Quarrel started
over his choice
of reading material
She couldn’t compete
with centrefold perfection
but held her tongue
Afraid she wouldn’t win;
defended her innocence
when magazines disappeared
Sleepwalking doesn’t count
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The proverbial can has exploded –
transparency of our deceit now lies
like swarms of glass snakes writhing
at our feet – litany of hissing truths
Bent on keeping innocence alive,
I strategically attempt avoidance,
point to wealth, abundance, nurture
focus … the onslaught continues.
Slivers of slime, maggot-like hoards
mobilize – a sea of protestation,
I, overwhelmed by filth and disgust
encroaching on my sanity, helpless.
Familiarity colours the devastation –
have witnessed it before, watched
as my mother bit into the same
serpent-defiled apple…turned away.
There are no barriers to block out
the vile beasts, no refuge for broken
souls, whose lives, twisted in denial,
have mercilessly fallen to betrayal.
(Fallen From Grace was written in January, 2016. Image my own)
(This is an edited version of an earlier poem from 2016. Image my own)
I attempt to predict
but the future is blank
Snapshots only portray
the past, fragmented
Sunsets might suggest,
birds leak probabilities
But I want to peek
behind the final curtain
Cut through the noise
of popular currents
Life is two-faced
deception paired
And row as I might
fighting the flow
Manna follows its own rhythm
nips at my fears, like a tail wind
Nothing in it but to breathe
Lighten this intense need to know
(Image my own)
Prevarication
the new hegemony
Lawlessness mocks
governing principles
Body of democracy
faltering beneath weight
archaic ideologies –
dangerous take on leadership.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Withdrawal does not negate
the duplicity of the situation
I am at once compliant
and unruly – conflicted
I do what I can to hush
the rule-breaker, amuse
her with trivial activities
but she is vociferous
Disapproval justify’s itself
with personal anecdotes,
as if judgement is queen
only fuelling righteous rage
I attempt to retreat further
but the beastly turmoil
has grown wings –
consequences knocking
Try as I might to swat it away
my excuses are flimsy,
I am without substantial argument –
best to open the door and let it out.
(Image my own)
Why am I courting judgment
like an old friend,
popping in unexpectedly?
She overlooks my needs,
barges in reeking
of stale perfume, and
energy-sucking shoulds
I crave the subtle tones of compassion –
quiet whispers over tea –
a gentle pat, words of encouragement
But, truth be told,
I squirm at even this –
hate vulnerability,
hate this weakness on display,
this chronic, fucking disability
Seems I have dressed myself
in judgment’s cloaks,
walk in the pinched shoes
of expectations too tight
No wonder I’m exhausted,
am dying…numbed
to my own drama.
(Image my own)
If I could touch the heavens
feel the reassurance of other
I know I would soar, untethered
to this bank of rusty dreams
and eroded faith…
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Revisiting capacity –
this old heart
more accommodating
than once imagined
Awe-inspiring
this perspective
wealth undiscovered
the fullness of being
Jealousy, such bile,
gnaws away at resolve
if I am not careful –
challenging, but I am wilful
Stay focused
task by task
there is no loss
in colouring the world
love rose
only endless bounty.
How the young sparkle
dreams of Santa’s arrival –
I drink of their cup
borrow the giddy whimsy –
Joy a welcome contagion.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 