Dance inspires me to write poetry...and my poetry sets the dance in motion.
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Forgiveness
First comes the ANGER.
I have been wronged.
You deserve my wrath and I want to punish you
By withholding my affection from you.
I try to show you how I feel
But you are too busy to notice.
Life goes on .
I push it down.
The anger dulls but the embers still burn
Ready to flare again with a bit of new fuel.
Around we go.
Soon again the blaze is rekindled.
It is justified.
Anyone would agree with me,
But I don’t have the energy for a confrontation right now,
So life goes on.
I paste on the smile,
I do my thing.
Maybe next time we have the confrontation
But we don’t agree
Nothing is resolved.
The pile of embers in the closet keeps growing.
Years pass.
There is smoke leaking under the closet door.
I stuff a towel in the crack under the door
And go to the kitchen.
I make a mental note to buy a fire extinguisher
The next time I go to the store.
One day when I come home the smoke is everywhere.
The closet door is burned full of holes.
I know I have to do something.
NOW.
I would like to think it is your job, not mine.
In a way, it is.
But it really is my job.
The closet is mine,
The door is mine,
The rug is mine,
The house is mine,
The embers are mine.
I collected them one by one
From you,
From my parents,
From my children,
From the rude clerk at the grocery store,
From my fifth grade teacher,
From the kid who called me “fat” in third grade,
From the boy who did not care about me
As much as I wanted him to.
Looking inside
I see an endless parade
Of people who have passed through my life
Holding embers in their hands’
Reaching out to give them to me.
I just keep on taking them,
Saving them.
Hiding them in my closet.
I should never have taken them home.
I should have looked at them,
Seen them each and every one
For what they really were
And extinguished them carefully as I received them.
Or perhaps…
I should have courteously refused to accept them
In first place.
But I did, so here I am
Cleaning out the closet
One ember at a time.
I am getting pretty good at it.
I pick one out.
I look at it.
I remember who gave it to me.
I think about why they did.
I try to see it from each perspective.
Sometimes it is hard.
Sometimes I know I was right
And I want them to know it too.
Then the ember burns my hand
And I know I must forgive.
Forgive them,
Forgive the situation,
Forgive myself for my part in it.
Not for their sake,
It is possible that they do not deserve my forgiveness,
But I must forgive for my own sake.
Because the closet is my heart
And I must become whole again.—©2004 Shahina
Playing Dress-up (The Story of a 42 year old Cinderella)
I am standing in the kitchen in my workout clothes,
Slathering peanut butter on bread
And cutting apples into cute little slices
While our children pour milk all over the tablecloth
And fight over the best seat at the table.
My husband comes into the kitchen
Looking handsome in his pinstriped suit and silk tie
“Buy a dress,” he says to me with a kiss,
“I want to have the most gorgeous woman in the place.”
So I go and try them on- red, black, purple, royal blue,
Dress after dress I try on and abandon.
The saleslady tries to understand.
“I’m 42, I don’t want a prom dress,
But I’m not the mother of the bride either!
I want to look…
…Incredibly sexy
..And exquisitely elegant
…At the same time.
I am dressing for my husband, not for turning tricks.”
Utterly deflated, I dress to leave.
As I approach the door I see it.
I don’t need to try it on, but I do anyway.
I don’t allow myself to look at the price,
I have his instructions.
My enthusiasm revived,
I go for shoes, seamed silk stockings, velvet cloak.
Elated, I take them home
And place them tenderly in my closet
Awaiting the magic day.
“Success?” he asks.
“Just you wait,” I reply.
22 years we’ve been married,
And I am like a child waiting for Christmas.
I am more excited than I was for our wedding.
It seems forever, but the day finally arrives,
And I use the whole day to prepare.
10am- 2 Hours to work out,
noon- 2 Hours to soak in the Jacuzzi,
I scrub off every callus,
I shave every bit of stubble.
2:00 I oil every inch of skin until it feels just like a baby’s.
2:30 Wild hair, like a lioness.
3:00 Make-up, strong, but not garish.
3:30 Manicure, pedicure, sit still long enough
So I don’t mess them up for a change.
5:00 Corset laced all the way shut,
Stockings straight,
Matching black lace lingerie.
6:00 My dress glides on like a custom-made glove.
I smile into the mirror, the look is complete.
Moments later he arrives home from work.
The look on his face says it all, but he continues,
“My Dear, I don’t need to see anyone else
To know that you did it,
You are an absolute diva!”
He places my velvet cloak upon my shoulders
And escorts me to our magic coach.
All night we dance, my knight and I,
In public and in private and on through my dreams
Until at last the dawn trickles through our bedroom window
And little feet come scampering down the hall
To pounce full-speed upon our bed
And I am “mommy” again.—©2004 Shahina
“My guests couldn't stop talking about your last poem that you wrote for your son.” —Lorelei
I Am Your Mother
I am your mother, you cannot outgrow my love.
The pain I withstood to bring you here was just my ante –up.
My pledge to God, in return for his entrusting you to my care,
that I will care for you at any cost.
My ears are yours to fill with all your dreams and schemes
As well as your fears and passions. Bring me your muck-bucket,
I will find a gem in it.
Share with me your challenges. I know you have it within you to meet them with grace and courage.
Share with me your pain. I cannot take it away, but I will massage your ache and strengthen you for the next round.
Share with me your feelings, because feelings are what make us both human and it will reconnect us like when you were young.
Share with me your sickness. I have the wisdom of the ages to share with you for healing,
and if you give me the chance I will teach you to be well.
Share with me your joys, for no one delights in your happiness more than I do.
Share with me your hunger, and I will feed you with your favorite
comfort foods prepared with love and filled with life–force.
Share with me your dreams. I will visualize your success, tell me of your failures and I promise not to believe you.
Share with me your fear and I will remind you of the divine forces available to you to draw freely from.
Share with me your faith and spirit and I will affirm your higher self.
Tell me anything, and I will give you the truth as I see it, even if it is not what you want to hear.
Tell me you hate me and enumerate upon all the ways I have hurt you,
and I promise to listen with my heart instead of my ego, and try to right my errors.
Tell me you are not a child anymore, and I will tell you that I know,
but sometimes we “grown-ups” still need to be held close and comforted like when we were children.
Tell me you love me, and I have all that I desire.—©2004 Shahina