Category: poetry

poetry

Feminism, Marriage, Blame, Burden

carolyncordon

My word for the poetry thing for February that I’m doing ( #poemadayfeb ), is Burden. I didn’t have any difficulty at all, coming up with something to write about. The themes around what happens to women when menfolk seek sweeter pasture and younger fillies is such a common one …

I’m happy to report that my marriage is sound, and we are both happy with our thirty plus years since our wedding … Things change, but we have changed with them, doing some of the same things together, other things separately, but (almost) always meeting up again when it’s time to go to sleep.

I certainly know of other women whose experiences with husbands has been quite different to mine, and I hear stories of horrific ways that things can go wrong. When I hear about mature women who are living in their car, out of a suitcase, I am appalled.

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I can barely imagine how I may manage if I were left is such a position, and know it is highly unlikely that will happen to me. I know it could happen though, you can never really know how life may hit you, but my circle of family and friends is a wide one, and I feel secure enough.

I know there are homeless men, living in a homeless shelter, and having to move on during the day, and go back for the night. These men are easily recognisable, I see on often around the town I visit often, but I don’t notice women is similar circumstances.

There are women out there though, every day, probably, a woman may flee from the home she thought she had for the rest of her life, when her partner turns on her, and she fears for her life … I am a long way away from that position, thankfully, and I am grateful.

 

Anyway, here is my poem, based on the day’s prompt, BURDEN

thinking of burdens …

You name her a burden, that you don’t want to carry –

you riducule her, mislead, abuse and ignore.

She holds to promises folk make when they marry,

hadn’t thought this end might come, that’s for sure …

 

But she’ll soldier on, because that’s what we do,

caring for others, whether they deserve it or not

and when it’s the end, and his vows prove untrue,

who’s the one left sitting in the sweetest spot?

 

It’s him, although he’ll claim he’s been fleeced –

statistics though, will reveal the actual proof.

On break up, women usually left with the least,

many of them stranded without even a roof.

 

We carry his children, we deal with his needs;

we hope for true love, but manage with less,

he thrives, she works, she aches and bleeds

then he dumps her, because she’s looking a mess.

 

He new babe is perfect, his dumped one, a bitch,

their children confused, the hatred damaging –

she suffers the blame, his life continues, no hitch –

he’s going great, ex wife & kids barely managing …

 

poetry

Not Throwing Stones, Watching My Words

carolyncordon

In the past, and probably into the future too, I have said things unwisely, the wrong thing at the wrong time, or the wrong thing for any time. I have managed to get through the troubles caused, and they have never been too terrible anyway.

But for some people saying the wrong thing, to the wrong people has been fatal, a terrible thing, to die because you said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Religion, football teams, families, just life in general, these can all be things where words uttered without thought can kill.

Poets use words, and for the most part, they are not in danger of any fatal outcome from what they write, but certainly, some journalists have faced death, or indeed died, because they were using their words, and someone took offence, and acted, killing the offender.

I live in a small country town, and realised that small country towns are quite closed in places, with very close links between most of those living in them, or near them. Several times, I have narrowly avoided making a faux pas, by remembering which woman was actually the sister, or cousin of another woman.

It’s easier with the menfolk, because they don’t change their surnames, but with women, they lose the name that marks their heritage, and shows their connections to others. I’m very much more careful these days, having sussed out at least some of the connections, and being aware that anyone could be related to anyone else!

Anyway, my poem today is about watching words, and consequences when words are ill spoken, knowing those consequences can mark you as, ‘not one of them’.

Stone’s Throw

Throw a stone into the water, stand & watch –

ripples radiate out, from where stone hit water

& beyond. Peaceful, serene, gentle, as that stone

disappears from view, forgotten, as the ripples too

will disappear from view, & be forgotten. Throw

misspoken words into a conversation, though,

realise your error, cringe, & try to hide, knowing,

too well, the ripples may never stop; radiating

endlessly out instead, far & wide, each connection

causing more ripples, & still more, never-ending.

Like the stone and the ripples, misspoken words,

may be forgotten, but the name of the one attached

to the stone, to those ill spoken words, may be

remembered by many, until the very end of time …

poetry

Grateful for My Life

carolyncordon

For today’s poetry prompt – #poemadayfeb (pillow), I thought about my life, and the lives of other’s some more fortunate than me, others, less so … I have always had a comfy pillow, and as much bedding as I need to keep warm through the night. Others may not even have a room to sleep in, let alone a pillow.

The world can be such a cruel place for some people, while other, more fortunate and privileged people have everything they could ever want or need. It isn’t ‘fair’, the way these things are allocated, but it’s what we have, this life. All we can do, if we are not at the top, is to find the best way to live our lives.

As I indicate in the poem, I am one of the fortunate people in the middle, having enough of everything I need, and quite a bit of what I want too. I have a home, electricity, food, water, enough money to run a car, with more money to attend events I wish to attend. I am grateful for this, and certainly realise my lot in life is a fortunate one indeed.

Is it luck that dictates of life’s position? I was lucky enough to have been born to a comfortably situated middle-class family, hard-working parents, working to give their children all they could. I gained my education, then easily got a job, and went on to get married, have a child, and could leave work, with a good life-style …

Now, my son has left home, and I can continue living a fine life, getting all I want and need, not splashing cash around, but definitely comfortably well off. I realise I am lucky. Earlier today, at a poetry event, we were talking about people who are definitely not well off. They are the poor people, destitute, poverty-stricken.

These people live in the same towns as us, but live their lives differently, in the same places and at the same times, sometimes, but in different ways. I pay for my flat white coffee, the poor person receives their drink for free, both of us have free water available to us at the same hotel, that we both visit from time to time.

