(Warning: trigger)
It wasn’t for want of terror –
inexplicable horror
caused me to quake
There was no one to hear –
a remote lair, boarded
ensured the perfect crime
Even in the aftermath –
self erased, movement
adrenalin automaton
Even then, no sound,
voice stifled by guilt
certainty blame was mine
Art of dissociation
keeps me now, surface
calm – shame numbed
The scream a silent
reverberation
tearing at my soul.
(For Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: scream.)
Autumn dons a mask,
regales the changing season,
ignores Winter’s threat –
and I too, dance, brightly clad,
deny the nearness of death.
In Mallard’s wake woe –
with clipped wings, I watch and yearn
for Winter sojourn.
(For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day, and RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Challenge: wake/wail)
Bent –
life’s tribulations weighty
do not confuse this folding
with weakness, I am
worn –
tested resilience
nourishes creativity
I am muse rich,
alive –
alone my story
an illustration,
my life art.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
Source: “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot
I line my spoons on the counter –
measures of the day’s reserves
one spoon for morning tea
with a side of emails read
a shower requires two or three
with a guarantee of needed rest
I’ll linger horizontal – added care
when an outing is in the plans
the thrill of venturing, and delight
of conversation shared wipes
the counter clean – I’ll crash
and crave for one spoon more
enough to get me into bed
pray tomorrow’s count the same.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge, in which she challenges us to use one of the given lines of poetry. Spooning is the term used for those of us with chronic illness who have limited energy. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is characterized by exhaustion after exertions. My day starts with depleted energy, and I work from there.)
…and some days
we stand up
topple the furnishings
of corporate order
decry politics
and etiquettes
and rage,
rage,
inner light
exploding
in a shattering
ball of fire
blinding
purifying
setting souls free
setting us free
…and then
it’s over –
in a blink
and our desk mate
still sleeps the slumber of automaton
clicks a mouse in rhythm with photocopier
we sigh
and re-conform.
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, spiralling,
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.
(Poem first appeared here July, 2018. I am resubmitting for Ragtag Community’s prompt: humble. Image from personal collection.)
That tone –
teeth clenched
lips taut
the coldness
in your gaze
I swallow
anxiously
shifting
foot to foot
await
raise of hand
fist clenched
in ball of rage
smugness
vanquished
in ominous wait
but you pause
step back
straighten
mouth relaxing
into a grin
with a twinkle
admit
you might have
done the same.
(Written for All The Shoes I Wear, whose prompt is ominous.
Fields glisten –
golden satisfaction –
eagle soars above
Sun on river gleams
a glorious farewell
my heart joins eagle.
(Image from personal collection.)
Feathers fanned pronounce
prowess of river raven –
deep diver, swift flight.
(For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day. Image from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 