life – Wolverine Lily

The Living Race

Life got in the way of
living—

Some trudge to survive,
others scroll through it—
numbed.

All racing time,
chasing filters of
inevitable loss.

Death waits at the finish line,
scythe in one hand,
stopwatch in the other,

whispering:

“All that way,
and not one deep breath.
Tell me—
would you have danced this race
if the crowd didn’t watch?”

Rusty Adventure

Drudges and thralls
caged in clocks,
welding days into years.
Wages unlock gates
for … a holiday.

They fly across the world
to stand on borrowed ground,
marvel at the same sky,
bronze in the same sun,
convinced it’s better.

Yet back home,
the same Earth is
dimmed, diluted,
dull.

Why?

Is it receipts they admire,
or the story they post?

Conforming to filtered joy,
oblivious to their own.

Why reach for foreign rust,
when gold gleams beneath their feet?

Author’s Note:
A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?

Broken Wing and the Middle Finger

“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car.
“I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.

In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.

Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.

“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat.
“We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.

My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?

For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed.
A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious—minus the fancy car.

I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.

I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.

I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.

He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way), looked at me, and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.

Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.

I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.

I stared at him for a moment. Still. Then winked.
“Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’

When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.

I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.

Author’s Note:
This happened a few years ago, on Max’s birthday. One I’ll never forget. 🙂

Masquerade

In life’s grand masquerade,
I wear masks—shifting my personalities,
like a chameleon’s skin,
I adapt to awaiting expectations.

At work,
wielding expertise and proficiency,
stiff and stern—
a façade of demanded service that pleases strangers.

To my parents,
I forge a mask of obedience,
an armor fitted since childhood,
showcasing to the world their efforts.

For my children,
the heaviest mask of all—
painted with disciplined example,
woven with warm patience,
a mosaic of unconditional love.

Among friends,
I wear humor—my most popular mask,
highly demanded,
like a jester spinning witty tales to amuse the crowd,
a bright light beams through a kaleidoscope,
scattering laughter across every face.
This favored mask serves me well;
but I shed it when alone.

If you peel off these masks,
layer by layer,
you’ll find my bare face at last.
My eyes: mirrors of my heart,
a clear, silent lake…
See me.

Unbound, unguarded, unmasked—the real me.
Cleansed by the rain of purity,
I rediscover my forgotten contours
distorted by layers of duty.

For my husband,
I hide behind the thinnest mask—
a dissolving mist,
still he filters what he wishes to see,
like a lens zooming in on a single detail,
blind to the truth beneath my transparent disguise.

My masks exhaust me;
like heavy chains, they weigh me down.

Yet, the ludicrous carnival endures—
A hollow parade of fleeting extravagances:
temporary delights and shallow possessions—soon forgotten.

Each costumed soul quietly yearns for rescue,
rebelling against the imposed pretenses—
all longing for gentle affection: to be seen and loved.

So, I ask you this:
What mask shall I wear for you, Monsieur?
Or dare to meet me unmasked,
heart open, soul bare?

If you’ve read this far,
you’ve glimpsed beyond my masks.
Would you come closer,
strip off yours—
eye-to-eye,
no veils between us?

Behind the ramparts of this masquerade,
I stand—will you rise to find me?

Author’s Note:
This poem has been on my mind for a long time. It reflects the roles we play in life—often without even realizing it. We wear masks to please others, feeding their endless demands, and in doing so, we lose ourselves. We don’t just project a false image—we surrender fragments of our identity, becoming puppets bound by the strings of others’ expectations.

From childhood, we’re trained to follow directions and meet society’s expectations, as though we must live for someone else, constantly under the lens of judgment. This disconnect creates a lack of authentic connections, yet the yearning for genuine affection stays in our hearts.

Another layer of this poem explores the tendency to seek validation through material possessions. Many hide behind fancy items and designer labels, projecting an illusion of worth. Beneath the surface, these illusions often overshadow one’s true value. Like hollow mannequins draped in overpriced clothes, they project their worth through price tags.

We’ve all worn masks at some point to fit in—it’s part of being human. Nevertheless, I think that everyone has something authentic to offer, but not everyone is willing to believe in it and embrace their uniqueness.

I have no intention of changing who I am for others, but I’ve learned to adjust my behavior when necessary—like it or not.

When does the masquerade end? Perhaps it ends when we cut the strings and dare to stand unmasked—naked, trembling in the panic of inconvenient reality, yet finally free!

Life is too short to dance to someone else’s tune!

Finally, it was my birthday last week. Birthdays have a way of sparking reflection, don’t they? This one felt particularly powerful for me. Like a wake-up call, it urged me to think deeply about the kind of life I truly want to live—and the masks I must drop. 🎭

Meant to Bloom

I was meant to bloom—
unfurl, sing, and shine, not
be tended or trimmed, not
molded for duty and possession.

I was meant to bloom, not
decorate an entropic cave, not
drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness
with the sweetness of my effervescent petals—
infusing their spoiled, sour strands.

Even in the drought,
I drank rainbows through my veins.
My tendrils breathed warmth into soil,
while the sky hid behind clumped clouds.
I stretched toward muffled sunlight.

I was meant to bloom.

And then it rained, not
to nourish or cleanse.
Poured.
Unstoppable—
the ground swelled,
my petals sagged,
roots dislodged,
my garden drenched to swamp.

Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow.
They nest in my shade,
leech my youth,
and — call it love.

