IN MY DREAMS

In my dreams
I stand, naked, at the window,
a parched desert,
waiting for you.

We are young again,
eager to touch
and re-arrange
shimmering prisms
of passion and hope.

"As long as we have each other --"
you told me whenever thunderclouds
darkened our horizon.
As long as we had each other,
no loss was final.

In my dreams
I understand
you are still here,
wanting me,
dancing in my heart.

                          published in "Northern Ontario Speaks"
                                        Northern Ontario Poetry Collection
                                        Volume 19, 2014.

MOTHERHOOD

How powerful I felt
when you looked up to me
for life, for meaning, for encouragement!

I dreamed your growth,
straight and tall,
invincible
arrows in my quiver,
conquering all
while I cheered from afar
congratulating myself
for the miracle.

Now the work is over
and I weep, redundant,
a shadow ghosting through
the margins of your lives.

When it's all over,
I'll lie meekly on my back
looking up to you.

                         (Oct. 2012)

Prodigal Daughter

Perturbs you, does it, Daddy dearest,

that I spread my thighs for strangers

to earn my daily bread 

and crème de menthe?

"Why?" you ask. I don't know. 

But my heart gloats to see you squirm.

 

"I gave you everything!" 

you bluster self-importantly. 

Indeed you did. 

Your thoughts, your plans, your dreams. 

Remember that tax-deductible soirée of yours, 

complete with rented flesh? 

You got so drunk you would have taken me 

(I saw it in your eyes), 

but there are some things even I won't do.

If I married into your caviar crowd, 

would that be any different?

Roll over, smile on demand, 

battered, bartered -- for what?

It's killing my mother, you tell me. 

She's too far gone to phone? 

Her bleeding heart's reserved 

for painted ducks and baby seals! 

"Fastest draw in the West with a cheque book," 

you smile indulgently, 

"but I can afford it." 

Affirmation on demand -- that's her cocaine.

Forty short days, you plead. 

Forty days in a mink-lined cell 

to make me fit for your table; 

clinking your stemware, wearing your dresses, 

high on designer drugs prescribed by your shrink-- 

courtesy of high-yield Third World blood and tears.

In the empty morning hours I waver, 

muster a nostalgic tear or two 

before the downers kick in. 

When I awake, I paint my face 

and go to war once more.

I sell diversion 

from the dreary demons of inconsequence. 

You buy and sell the lives of voiceless children. 

Keep your forgiveness. 

You need it more than I do.

Second Chance

I was a garden once,

alive with hope.
One by one the seedlings died
starved or crushed
by faulty guides,
hens scolding
ducks for craving water.

I disappointed everyone
or so I thought.
My trembling smile
pleaded for absolution,
claiming no right
to disappointment of my own.

Forbidden seeds still wait
charred seeds of rage
push swell crack
until I see at last
through my own eyes

to be continued . . .

to be continued . . .
the never-ending story of our lives
folded accordion style
from the beginning of time
as far as we can see and more
beyond our wildest dreams
there are no periods
just commas and suspension dots . . .

Blossom Raiders

A cavalry of giggles
charged my lily bed,
yanked off fistfuls of colour,
heedless of the countless hours
I lavished on my cherished chalices.
I watched, did nothing.
Was it too difficult
to don a frown and shout?
Or did I recognize
a shadow of my secret self?

Window Shopping

There she is,
the doll of my dreams,
pink and cuddly,
the doll of my dreams.
Why are the best things
always behind glass?

My mother pulls me away
gently.
I take her hand,
knowing too well
her grown-up
worries and burdens --
food and fuel and school supplies.

Morning.
My birthday.
My mother
tears in her eyes
holding the doll,
no glass.

I can't move.
I stare
at my mother
her tears
the doll of my dreams
in her arms
No glass.

Urban Hermit

A book and a glare--
poor accessories
to attract companionship.
*
Time to arise,
transcend
this rat's cage
masquerading as a life.
At least, that's what my mother tells me.
Meet someone nice, she says,
and everything will change.
*
My married friends nod wisely,
recount their SO's latest pranks,
or turn away to scream
at wayward offspring.
*
Change is a crap shoot.
Not everyone wins.

-- 2004

Chronology

Time . . .
unspoiled -- unsoiled?
until we reach for it.
Then poof -- it vanishes,
leaving traces of ambivalence
in the moist clay
of our mnemonic egoids.

Men are from Mars

Into your eyes
I venture
deeply....
you bend to kiss my breast,
uncertainties scrabbling
to hide
beneath abandoned
memories.

A museum of hurts
frozen at attention,
white-lipped, refusing
to cry out.

I lie back,
and in your hands
I touch yesterday's child
soaring with superheroes
(limping now, lost in dusty detours).

Almost at the centre
I find myself,
shut out and angry,
yet somehow knowing
and accepting all.



June '97

Winter Solstice

Life is harder now.
Why did I expect it to be
different this time?
Drowning in glacial darkness
snuffing holiday candles.
I may not make it.
Don't try to hold my hand!
This is just a tunnel,
I tell myself,
light waiting at the end.
But can I be sure?

Poet's Prayer

Starscryer
Dreamdancer
love-scarred
time-warped
Truth
*
empower
strike
or silence me