The Last Train (Sonnet)

We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I busied at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.

“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.

The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.

Some destinations are clearly defined –
Death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.

(The Last Train first appeared January 2019. Image my own)

Mouse Massacre

There are mouse bits
splayed across the sunroom
stuck to my favourite throw rug
and great globs of glue

The trap my husband set
to catch the recent invasion
apparently lured the hunter
for she, stiff legged and
face matted, is skulking
elsewhere

I stepped on a gluey bit
eyes not yet open
before noting
the disarray

Hard to concentrate
when a tail detached
from a thigh (foot intact)
lie stuck to one’s rug
and entrails drip down
the freshly painted
off-white wall.

Sustenance Rekindled

It wasn’t the knowledge of stability –
chaos had the upper hand back then.
It wasn’t even that love was expressed –
unconditional an unheard of concept

It was an unspoken presence
the reassurance of rocks
the irrepressible allure
of a freshwater stream

How a child’s heart
found encouragement
in the whispering wind
solace in the arbored shelter

Naturally the din of home life
overpowered this self-assured
passage, disrupted kinship
and shattered childish faith

But all that is behind now
and when I clear cluttering
thoughts, disperse static
emotions, quiet the heart

The rhythms are still there –
presence offering sustenance…

(Poem first appeared here, January, 2021. Image my own)

What Dreams Reveal

Two decades before the fall
I dreamt of that white house
with black shutters,
entered the dimness
and saw myself –
withered, a straw body

Could I have altered the course
gathered that mummified self
in my arms, breathed new passion
into old bones, stopped
the onslaught of night
of cells freezing
passionless

No.
I walked in oblivion
seduced by false trickery
dim-witted in the fading light
cold, aloof, unresponsive
warnings be damned

Two decades later,
body inert, mind bereft
of hope – I dreamt
of a younger self
so intent on life
that she passed me by.

Fallen From Grace

The proverbial can has exploded –
transparency of our deceit now lies
like swarms of glass snakes writhing
at our feet – litany of hissing truths

Bent on keeping innocence alive,
I strategically attempt avoidance,
point to wealth, abundance, nurture
focus … the onslaught continues.

Slivers of slime, maggot-like hoards
mobilize – a sea of protestation,
I, overwhelmed by filth and disgust
encroaching on my sanity, helpless.

Familiarity colours the devastation –
have witnessed it before, watched
as my mother bit into the same
serpent-defiled apple…turned away.

There are no barriers to block out
the vile beasts, no refuge for broken
souls, whose lives, twisted in denial,
have mercilessly fallen to betrayal.

(Fallen From Grace was written in January, 2016. Image my own)

(This is an edited version of an earlier poem from 2016. Image my own)

Shoreless

I attempt to predict
but the future is blank

Snapshots only portray
the past, fragmented

Sunsets might suggest,
birds leak probabilities

But I want to peek
behind the final curtain

Cut through the noise
of popular currents

Life is two-faced
deception paired

And row as I might
fighting the flow

Manna follows its own rhythm
nips at my fears, like a tail wind

Nothing in it but to breathe
Lighten this intense need to know

(Image my own)

The Opposite of Confrontation

Withdrawal does not negate
the duplicity of the situation
I am at once compliant
and unruly – conflicted

I do what I can to hush
the rule-breaker, amuse
her with trivial activities
but she is vociferous

Disapproval justify’s itself
with personal anecdotes,
as if judgement is queen
only fuelling righteous rage

I attempt to retreat further
but the beastly turmoil
has grown wings –
consequences knocking

Try as I might to swat it away
my excuses are flimsy,
I am without substantial argument –
best to open the door and let it out.

(Image my own)