I drive my car to get there, my home being many miles away, they walk, their own home being somewhere within walking distance, always, because walking is their only option. I paid my taxes, when I was a worker, my husband did too, we both pay GST for what we buy … Society is there to make sure all can get enough to survive, or it should be. Life is a weird gamble, and I got lucky …

Life’s a Gamble

I wake up every morning –

with pillow, sheets, blanket.

I bathe, dress, breakfast

& coffee available to make …

 

I think on others, who

after a rude awakening,

scramble out from their

uncertain resting place –

 

No food for them, not until

the charity workers arrive

and they can search out

their allotted rations.

 

Do any of us deserve

what life has, or hasn’t

given us? Is it a gamble

some win, others lose?

 

Privileged few, with much,

many more with some,

the sorry few with little –

that’s life’s cruel lottery …

poetry

Rusty Thoughts

carolyncordon

I can’t believe it, I just accidentally ditched my blog post again, before I’d finished creating it! This is getting beyond a joke. I haven’t done today’s poem yet though, but I know the poetry prompt for #poemadayfeb for the 23rd of the month is “Rust”. I am now heading off to a word document, so I can do the rest of this post, including a poem, and won’t lose it again!

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Back again, with my thoughts and poem for this new poetry prompt. Phew!

Rust is there in the lives of us all, to some extent, I’m sure, out in the country though, I’m sure there is more rust. We live on a small rural zoned property, with a fair bit of mostly bare earth, and sometimes find rusted horseshoes, great big ones, far bigger than the ones my horse training dad put on his harness racing horses.

The paddocks around here, of which there are many, would have been ploughed, and sown and reaped, with the services of the trusted Clydesdale horse (or similar heavy horse). Those great big horseshoes would have come from such a horse, as the land our house was built on would have previously been farmland, as is all of the land around our home.

Rust is what happens to metal when it oxidises. So when metal is exposed to moisture and oxygen, it oxidises and degrades (goes rusty), and rusted bits flake off. Or something vaguely like that – I’m neither a clever researcher nor a scientist …

Another fact in my life relating to “rust” is that the horse my father had at one stage in his stables, was a gentle plodder, former harness racing horse, named (I think) Rusty Roads. I think Dad may have saved Rusty, as we called him, from certain death at the knackery, and gave him to us kids to ride. It was fun for a while, but I can’t remember when it was we had him, or when he went, the facts of it have rusted away. So many horses came and went at the stables, as always happens …

Graham and I now have a ‘decoration’ on the front veranda. It is about the size of a dog, and is in fact the shake of a dog, made out of corrugated iron. There is a collar around the neck with the name “Rusty” attached to it. We bought him on a trip to Sydney, because we had a little bit of money to spare and both liked the look of him. Rusty guards our front door, from where he sits, chained loosely to one of the veranda posts.

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I still don’t have a poem yet though, do I? I’m thinking haiku or something small like that …

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No, I wrote a thoughtful little poem about a terrible thing, and hope others may find it as interesting as reading, as I found writing this. It’s about some things I’ve been thinking about, the possible reasons that men commit suicide, a terrible way to end a life, I feel, awful for anyone to feel so low that death seems a better thing to them.

If the poem to follow sparks problems for you, please call:

Lifeline tel:1-800-273-8255 or seek other help

 

Anyway, here is today’s poem, and I have caught up – back again tomorrow with a new blog post about the new poetry prompt:

 

Rusty Horseshoe

What was the suicide rate

for farmers in the olden days,

I wonder? As high as nowadays?

One horse powered farming

compared to the massive

machines used now –

I’m thinking about

the gentle task of tending

to the gentle giant who’d pull

the plow, & take kids for a ride –

big brown eyes, solid

& dependable, always …

poetry

Turning Japanese

carolyncordon

The poetry prompt for yesterday was a poetic form, the Katauta poem. This is another Japanese poetry form, almost identical to haiku, in that they both are three lined poems with syllable counts of 5/7/5 syllables (or fewer). The difference is that with this poetic form there are two stanzas, with each being written by a different person, with one, with the second being a reply to the first.

 

It is written by a pair of lovers, in the Japanese form, but that didn’t suit my life situation at all – happily married for over thirty years, sooky love stuff well and truly over & done with! I think I know my husband well enough by now, to realise he would not be interested in writing in this particular poetic form. 

Nothing wrong with that, we all so our own thing, and that is fine, so I came up with another way to use this particular form. I like to use my creativity to work my way around issues like this!

 

Instead of the truly Japanese way of doing this poetic form, I have taken McTavish the Cat and Buster the Dog, two creatures who live in the imaginations of a writer friend of mine (cat) and mine (dog).

 

These two creatures will feature in book four of the Buster the Dog series, that began with “Dig It! Gardening Tips for Dogs”, which was followed by “Doggone It! Mindfulness from a Dog’s Point of View”, and, I thought, with “Dog Buddha’s Thoughts”.

 

I had thought these three books said all I and Buster the Dog needed to say, but my friend had other ideas, and so along came McTavish the Cat!

 

So, these two creatures end up living in the same house, after a relationship  break up, and then a new one starting. Buster the Dog, and his ‘owner’ move into McTavish the Cat’s owner’s house, and work out how they can all live together. Buster the Dog and McTavish the Cat, might not normally have joined together to become best friends,  but such is nature of adversity, and ganging up on a common ‘foe’.

The pair, a dog and a cat, have both previously actively avoided getting too close, but when you live in the same household there are far fewer ways to keep away from each other, and they come to realise they have a lot more in common than they had realised.

 

Things, are very tricky at the start,  but they eventually work out their issues with each other, as they continue finding ways to make life hell for their ‘owners’ and eventually building a loving friendship that is beautiful, hence the poem for this day:

 

Your feline grace –

you flow across the room

like no other can …

 

Your canine calm –

you fill the room with peace,

embracing all …