She dresses for company,
every day –
just in case.
Keeps a puzzle at her side –
a distraction for lonely times,
entertainment for guests.
Body failing,
eyes challenged,
but mind is sharp.
At ninety-one,
how she keeps going
remains a mystery to most.
(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight. The challenge is to write a poem in 44 words (quadrille) using the word puzzle. Thanks Mish!)
Comfortable is the state
I aspire to today –
lounging pants,
a weathered tee,
and a pace to match.
Tomorrow, we prepare:
finish up packing,
load the vehicle,
await the signal –
the house is ours!
Small town living
is the setting of choice –
Stonetown – quaint
shops, cottages of lime,
a river running through it
We’ll settle in amongst
other seniors, register
for local activities, walk
along the trails, and
visit nearby theaters
take the grandchildren
swimming in the quarry,
blue as it is deep –
water trampolines
and kayaks ready for fun.
Yet another adventure,
in our life of many –
so today, I rest, make plans,
nap – save my energy
for busy tomorrows.
(Thanks to Fandango for the daily prompt: comfortable, and to the Ragtag community for quarry. The focus of my weekly challenge is home. Love it if you’d join me.)
It’s like cycling uphill
in three lanes of traffic
in a snowstorm
trying to communicate with you
I keep peddling –
sending signals –
but you’re like the SUV
spraying slush in your wake
hindering progress,
ignoring my needs…
Aren’t we soulmates –
in tune, hearts beating as one –
words superfluous between us?
Then why am I about to expire
and you’re just revving up?
No telepathy at work here.
Empathy lacking, too.
(Sammi Cox’s weekend challenge is telepathy in 72 words)
Old houses exude charm:
walls whispering nostalgic
wonder, eliciting yearnings
buried deep within the soul.
Purchasers are spellbound,
transported to simpler times,
read mystical forecasts in
archways and carved nooks.
Committed, they settle in,
noting too late cosmetic
fixes, startled to uncover
structural faults, despair
to learn that the dreams
which built this place have
now crumbled and cracked,
repairs needed extensive.
Overhauling beyond means –
physically and financially –
old houses not only offer,
but test, character – beware.
(Originally posted July 2016.)
Yesterday’s vibrancy
now faded markings
on boarded up facades
I stand on the edge
of loss, of ghostly
memories and ponder
what lies below –
perched as I am
on a precarious throne
have ignored the call
of the river, the beckoning
horizon, preferred comfort
over adventure, and now
in bitterness, blame those
distant shadows, certain
that the enemy lies
in foreign places,
never on home soil.
(Photo from personal collection was taken along the Rio Grande. Mexico sits across the way. The town we stopped in had many abandoned buildings, reflective of the economy, my guess.)
Was willing to settle
even before casting off
anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, no oar to steer
left fate to the currents
a vessel adrift, naïve
trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware
of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks
like to circle wayward
boats, certain of a catch
no wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked
I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism
had failed to register
the dangers of sailing,
into uncharted waters,
the necessity of navigational
resources, and a life jacket,
the knowledge to stay afloat
and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves hearts.
(Inspired by the image and Laura’s Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt: wrecked)
The house is brand new and we move in without our mother, who is in the hospital getting our new baby. There are three floors of living space, but I am most interested in the room in the basement – the one that no one else knows exists (except my dad, of course, ’cause he built the house.) You have to go through the rec room, past the door to the bar, into the laundry room, and then squeeze past the furnace. There’s a long narrow hallway that leads to a secret room behind the bookcase. The walls here are concrete, but there is a rug on the floor, and some of those fold-up chairs. There are boxes too, and it smells kind of bad, but the best part is a hole in the wall, just large enough to peek through, and if I come down here before anyone else, I can spy on them. Mostly, it’s my oldest sister and her icky boyfriends – boy are there things I could tell Mom and Dad, except I’m not supposed to be here, and if Dad knew, he’d kill me, so I have to keep it quiet. Why do we need a secret room anyway?
Frosty panes glisten,
while innocence bears witness –
mysteries rampant.
(Lillian at dVerse invites us to delve into the traditional with a halibun examining a room from our early childhood. )
Breathe!
I must still
this pounding;
quiet my nerves,
think.
Days light fades –
time is running out
movements need be
precise, swift,
silent
No room for error
as I navigate
this rocky path
cling to
shadows
I salivate,
the taste of
salty flesh
teasing tongue
obsessed
Joy of stalking.
(Written for Deb Whittam’s 50 Word Thursday prompt. Image courtesy of Deb. Visit Twenty Four to participate.)
Conscience clear,
even circumspect,
no hidden motives,
just a desire for closeness,
an intimacy only two
can share, and yet
even as you approach
I feel my waters
clouding, doubts
scurrying across
surfaces…
One Woman's Quest 