Purging the Soul

Only now can she say
her soul has been purged
scraped raw, exorcizing
that which is best left behind

She has slumbered long
passing through months
followed by years
with the faintest of life-giving energy

Perhaps the past held its  merits
but those were not honored
and in the deepest, darkest night
merged with dreams as fools fodder

Awakening comes with acknowledgment
those omissions raucously colliding
with acts of substance

How does she feel anything less
than complete and utter shame?
her days are more numbered
than most and having less

She sees her squandered actions
Her thefts of objects, honor and time
so trivial, yet from desecration
comes her only hope of renewal

Let it come . . .

Anorexia

In the space between two breaths
she is caught unaware, unknowing –
having spent a short lifetime
eternally busy, frenetically paced
always in motion,
never internally directed –
she is lost, adrift,
her skills and talents
not having prepared her
for rejection, for misdirected words –
she has never allowed
for this contingency,
Who is she beyond the accolades,
the activities, the endless
leadership roles –
what lies beneath?
What feelings exist
in her picket fenced heart
which let in undulating waves
of anguish
filtering out love, trust, kindness.
Like a drug she moves
in perpetual motion –
running, leading, moving, teaching
no reflection of hows or whys
attempting to fill the void with verbs,
no static, resolute exploring
of hidden secrets and mysteries
which hold the heart’s true measure.
No breaking through the resistance.
The moments have arrived
when razor sharp clarity
begs for expression,
where it chips away subterfuge
so real work can begin,
to explore the dim reaches of the soul
to enter terms with
the bald face of reality,
finally unmasked, stripped,
laid bare, but . . .
will she take
the proffered challenge
to grow, or backpedal,
rewind the inner tape
until she can splice, edit,
a produce a facsimile
of the original in its unedited form,
honoring the pain motion covered
the fear leadership masked,
the need unhinged in teaching,
all the imports of a life
skated over in terror and avoidance

Your Rage

You – so full of youthful righteousness
from resolve etched in fear
slipping down the planes and lines
of your furrowed brow
glowering your rage and frustration
despair flung out, rolling in waves
warding off the heavens
with its glad tidings
and earnest appeal
granting no access within
wanting only to ward off all
who might crack through
that thin veneer and reach
the fragile underpinnings
of your heart
Try to remember dear one
all words are not weapons
some hold elements of honesty
to the eyes and mind of another

You are safe
though you choose to fear it
your childlike emotions
do not threaten me
Safe may not look like you
envisioned it
but safe nonetheless
You are loved little one
You are loved

In Dreams there are no dreams

In dreams, there are no dreams
tumbling out of your mind –
crystalized to diamond hard planes,
or blurred and fuzzy about the edges,
elusive and faint
upon the gossamer wings of a moth.
No dream waking moments
when you have a step in one world
and one in another.
Not quite sure which is
most worthy of pursuit,
or which needs following
from one moment
to the next.
Dreams of great import.
In dreams life is stable
makes a weird kind of sense
that seems to matter greatly
in morning’s dawn
but fades as dusk grows nearer.
My dreams carry through my days
yet still I wonder why
in dreams there are no dreams

Misgivings

And what legacy have I left you
my golden skinned son
of radiant bein?
Not one that led to
where your feet tread today
with a lightness of being
I can’t begin to imagine
The dark side
when I gave you up
too readily
I can’t recompense
for all those days lost
punishments held or withheld
lessons discussed and learned
hugs – of so many hugs –
lost, not to be recaptured
my legacy of misplaced love
and weak-kneed frustration

Crone Status

I no longer look for Mr. Right,
can’t envision him in my space
can’t see myself naked under the light,
not the vision to behold
I care to share.

The man I might want
has nothing to do with this reality,
wouldn’t be attracted
to this hag worn body
ragged at the seams
creaking joints making
a cacophony of noise

Looking back –
I skated the edge
of marginalization
for more years
then I care to admit.
Looked at life darkly
groveled, debased myself,
making self-pity an art form

But now I am willing to shoulder
crone status and its implications.
No young God will warm my bed
I take comfort in its space
in wearing old, worn bedclothes
with no one looking askance at me

My body can make all the noises
a symphony makes
sore bones moaning
arthritis crackling.
Cat curled against my back
on inky dark, windswept nights.

