Laughter, like sunshine,
cleared the air, painted our hearts
verdant love renewed.
(A haiku borrow from Twitter. Â Visit me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Laughter, like sunshine,
cleared the air, painted our hearts
verdant love renewed.
(A haiku borrow from Twitter. Â Visit me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
I know what infinity means:
it’s one hundred plus one.
Voice of innocence
serene her sense of self
of life’s complexities.
Should borrow from her,
embrace that confidence,
but worry intervenes.
How do we preserve
the wonder of youth,
save her from cynicism?
That it is! I reply,
my smile a warm hug –
vow to be forever advocate.
(I submit this poem, inspired by my six-year-old granddaughter, to three challenges:
Ragtag Community’s, serene; Â Fandango’s advocate; and Reena’s Exploration challenge. Â Image from personal collection.)
She sits with me at breakfast,
follows me to the park,
hovers on the drive home,
celebrates when I lie down,
snuggles in with warming pad,
and moans…
Not a companion
I would have chosen,
preferred the active,
athletic life, and yet
She complains with me
in the afternoon, invites
excuses during dinner,
grounds me in the evenings
and tosses me at bedtime
Not a companion
I would have chosen,
but at least I’ll grant her this –
she’s chronically devoted.
Unexpected,
this encounter –
piercing golden eyes
a coat of mottled feathers,
a new visitor to our river –
not sure who is more startled.
(Smaller than the bald eagle, this bird of prey was perched riverside. Â Suspect it is a red-tailed hawk. Â For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day.)
(
She’s not in the kitchen
presiding over preparations,
thriving amidst the chatter,
tutting away thieving fingers.
She’s not in the classroom,
mastering subjects,
upholding order,
ruling with charitable hand.
Nor is she at social affairs,
head bent in rapt attention,
smiling cordially,
gracious with compassion.
The Queen is missing –
the poise and composure
that marked her carriage
has vanished without a trace.
Don’t ask the old woman
tottering down the lane,
stooped and stumbling –
she’s not all there.
Her mind’s a trickster,
her ego a petulant child,
unwilling to concede wrong –
she’s merely the court jester.
(The Queen is Missing first appeared August of 2015.)
I have examined your wallpaper,
discussed the scholarly attributes
of shades of yellow, traced the edges
of your unravelling with my mind,
argued the merits of Gothic horror;
marvelled at the brilliance of wording,
the courage to define the nature of
feminine madness, the boldness to
highlight inequalities long before the
establishment of a Person’s Act.
Forgive me, but I need to set aside
this keyboard for a moment, for I tire
easily, am suffering from an exhaustion
that is systemic and calls for elimination
of all stimulus in favour of rest, you see
I share your sentence of confinement,
isolated to a room with windows, my
mind wandering to ancestral gardens,
contemplating shadows and movement
cognizant of underlying forces, creeping.
My husband has just left, dear man, having
checked on me, taking on my burden,
concerned that I am not sleeping at night
thinks that by reading and rereading your
words I am only fueling an already over-
active imagination; begging me to be still
as the doctor has recommended; but I am
burning to tell you that time has no
relevance between us and that you and I
exist simultaneously – a secret we dare
not confess – how correct your impulse
that there was more than one woman,
that we are many, barred by the designs
of society, papered over by irrational,
outdated shades of yellow, lacking
symmetry, or sensibility, suffocating
our creativity, tortuously contorting
ourselves to been seen, accepted.
It is the smell of our discordant souls
that pervades your consciousness
the rotted withering of a stifled
existence – a yellowed existence –
once hopeful, sunny, now molding
mucous, desperately torn away
at the edges, pleading for escape
How grateful I am that you see –
may I call you Charlotte – that you
have smelled the angst, witnessed
the struggle, are willing to tear at
the sticking places, to set us free.
(I wrote this in the throes of severe M.E. – sleepless nights, coupled with systemic exhaustion and endless confinement to bed brought to mind the short story : Yellow Wallpaper. I submit it here and am linking up with Brave and Reckless’ challenge based on Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s piece)
Sky darkens
burdened clouds
release sorrow
in empathy
body throbs –
aching harmonics.
(Twitter Tuesday @Vjknutson)
I navigate sharp twists,
confront rough trails,
steep slopes, swoon
at dizzying heights,
frailty felt.
This path is for rugged,
mountain-born,
those accustomed
to the sheer immutable
force of rock –
and yet, my lens
tells a different tale –
speaks of shadows
shifting witnesses
mutations of colour
describes a giant
whose facade reflects
the day’s passing light,
demonstrates compassion
in earth’s stillness.
(Mountain first appeared in February of 2018, inspired by the Apache Trail, Arizona.  Watercolour image by yours truly.)
Perched treetop high
plump Indigo releases
a sumptuous song.
(Submitted for Granny Shot It’s bird of the day and RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku challenge: plump/ luscious. Â Image of Indigo Bunting from personal collection.)
Is this life-play pre-staged –
reservations made in childhood
when fun constituted priority,
and drama thrived, unchecked
by adults, bemoaning authority,
too self-absorbed to conceive
consequences beyond jest?
Or did some karmic assessment
initiate the unfolding –
social standing, and needs
prescribed as lessons,
dependents selected as inspiration,
and if so, is there a contract
revealed upon ultimate exit
or a certificate of completion
securing passage upwards?