A chair stands on four legs, not two (it would topple), not six (too heavy, too crowded). Four: graceful and balanced.
Obedient lumber, bearing their weight. Mute. Pushed, dragged, stacked. But its comfort wasn’t enough. Humans craved labor.
So they harnessed a horse: a living engine steaming in the sun, lean muscle and stentorian breaths, groomed and geared. Yet, its flesh grew tired, the horse’s pain inconvenienced men.
So they built a machine: pistons for lungs, steel for bones, engines for heartbeats— a restless body with no tears.
But a mother remained: straining on two legs, bearing like a chair, laboring like a horse, loaded past capacity.
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?
“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.
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
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. 🎭
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. 🌸
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.
Wolverine Lily 