The Scheduler

He does his job,
sitting at a metal framed desk,
surrounded by femininity –
efficiently, perfunctorily,
satisfactorily –
and yet, his eyes
look at the others,
flat, snake eyes
staring back
with no reflection,
no depth, empty
beneath the color . . .
and I feel a vague nausea
caught by those eyes
and think, this is a man
who would kill without
blinking, for beneath
there is nothing
but mechanical precision
devoid of soul,
lacking compassion,
as he fills his cases,
sending caregivers
to the care given,
without heart,
his eyes a blank surface
leaving nothing behind
but the rustling whisper
of a snake
moving through the reeds
intent on its prey.

Sibilant Murmurs

In the still, soft calm of silence,
the soul speaks its sibilant murmur
so hard to hear in the clangor
and clash of daily life –
in the quiet of night,
when the only sound
is the fountain of water
my fish play in –
I listen . . . for in those brief
moments, so precious and rare,
does the ring of truth sound
clearest – finding its way
past jangled nerves
and knotted, choked synapses
bringing the wisdom I seek,
the strength which I draw
from a wellspring of heart,
coming through to renew
my sense of vision
and lend credence to my reflections,
softly, gently guiding down
my troubled path of life

Rumpled Bed

This room is not mine
with its tousled sheets,
remnants of bathroom fixtures,
books, dirty clothes, debris
scattered about, layered in dust,
looking like a whirlwind
had swooped in, scooped it up,
and dropped it whatever –

It might not even be his –
the memories of another woman’s
scent still fills his nostrils,
befuddling his clouded mind –
making “letting go” a distant dream.

I am but an infrequent visitor
who lives in a fantasy
that one day he might look at me
with those golden brown eyes
and know that there was a love
who would not leave
when another
more tempting morsel
flavored her palette.

I looked about the room
knowing yet again
I have given my heart
to someone who couldn’t return
the intensity of feelings
in equal measure –

Seems I have spent this life
in the shadow of other women –
Their midnight stirrings
sharing the same bed
I so sparingly sleep in.

The Doorsill II

The door sill begs for recognition, for acknowledgment.  It spills out the stories of people who crossed its stone border, the echoes fading into the solid oak door and creaking, wide-planked floors.  It whispers, “Here is where a mother carried her daughter to a rocker,  lulling her quiet, to breastfeed and hold her small, precious hand, knowing only too well the time would come when she toddles away to dreams of her own making.”  But for now, in the hushed silence of the deep night, she croons out her lullabies and fills her child’s head with glorious tales of gods and goddesses, of protectors of the hearth, the garden, the home.  Each deity has its own function – one to meet every challenge, every need. Rocking softly, keeping beat with the tap of her toe, she spins the yarns of her foremothers, of lands near and far, of goddesses no longer needed and ones who voices still resonate with power.

The Mother knows, instinctively, that this daughter will not be content with the gods of her Fathers.  She is the one tied to the Moon and Earth’s gravitational pull.  From her earliest days, when she played in the garden, this young one who would lay on the earth, dig fingers deep into the crumbly moistness and draw wisdom from seasonal cycles and unspoken knowledge.

She would demurely go to Church in her Sunday best only to yank them off as she crossed the doorsill, hastily pulling on everyday clothes, to run into nearby woods where she would dance on her toes in her sacred grove, swirl with the bees, sing,  and float in the pond whose womb protected her.  She’d call out to the Blessed Ones to come join her.  And while the menfolk watchful with cautious trepidation, wondering is she was a touch daft, Mother secretly smiled, knowing the unquenchable thanksgiving which could only be experienced in the realm of imagination of the Goddess.

Men might hear the words but they would fall on deaf hearts.  Theirs was a God brimming with fire and fury.  Powerful beyond reckoning – strong enough to provide succor in the face of any challenge.  But for women, this God was one of respect and protection, certainly a nurturer.  That was the domain that existed solely in the hearts of females.

Her mother showed her the places where sacred herbs grew – ones that could heal, stop the pain, mend a broken spirit, help close open wounds, and give a sense of well being to those who knew their secrets. Neighboring farms held those with suspicious eyes and sharp tongues but who, nonetheless, crossed the doorsill when healing needed doing.  All knowledge carries its dangers but a woman’s lore of medicine and mending brought the insidious threats closed minds can bring.

It is always hard to walk the least chosen path.  But the doorsill provides safety and nourishment to those who dwell within those walls.

 

 

 

The place where I dump the stuff that's inside my head.

Geetha Balvannanathan's Blog - Isis Tratum

Poems, thoughts, healing, other art works (pictures, songs and videos not made by me belong to their authors, the rest being mine) © 2010-2046

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