Slowly,
quietly,
I sink.

Still—

Dreaming of butterflies,
even a wilt can reach the sun.
Single ray ignites its desire.

Butterflies will come
And I will bloom…
as I was always meant to.

Author’s Note:
Not everyone who stands tall is thriving.
Not every flower is there for you to pick.
For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken…
This one is personal. 🌸

Incongruous

“This is wrong!” they shout.
“Don’t do it!”

I don’t want to think what’s right—
what’s right anymore?

I’ve been doing all the right things:
behaved right,
got the right degree,
married the right guy…

Still, I ended up in the wrong place—
or the wrong end
of the right place,
at most.

A precise blueprint,
yet wayward—
disarrayed,
veering off the ideal design.

I’m incomplete. Misaligned.

Isn’t that right?
For me—it’s wrong.

Why is it wrong?
I did all the right things?

Why then, amidst all these rights,
do I feel misplaced—
a lucky penny lost in a dry desert,
gleaming in the sun,
yet inconspicuous in the sand—
Blindly chasing paths
marked right or wrong.

Incongruous.

Why is it wrong,
doing what feels right?

I’m tempted to do what’s wrong—
forbidden,
There’s a thrill in rebellion,
a treasure awaiting discovery in the shadows.

But what if it’s not wrong?
And perhaps even right—
right for me.

So, if I do wrong things,
maybe at least
I’ll finally feel right.

Let’s do more wrong,
but do it right!

A New Year’s Spark

New beginning calls,
Dreams awaken, hearts ignite,
Will this spark yet flare?

Author’s Note:
As the New Year unfolds, a wave of fresh inspiration has washed over me, imprinting new ideas. This is my very first attempt at writing a Haiku (though I’m not sure I like it), and it feels like a way to capture my hopes and plans for a new beginning. I wish this spark will illuminate the dark path ahead of me in 2025.

Wishing you all a Happy New Year!

Little Chalky Feet

Her little feet with chalky dust,
Growing up too fast to last!
Sidewalk art with siblings’ cheer,
A special time my heart holds dear.

Amid each day’s relentless race,
These tiny toes print love I chase,
And memories carved to last forever,
Of joyful days we laughed together.

Author’s Note:
Some moments are just too precious to let fade, right? My youngest daughter’s chalky feet—capturing the fun and colors of a sunny afternoon in the park (before she turned 4.) I stumbled upon this photo and couldn’t let it go. It inspired this short poem and now lives here, safe and treasured. 🙂

Evanescent Breath of Time

Amidst the warmth of a golden day,
Reality alighted on my shoulders.
Its big eyes pierced through mine,
Penetrating the deepest cellar of my soul;

Time’s relentless run paused—for a beat.
I sat on my paddleboard,
Soft waves caressing it tenderly, like a lullaby.
I drifted…
Enveloped by a floating magic carpet of infinite blue…

I marveled at the sunlight’s delicate strokes,
Feathering the crests of waves.
All calm as it was blue;
Infinite, linear, and placid.

In this evanescent flash,
Time stretched for breaths,
In slow, harmonic sways,
While birds above
Soared as freely as my thoughts.

I surrendered my worries,
Opening the door to joy and gratitude,
Their bold entrance filling my heart
With peace and serenity.

I spread my fragile, ethereal wings
And released my spirit to rise high,
Beyond enchanted realms,
Surpassing all earthly bliss.
Just for a moment…
For this is short-lived contentment.

In that ephemeral flight, the wind’s whisper
Reminded me of reality awaiting my return.

Like a brief summer breeze,
Life passes swiftly;
Our precious time is fleeting
— a spark in the shadow of eternity.

Soon, we’ll drown
In the endless night of forever-darkness.
Like a rock plummeting into the deepest canyon,
We’ll become a hollow thud—
A forgotten echo in numbed stillness.
Every memory of us disintegrating,
Into grains in dust scattered by the wind.

Stirs in the Cauldron of Twilight

In the stillness of the night, I sit by the glowing campfire,
Embraced by an endless blanket of warm stars.
I lean my head on the moon’s shoulder,
And he envelops me gently with his radiance,
Shielding me from the encroaching shadows of loneliness.

I stir my dreams in the cauldron of twilight,
Each bubble—a wish sent on a moonbeam,
Every string of steam—a spiral of hope,
For your fleeting gaze to fill the hollows of my heart.

Like a Witch amidst the dancing flames,
I fervently invoke the celestial light.
Could I cast a spell to attract your affection?
No…
I can’t…
I won’t bewitch your heart…
I loathe cursed adoration.
I shun false and deceptive masquerades.

Still, Evil sneaks in with his deceits,
Haunting me with wicked lures of delusion,
Invading my thoughts, polluting my consciousness.
At night, when darkness closes my eyes,
His demons plunge their claws into my bleeding heart.

Yet, bolted to the sacred stone of pristine sincerity,
I tower tall, siding with purest honesty,
Inviting blooming, genuine love.
I yearn for crimson passion, an ethereal weave,
And your heartfelt desire for me—rooted deeply in utter truth.

I nurture a single seed of hope that
One day, a flicker of your attention
Will find its way to me
And ignite sincere feelings for me.

Why is love so elusive?
Do the flames’ gentle flickers hold the answer?
Their tender whispers enchant me,
Soothing my heart as I wait for you.
For I cannot erase you from my mind.