Ravell’d Sleave of Care

(with thanks to the Thane of the Unnamed Play)

Let me be able to fight for my life while awake;
not spend the night in tangled covers and tattered sleep.

Random dreams scattered like pollen or moondust;
dry tears spattering my pillow.

Tossing and turning, shaking loose fear and doubt;
like a broken mirror in the dawn reflecting my past
as I try to focus my mind and reflect on my future.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 3 August 2019

A ’Mazing

(Dedicated to Tina Sloan-Mcpherson
who always knows when to change her shoes)

Walking to or walking from
on fresh, mowed lawns or rough terrain;
sand might warm your toes or squish wet footprints in the damp.
Lush grass may tickle your feet, or stain your shoes sap green;
hopping across stepping stones or wading through tidal surf,
crunching through gravel lanes or a run over sticky asphalt roads,
spiked shoes in the scrum, or warm pebbles under bare feet,
rough wood in a sauna, cold ice under skates,
hot coals in a challenge, broken glass glittering underfoot.

We stroll through our memories on tippy toes and our futures in running shoes.

We tread many labyrinths throughout our lives;
some within and some without.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 3 March 2016

“and go ‘Round and ‘Round and ‘Round in the Circle Game.”

(with thanks to Joni Mitchell)

I feel as if my whole life has been a labyrinth leading into a maze; going back and forth from childhood to adult, innocence to reality, silliness to sophistication like a sailing ship on a peculiar tack.

One never knows when the next turn will come or what direction life will go; 
head the wrong way, and you might come to a wall, take the right path, and you might stumble. There will always be unexpected obstacles; starts, stops, bridges, or subways impeding your forward momentum.

We are all children, all ages; we go forth expecting joy, play, protection, security, and summer vacations full of long days under blue skies with the promise of frozen treats to come. No matter how old we grow, we react to the bell of the ice cream truck, the scent of roasting marshmallows, the feel of sun and wind in our hair.

We forget that we are older, with responsibilities, with creaks and groans in our joints instead of from the swing-set, squinting to read instead of from the sun, our skinned knees from tripping and falling down instead of falling off a bike.

One day we look at the night sky and wonder where the stars went; the constant twilight of neon signs and streetlights have stolen the constellations and shooting stars; there is no longer a meteor to wish upon, only the niggling fear that the rock will hit with deadly force.

One day we become aware that the trees under which we played, climbed upon, within its canopies, where we hid to read, or beneath where we collected acorns, leaves, and cones, have started to die turning yellow not from autumn but from climate change.

One day the buds and spring flowers enthral us with the hope of growth, but the next, we wake up to the news and the loss of another life; the ruin of a day of potential wonder.

I walk my path through the turns and switchbacks, focusing on the steps ahead while remembering those I’ve already trod. I use my remembrance of things past to colour my way forward; tingeing the memories like a hand-coloured photograph of my more naive thoughts, plans, and dreams.

I still have my dreams, but my plans have changed against my will. The winding circle of intention has turned into the prickly maze of adulthood, where each movable, blocked pathway was the means to an opportunity to reach my goals.

I am once more stuck in a clearing, with no map, but only a bench and my memories.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 7 August 2019

Knot

I internalise,
I look at myself and hide;
Keeping pain within

I bury my hurt
Like a wounded animal
Showing no weakness

Never verbalise
Only within my own mind do I allow truth. 

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 25 July 2019

At Arms... length

Brusque hiding softness
Biting muzzling kindness
Belligerence burying acceptance
Caustic concealing sweetness
Coarse stifling politeness
Cold quashing thankfulness
Spite defeating thoughtfulness
Sharp veiling gentleness
Silence suppressing tenderness


Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 31 March 2015

True Lies

”I really wanna know.”
(with thanks to The Who)
Do true believers ever flinch when they hear uncomfortable or unacceptable things about their idols?

Do they, like other minorities, hear bad news and hope it was not perpetrated by one of theirs? How long can they hear and see no evil; refuse to acknowledge that they might have been wrong in their assessments?

How do they justify their blanket belief that their heroes are infallible when stone-hard evidence can demonstrably prove them wrong over and over again?

How do they live with themselves day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute; lie after lie, cruelty after cruelty, indifference after indifference?

What does it take to get them to cringe instead of only shrug their shoulders and look away; speak out and against instead of only for; to remove their blindfolds and finally feel true, honest disgust, shame and culpability?

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
©18 October 2017

Rosemary, Lavender and Sage

I want to close my eyes and fall asleep listening to birdsong and the music of waters.

I want to sleep until I wake on my own; plush, fur-like fleece against my skin.

I want my heavy eyelids to close to dream-free rest instead of restless waking dreams.

I want cool breezes to brush against my skin instead of fevered, nightmare damp.

I want to wake to the sounds of dawn: lapping waves, happily chirping songbirds, and the scents of dew-dropped herbs and rose.

I want to greet the morning with freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon toast; sun dappling across worn linens, cats and dogs resting chins against my limbs:
grateful for each new hour.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 06 July 2019