Stalemate

Long a monument to inaction,

the days and ways to change
fly as birds on the wing.

Control is the final destination
for those who must be right;
if not me, then no one.

Passive-agression has a face:
blank eyes smolder with hate;
why are you not in my image?!

No brilliant strategy can bind;
the way to freedom, step away
and proclaim the game unworthy.

The resulting stale mate
claims a winless victory
and a libation of gall.

Birds on the wing fly away,
leading days and ways to change,
leaving droppings on all monuments of inaction.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Boundaries

I never wanted to be contained or apart,
but the fences, walls and ceilings went up anyway.

The meta-message to me: this is love;
these enclosures are yours, deal with them.

But the sound of my song finds flight,
I can hear it on the wind and in the light.

My body is weary, weary of climbing the walls,
climbing walls that do not belong to me.

I cannot get over into that garden
where once I stood and thought I felt the sun.

But I have only slowly come to realize:
the only true garden is where I am Now.

The gates to that other place are closed;
there is no going back, only forward.

The love that sought to box me lies entombed;
Wistfully, my wings exercise freedom of flight again.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen