A Final Mystery

Is death a gentle reprieve,
a final release of suffering
a promised resting place?

Or is it contemplation
coloured by memories
demanding retribution?

Will death bring reunion
unleash forgiveness
shine with revelation?

Will one final earthly breath
call forth all the fragments of the soul
and restore wholeness?

I have witnessed death –
both embraced and unwanted –
snatch the spirit from its nest

felt the whoosh of escape
and a swirl of celebration,
known the peace that follows

witnessed the body, open-eyed
and open-mouthed
become a vacuum –

discarded membranes;
an impotent shell.

The spirit does not dwell there;
it lives on borrowed time.

Where it goes when all is done
remains life’s poignant mystery.

(Originally posted January of 2015, this poem fits V.J.’s Weekly Challenge theme of mystery, hosted on One Woman’s Quest II.  There is still time to participate.  Head on over and check it out.)

60’s Vibes

Sixties’ doctrine was all about love –
long-haired hippies espousing
anti-establishment, warriors sitting
for peace, getting their groove on.

Too young to grasp the concepts
of love not war, reduced to accomplice,
I eagerly followed along in borrowed
fringe, sporting obligatory peace signs.

Observed that hugs, and smiles, are free
and that mind-altering drugs are cool,
and guessed the establishment meant rules,
and that even in protest there was uniformity.

(Inspired by today’s daily prompts:  Fandango, accomplice; Ragtag Community, groove;  and Daily Addictions, doctrine. Photo from personal collection.)

Midsummer Night’s Trap

I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.

You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood

Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me

you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…

So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted

than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach

something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.

(Midsummer Night’s Trap originally appeared here March, 2017.  I am reposting for Laura’s Manic Monday 3-way prompt: poison.)

Silken

How delicate
these threads
that bind us –
frail filaments,
whispery darts
of affection –

How willfully
we ignore connection,
ignore ensuing pain…
individuality usurping
love’s needs –
a harsh lesson.

(Inspired by the featured image and written for the daily prompts:
Fandango: lesson; Ragtag Community: dart; Daily Addictions: frail.)

Conned

Even as fingers – swift
and seductive – thieved,
she moaned invitation,
ignored the warnings

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

He didn’t need a weapon –
the flash of iced blue eyes
and a throaty whisper
rendered her compliant

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

He was pro, conscience
numbed by a list of victims –
so many wasted lives,
faceless towns left behind

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

She blamed it on the passion –
the sudden confusion, misplacing
things, money – her thoughts
blinders set on a glowing future

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

Blamed herself in the aftermath,
would rather he’d used a knife,
slashed her body – violence
less shameful than this

so eager to please,
so hungry for love.

Even Ghosts Yearn

Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious, inviting.

Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr, not mythical
but yielding, mindful;
not worshipful nor boastful,
but comforting, warm

I am waning light,
the mistral wind wafting,
no longer a force of nature –
but smoke, spiraling,
vanishing into non-existence

And yet, even as shadows
spread, I yearn –
heart beating true,
not lost, not forgotten,
but withdrawn, humbled

passion mellowed
by toil of constructing walls –
grit and tar – scar’s long buried,
save the limping gait
of a ghost.

(This poem, worming its way into my thoughts all day, took shape when Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt appeared:  zephyr.   Image is from personal collection.)

Excuse Me?!

Insults and mockery
and off the cuff remarks
all marks of authenticity
merely plain talking larks

so says the republican
in the president’s defence –
we are just oversensitive
those who take offence.

When was it disclosed,
I ask the figure on the screen,
that authenticity is ascribed
to spewing things obscene?

Now I am not American,
so neither right nor left,
still I cannot help but object
when justification is so bereft.

Authenticity, I cry out
implies honesty and trust,
building a self that is hospitable –
openness and compassion a must.

To equate such a concept
with this poor excuse of a man
has really pushed the boundaries;
I’m ready for a Trumpian ban.

(Today’s prompts are as follows:  Fandango’s word of the day:  object; Ragtag Community: hospitable; and Daily Addictions is disclose.  I am not usually political but hearing Trump’s recent comments described as authentic got me going – apparently. Photo is from my personal collection – reminds me of an angry forest spirit.)

Finding Light After Divorce

Jilted by a philandering husband and defrauded out of my share of the assets, I made a convincing victim.

“You are righteously angry,” a friend counselled.

Perhaps so, but something niggled at me.

“A man does not stray unless there is a reason,” someone said, and I felt as if she looked right through me, could see the flaws at my core.  My mother’s repeated warnings came back to me:  “No one will ever love you.”

What is wrong with me?  my broken heart wailed.

Urgency drove me to find answers.  I never wanted to go through this again.  I had to know why my life had turned out this way.

I read.  I read Daphne Rose Kingma’s Coming Apart, and Susan Anderson’s The Journey from Abandonment to Healing, and The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz:  all offering glimpses of insight and understanding – something I could hold on to.  So many books passed through my hands and desperate to learn more, I turned to a galley copy of a book I’d received as a bookstore owner.  A commercial piece, now released, but that I’d never bothered with in the past, having stashed it beside many other soon-to-be published editions.

It was Relationship Rescue by Dr. Phil McGraw.

“Too Late for this, really,” I told myself but I decided to give it a chance.

Dr. Phil wrote the words I had suspected all along:  good relationships begin with the self.  His advice made sense, and more than that, I felt like I was finally onto something.  I attacked the book as if reading a how-to manual, highlighter in hand and pencil at the ready.

Relationship Rescue delves into the different “bad spirits” that we bring to our relationships, and as I read along, I began to recognize bits of myself in the “scorekeeper”, the “fault-finder”, and the control freak, but when I reached the eighth category and began to read, I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach and wanted to throw up. I was the “bottomless pit”.

I told myself that I didn’t need anything so that I wouldn’t be a burden.  What I was actually doing was sabotaging my partner’s chances of ever meeting my needs.  “He should know without me telling him,” was another one of those false beliefs that I measured by husband against.

The spirit I brought to my marriage was ugly.  I had so many expectations about what I wanted and didn’t want based on my parents failures that any partner was destined to fail.

With understanding comes change.  It would not be easy, and I am still a work in progress, but Relationship Rescue gave me solid understanding so that I can be accountable and achieve a healthier relationship.

My challenge this week is to write about (or submit images of) a book that made you sit up and pay attention.  What book(s) made a difference in your life?

 

 

Storms

More black than red,
blood gathers in the tube
puncturing the crux
of left elbow –

a drip, drip of saline
curtails effects of dehydration,
while the newly infused
Gravol spreads – a calm
settling nausea; I sigh

Tests indicate an invader –
infection toppling an already
fragile system, cannot afford
the onslaught..

Hours later, I lie watching
as a storm rages outside –
the sweltering heat
having peaked,
now clashing with
cooler air advancing

Partner tracks the weather
patterns on apps, alerts
me of approaching systems

but I don’t need technology
am feeling resonance with
nature’s thunderous fracas.

(Today’s prompts are as follows:  Fandango’s One Word Challenge is curtail,
Ragtag Community’s offering is trace, and Daily Addictions is afford.)

Photo is from personal collection.  With the help of wonder drugs, I am at home recuperating.)