to save
the dream – It will be okay, Ego says; It will be
okay,
Victim echoes; It will be okay, Martyr beams.

Spirit emits a silent sigh, has watched this
carousel ride for some time now, has a strong
inclination as to where this road will end, yet
knows that lessons can only be offered, and
perspective only gained through release.

 

 

Breaking Free

Seems we are singularly obsessed –
we two, one story – driven to acquire,invested in finding comfort, facing
tumultuous conditions, as if property
like a fortress will cloak our insecurity.

Look at us, disheveled, gambling on life,
average citizens, likely to fail – choosing
to recreate, question our destiny – the
dilemma:  having been disgraced once
can we rise now to release, reset the dial?

What if we cut the ties; free ourselves
from disappointments – no longer feeling
like we’re coming in last – let’s ponder
intuitive moves, fun – we have been beaten
up enough by life, what is there to lose?

Have you noticed our lives have become
prisons:  strategies tied to ancient agendas?
We are more twins than lovers, dwelling,
existing, double collateral damage – time
to quit this sham, fragment to find peace.

Let’s leave this house together, dress
our residence with wheels, aged as we are,
(on the other side of the lie), unclothe our
regimens, puzzle over serenity, expand;
urgency calls us to repossess our lives.

This is no lottery: lightheartedness a choice,
we make the openings for understanding,
are destined through our surrender to succumb
to a new definition of love, shed our culture,
our burdens, and formally declare a rebirth.

 

 

 

Wayward Daughter

Back and forth I travel searching
for her – retrace every bend, curve,
detour – back to the water, the sand,
the beach where I lost her; haunted by

those velvet brown eyes – bedroom eyes,
they told her, men with greedy loins,
calculating – I lost her to the lure of
alcohol, to the pounding beat of drums,

in those smoky corners so far removed
from the purity of her dreams….
it’s been an arduous journey, some days
so lost in the daze of forgetting; I cycle

back, memories of manhood exposed,
egos craving stroking, how she learned
what men wanted, learned to numb
the disappointment with fast-talk

and all-nighters, suppressed tears,
discovered that words hold no promise,
and water is deep, and going within
is a dark, foreboding place, and worth

is shrouded by the shame of discovering
that even the father she adored was not
as she’d thought, and that this primal
urge she felt for mating was a trap

designed to eradicate her beauty, not
enhance it…I need to find her, hold
her afloat in sacred waters, help her feel
the healing light of a thousand women’s

hearts all bleeding as one, all warped
by the same convoluted messages
about womanhood – that lust is sinful
and copulation a man’s domain, and

that in order to be espoused she must
forego her own nature, tame the wild,
settle for loss of control…but as much
as I travel these lonely roads, I cannot

find her, the traces of her innocence
washed away by the tides, lines now
on my aged face…if you see her, please
hold her close, protect her from beasts,

hold her until the beauty of her being
is a solid knowing, and the shame has
been vanquished; and that being a vessel
for man’s release is not her only purpose.

 

 

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 mechanisms
of estrangement?

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

The pavement ahead whispers
promises of a sense of belonging,
can I tolerate the quest?

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

bring on change, there are others
watching, looking to me
as an example.

I can do it, on their behalf.

Never alone.

Always distances to cross.

 

 

Enrolment

If life was an English class
I’d enroll again for high school,
concentrate on the editing,
hope to gain something
the second time through

I’d excel at the assignments –
experience adds so much maturity
to the written word – and teachers
would deliberate and decide
that I don’t belong, and where

would that leave me?
Both the rigidity of self-judgment
and my softer, creative side
lecture me on the futility
of repeating past success or failure,

but; what else is there in life
to desire; what options lie ahead
for this diseased self: imposed
rest feeds my reflective side,
my mind regresses unwittingly.

I could study psychology, finish
a program once started, then
abandoned (a pattern I loathe),
but what merit lies there –
another backwards movement.

And what is this damnable urge
to perfect what has been, rewrite
the past, excel in the literature
of my own story?  I am destined
play a secondary role, foibles

contributing to the charm of
my character – maybe I should
enroll in a course on acceptance
learn to embrace the folly of
my youth, point myself forward.

(Image: www.bbc.co.uk)

 

Finding Home

Do we have to be away
to find home?

Not the mortgaged,
two cars in the driveway,
double income kind of dwelling

I’m talking peace
in the heart, comfort
in the soul, blessed home

I have felt Presence
in nature, witnessed Spirit
in a newborn baby’s eyes

beheld reverence in a dying
sister’s final breath; fleeting
glimpses, nothing solid

I seek an eternal sense
of belonging, of atonement,
to radiate a knowing, holy calm.

Don’t speak to me of books,
or passages, or a brother
with the voice of God

The home I seek is
an inner sanctum,
a whisper, a cry,

a longing answered
only in moments of pure
simplicity, in stillness

this noise we create,
this distancing, is only fear
and forgetting: products

of original separation,
a projection of abandonment,
remembering, experiencing

the numinous, the sacred other
brings me back home
and I am no longer alone.

 

 

Resort

If only life were a resort –
catered to meals, bed maids
who shuffle out of sight so as
to not disturb the illusion

that life is magical, comfort
a finger snap away; I’d refrain
from interaction, recognizing
celebrity amidst the guests –

imagine the surprise if one
should notice me: this fragile
ego pressured by the praise
would gush volumes, convince

me of genuine interest, ignore
glazed eyes, fail to appreciate
the bombs of emotion spewing
from my war-tattered mouth –

insights always come too late
to save me: my words, like drugs,
an excessive expense; my soul,
undervalued, strewn across

computer screens; I am Paris Hilton
regretting the exposure, trying to
keep afloat in a sea of superstitious
idiosyncrasies – an artist’s bane –

an acrobat, needing to balance
performance with observation,
resorting to bouts of self-
deprivation – no vacation here.

(Image: www.extravaganzi.com)

Sick

Illness like a mama bear
has accosted me, pulled
me into the darkness
of her hibernation,

the scent of her stagnancy
filling my lungs, suffocating

the sharpness of her claws
puncturing my equilibrium

I am tossed about, battered;
a limp fish in her powerful grip

chilled despite her prickly warmth;
too weak to resist being devoured

praying for sleep to obliterate
the nightmare of this flu.

(Image:  www.science-explorers.net)

 

Can’t Help But Wonder

What chief is this,
whose repetitive adolescent antics
labour over inconsequential details
whilst, as novice, he plies elimination
strategies, slashing former goals;
this non-monk of a man, inciting
global waves of dissention, padding
his ego with kin, lining up officials
disinclined to disrupt his pillage?

What nation is this
who believes social standing
equates with compassion,
who overlooks subterfuge,
projects ideals into commerce,
trusts debits and credits to
a host, whose obese pockets
are lined with the sweat of others
sacrificed for golden coffers?

What consequences lie
beyond the current distractions,
when tools of manipulation are
revealed and citizens, mired in the
waste of executive orders, rise
against oppression, upstanders
demanding a difference that
promotes, indeed ignites, a more
palatable future for all?

(Image: www.sandiegouniontribune.com)

 

 

 

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