Trapped

I was so alone.  

My rubber boots held fast 

by the grassy mud puddle 

in the corner of the front yard.

Thick grey mud pressed 

in on my black rubber boots

protecting tiny socked feet

from cold wet mud.

Three year old muscles tried 

to move against the ancient cold and thick mud 

that grabbed my boot.

My bare foot wavered in the cold air.

The boot top snapped shut

trapping my sock inside.

I couldn’t put my freezing foot back in my boot!

There was no one around.

I was scared.

I was crying......

And then someone heard my wail, 

plucked me out of my pressing predicament,

and took me in to my mom, warmth and safety.

Thanks Ronnie!

“People are trapped in history

and history is trapped in them.”

~ James Arthur Baldwin

Unwelcome Voices

Voices in my head.

Voices that pass judgement 

on me and my actions.

Voices which criticize

their sting unmistakable -

attached to old memories.

Old tapes play 

like stuck records.

Are they 78's or 45's?

If a calmer, gentler voice should prevail

why do I 

ignore it,

minimize it,

push it aside?

Does that voice not 

deserve my attention,

have a solution?

A new thought strikes a trembling chord:

I have given all of my own thoughts 

names

dates

places

with space in my head.

No charge except to me.

I’ll send all the names back 

to their original memories

collecting their cards of judgment

for review.

I’ll see if I am telling myself the truth

by keeping these named cards, or

if I have tarnished memories 

because of one or two remote events.

“We do not remember days, we remember moments. The

richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.”

~ Cesare Pavese

The Wall

The Wall seemed beautiful,

shining with the gloss of brushed steel.

No cracks, crevices or chinks obvious.

Beautiful and .... dangerous?

The wall silently demanded 

‘NO ENTRY!’

Asking: How can I help? 

the greatest intrusion.

With respect, I stepped down.

“Never take a person’s dignity; 

it is worth everything to them, 

and nothing to you.”

~ Frank Barron

Who Stops the Cycle?

Who stops the cycle of violence?

Once the cycle has begun for one human being 

we can’t prevent them

from being caught in the trap of being violated?

And when is the cycle recognized?

When the violated and abused are grown

do they inherit

the behaviour of violence with

the stigma of being violent?

All while living with

the painful granite mountain

of the original violation?

Will it ever be recognized?

And if it is recognized

spoken about, who begins 

the climb

clears paths

shows the way

of descent down the mountain?

Who is responsible for

presenting possibilities?

If a key piece of the puzzle is suspected

what part of our system speaks up to say

this human being is worthy of our time?

Is there a place to see when the cycle starts?

Do we wait until it is almost fatal to 

see and do

support and empower?

What is the cycle?

Who is caught?

What does it look like?

My frustration: I can only do a small piece

and then turn the rest over to others...............

“I feel as if I were a piece in a game of chess, when my 

opponent says of it:  ‘That piece cannot be moved.’”

~ Søren Kierkegaard

Friendship Trumps the Weather

Cold this evening,

no sun to warm sky or land.

Supper out with a friend

makes weather inconsequential

Grey, overcast skies.

Unremarkable rain spits down. 

Warm visit in a friendly restaurant

remarks little of the weather.

“Friends...they cherish one another’s hopes.

They are kind to one another’s dreams.”

~ Henry David Thoreau

My Ducks are Out of Order!

I didn’t make my bed today.

I didn't do the dishes.

Laundry waited to be put away

Lunches yet to be made.

This all despite steadily developed

disciplined home habits

backed up by steady routine

My home is

well ordered and

fairly clean

But I didn’t make my bed today.

“There is a certain combination of 

anarchy and discipline in the way I work.”

       ~ Robert de Niro

Loose Ends ~ 1

Loose ends of my life at home

lying at my feet

stuffed in my pockets

filed away in drawers and cupboards.

Loose ends of friendships stored

in special cupboards 

of mind and heart

picked up & woven into conversation 

no gap in time or event.

Loose ends of my own words 

written in story and poem over years

incomplete

immature

requiring coherency

return to my vision.

Finding loose ends takes time.

Are they all knotted and tangled?

Stuffed and bundled in electronic file folders

titles long and unwieldy 

sentences awkwardly constructed

paragraphs out of order

abundantly worded drafts and redrafts

Loose ends drape themselves,
untidy bits that await
reconnection

revision.

“It always seems impossible, until it’s done.”

~  Nelson Mandela