Like the lion who decided
So many years ago
To hanker down inside his den
An' ne'er roam to and fro

With loving held in keeping
He sleeps the years gone by
And doesn't miss the chance to hunt
To kill, to eat, or die.

There's comfort in his status
Alone, but unafraid
Of sticks and stones and leaves and such
That are the bed he made.

Until one day like thunder
He rears his head and roars
Dreams, like the lion awakened
To hunger evermore.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/01/2022 12:17PM by UPMarty.

Nice girl, very nice. I've known this lion. Never actually thought of them as lions, but you paint a picture in which become such. Nicely done.

A good read Marty, I'm slowly getting around to reading some of these posted while I was on hiatus.


Les

Thanks both Terry & Les, for your comments on this ditty.

Mary

I like it Mary. It's a good metaphor and the feeling is empowering.

But you know, the lioness is the natural hunter of the species and the lion rarely does the killing. Ironic isn't it? Perhaps in this show of strength your humility is still showing a little when you give the male the power.
Steve

I didn't know that about the species, Steve, but your comments are interesting.

I've often said to myself that life's circumstances have forced me to learn to work like a man. There is both conflict and irony in the dreams that have lingered in the recesses of my mind.

My mother's role is the one upon which my dreams were constructed. Though it was my father's that saved me from succumbing to the pitfalls of broken dreams. He always taught us that is didn't matter what you do in life, just do it well. I never dreamed to be both mother and father to my children, nor to both get the bacon AND fry it up in the pan.

I wouldn't have carried signs for the feminist movement, and would hope that I've retained some humility through it all. Responsibilities come with power. Having the power was never part of the dream. And if I have any now, it is only because I've had the responsibilities.

The conflict is that the strength I've had to muster, may very well be what keeps me from realizing any parts of the dream that remain.

Thanks for your comments, Steve.

Mary

i like s2 the best.

myself, i always knew i'd have to get the bacon and fry it in the pan. what used to kinda torque my jaw a bit was when i never got to eat any of it.

i love the way you title your poems.

thanks mitts. You knew from the beginning? I guess if you know from the start, you can't really complain. Appreciate the comments.

Mary

I hate to butt in, but anybody whose just plain being taken advantage of or being exploited has a right to complain, whether she's called a 'wife' or a slave. We both got the bacon in turns and we both cooked that bacon and we ate it together for as long as we could stand each other. Bless her.

Peter

You can butt in anytime, Peter.

The break up of my marriage would have been easier to handle had it been as simple as breaking free from slavery or exploitation. My husband and I both got the bacon, cooked it, and ate it together too. He was an excellent cook, and we did our housework together every Saturday. We both enjoyed family more than anything, and got along famously. I loved him with all my heart and soul.

He was the type of person, however, who couldn't hold on to a nickel, and thought any job over minimum wage was a good one. He knew he was terrible with money, so willingly handed over his paychecks to me and let me manage the bills, etc.

He could call in sick to go fishing and wouldn't feel one ounce of guilt. While I, on the other hand, wouldn't step outside my door if I called in sick to work, mostly because I'd be too sick. He would have preferred to be a house husband, and would have made a very good one. That was difficult enough for me to wrap my brain around, coming from a very traditional home with a hard working father and a stay at home mother, but I think I would have been able to work through it, if not for his drinking/drug problems besides.

I woke up one too many nights to find him urinating in the refrigerator, or swaying back and forth while making a midnight snack. I came home one afternoon to find him passed out on the couch while our son, then under two years old, was asleep under an end table. Sober, he never would have done anything to put the children or me in harm's way.

It just got to the point where I felt like I was having to manage everything anyway, while also putting up with his drunken stupors and all the chaos that accompanies drunkeness. So I divorced him. But it definitely broke my heart and my dreams. I think it took about five years before I didn't cry myself to sleep every night. Once in a while, I still get sad about it, and it's been 21 years now.

Mary