Does peace have a sound,
and if it does, is it soft like a whisper,
or chime-like – a resonance
reverberating from tip to crown?
I have known exaltation,
felt my heart thrill at the dance
of dolphins just beyond my reach
I have known elation, awe,
honour and humility,
but would I recognize peace?
Joy is a child’s laughter
bliss, indescribable pleasure,
so why am I forgetting peace?
Does peace have a sound
and if it does, will I recognize it
attuned as I am to discord?
(Image my own)
Imagine orange –
a lifetime of suppression,
roots tangled in black,
rebellion a given –
art bleeds essence at last
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Art my own)
A murder of crows
peck at a carcass
beneath the old Spruce
Likely dragged there
by a coyote after feasting
They do that sometimes
a brazen act of rebellion
our bricked presence
blocking the path
I reached for the phone
this morning, wanting to relay
current events, and then…stopped
remembering you are gone
only my carcass remains, rots
at the mocking of crows
Coyotes are tricksters, they say
and I feel picked apart
preyed upon on my own path
the wounds of the past
inviting the mind’s vultures.
What is it all about
this mortality/ immortality?
A dove rests on the porch rail
sleeping despite the crow fray
Peace slumbers on this mournful day.
(Image my own)
It is like shopping
in a department store –
lots of options
but no currency –
soul impoverished
To be as the nightjar,
identity hidden
in a nest of leaves
hunger for solitude
the time it takes
to heal soul wounds
Lies I tell myself –
true healing happens
with compassion
Sacred gift
of unconditional love
bestowed by a kindred heart
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Trees have a story,
buried in their roots,
refined by seasonal passages,
etched in scarred bark
Birds know these stories
Sing their praise, unapologetic –
and we can hear them too,
if we only learn to listen
I have a story
birthed from parental lips
delineated by the jostling
of our many limbed life
It states that I am the good one,
the responsible, the brilliant,
the child of hope and valour…
this story is not mine
I am a tree, whose scars
suggest a history, whose roots
remain hidden, and whose voice
was lost in familial tempests
The birds know it, though
and carry my essence
on winged notes, back
to source, where I am written.
(Art my own)
Flowers greet the rain
face-up appreciation –
nourishment’s glow.
Once I counted your love
on daisy petals –
loves me, loves me not
Followed you to Aberdeen
where the grey wafted
like haar off the sea
Everything cold –
cruelty of avarice
absence of compassion.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
3:33 AM
Startled awake
The answer
there, on the brink
Of course I lose it
rising to answer another call
Oh, how it taunts
Try to recapture the moment
find the right twist of body
as if I’m a radio tuner
signal lost
And what answer would that be, anyway?
Now fully awake, pondering questions –
only one applies
This newly formed fear
I’ve dared not voice it –
it cuts deep
Is there an answer
and if so, do I want to hear it?
I fall back to sleep
awake hours later
mind blissfully empty.
(Image my own)
We are not islands:
isolated,
insulated,
to be ignored.
We are hearts engaged
in a relational dance:
intertwining stories,
weaving new tales
Yearning for love’s reciprocity
Delighting in wonder of discovery
Slugging through painful demise
Striving to be better
We build walls,
construct towers,
follow paths leading nowhere –
the pitfalls of our quest
Artificial barriers:
lofty ideals,
dead ends…
and still we push on
Dreaming of hands that hold
and gentle waters – soothing
and warm – passionate kisses:
Love’s rewards
We exist
not for accumulation
but for the gifts that arise
when open hearts dance
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 