At every turn
a challenge – prefer scenic
forays, encounter
rocky climes – ironic twists,
stretching this reluctant soul
(Image my own)
At every turn
a challenge – prefer scenic
forays, encounter
rocky climes – ironic twists,
stretching this reluctant soul
(Image my own)
Doctoring broken hearts –
my own legacy a training ground –
like an anesthesiologist
I keep the patient breathing,
asleep – muted by kindness,
unconscious and unable to react.
Why?
Because lulling others is more
effective than operating on self –
faux obligations such a balm
Administer lidocaine to the wounds
Numbness preferable to open-hearted
investigation…
no sutures strong enough
to remedy internal bleeding
(Art my own)
Somehow I knew his mask was porcelain –
impossible to hide the soul’s light
reflected in troubled eyes…
I played along though,
humoured his self-deception
nodded at assertions of calm
Knew that one day the facade would crack
the mask would slip and the rage escape
Why I didn’t run; I do not know
Maybe it was recognition –
my own countenance a carefully construed lie
Maybe I needed to prove to myself
that no matter how violent his storm
this time I would emerge triumphant.
(Poem inspired by Sadje’s What Do You See image prompt.)
Wrapped in reptilian attire, change
climbs aboard my well-intentioned scheme
like a boa constrictor – disarming me
I am more inconvenienced than repulsed –
after all, snake is my power animal,
Or so the seer said…many years ago
Days when I would wear the scaly
comportment of power – invite
transformation- my essence a seeker
But I am trying to settle here –
embrace age and its complications
and yet the serpent persists
Sibilance insisting on co-navigation-
and what will be the outcome, I wonder
if I were to surrender to such a calling?
Change does not heed our fears,
our ego-driven agendas…
It bears its fangs and taunts
I exaggerate the threat, of course-
imagine being consumed or suffocated –
disregard the potential for healing
Have no time for reflection or pause –
the course is already set –
I hold on and feign control
(Art my own)
Met a bear who proclaimed himself to be a man;
knew the instant I spotted him – lumbering
gait approaching – that he was an animal,
feared for my safety, would have retreated
stayed at my mother’s side – sheltered in
familiarity – were I not so fixated on his
blatant woundedness. Sympathy blinding
sensibility, i listened, hypnotized
by the whiteness of his exposed skin –
wanted to believe the veracity of his
tales of conversion – could visualize
him sitting in church, imagine the
horror of the congregants melting,
as I was, into acceptance, drinking
in his words, hearts soaring at his
professed abstinence from sins
of the flesh; none of immune to
fairy-tale endings; faith above all.
Left the sanctity of mother’s fold;
followed him to his wooded lair;
read humility into his minimalist
housing, swept away his cobwebs
and my dreams, determined to
find fulfillment in domesticity.
The forest has it own story to tell –
nature does not lie – a beast does not
its essence forget, in time his true
temperament emerged, and I, lost
withered into a crumpled ball,
a wisp of a character, weakened,
disheartened; could not bend
myself to become either bear
nor Goldilocks; could not tame
his insatiable grumblings nor
abide long winters confined;
discovered too late the folly
of my girlish fantasies, learned
that sympathy did not beget love,
and denying instincts did not alter
the fact that a bear is not a man.
(Poem first appeared here April 2016. Couldn’t resist the accompanying image – photoshopped by yours truly)
How am I to work today
as a black squirrel navigates
precarious saplings
with death-defying sure-footedness?
And the Red-bellied woodpecker
thrums outside my window,
having mistaken brick for walnut bark
his bright red cap catching my breath
And how can I ever hope to focus
when a flit of yellow coming to rest
at our array of feeders, indicates
that the Goldfinch is declaring Spring?
The Chickadees are calling “you-who”
and the Blue Jay dares to ask
“Where are the peanuts?”
and I am feeling a tug of guilt
Even a starling,
perching on the windowsill
peers inside and ponders
what attraction keeps me glued
I’ve papers to write, blogs to read
and, well, a need to fulfill expectations
but how am I to concentrate
when Nature is so full of promise?
(Sketch my own)
Essence is essence
and flat as I might feel
shadow reveals otherwise;
such is the mystery of life
Orange is my essence –
the promise of sunshine
and creativity, and… I envy
blue its expansiveness
Constrained as I am
by conformity –
this silver-framed
existence a settling
But shadows don’t settle
they stretch and bend
and exclaim rebellion
savagely defending essence.
(Slanted Orange was written in 2022 as a collaborative effort with a local photographer. The efforts of our poetry group are published in a book called the Minimalist Eye. Click here to see the whole collection as well as the photographs that inspired each poem. I’ve used my own art for this post.)
Creativity partners more with chaos than clarity
It craves colour, light, darkness
movement not supported by 2 dimensions
I delude myself into thinking that words,
cleverly positioned, can decipher the compulsion
fail to understand that soul, unchained, has no words
It is the free-flowing expression of music, dance
It follows the murmuration of birds, and
crawls along the earth, serpent-like
I seek the intimacy of knowing other –
raw and unblemished – but how can this be?
We are form emerging from mystery
That I should find you, Love,
there amid the noise of awakening
then I am more than blessed
Your mind reaches for the definable
while I drowsily bask in sensations
our coming together never akin to wholeness
Yet explosive in its imperfection
Oh, if we could see the artistry
arising from two souls seeking unity
Comprehend that we are the instrument
the vessel through which creativity speaks
a magnificent tribute to Life’s source.
(Art is a combination of my own effort and AI.)
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception,
once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred,
colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives
old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty
sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls
defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me
fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back
old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens
of my own making, distorted but secure.
(Image my own)
Maudlin convention
I balk at your constraints
jettison the traditions
that propagate hate
Future is an open road
I do not hesitate –
Yes, there is uncertainty
Yes, I’ll make mistakes
Vulnerability will conquer pride
mind willing, convention I’ll shake
(Art my own)