The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once vital but oppressed
Miss, whose identification
was stolen by means of
unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective
that not only restores, but
aids in the teaching of other
shadow-selves, that to reassert
original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge: a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending
too early for my taste
If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess
layers of this confinement
Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore
exuberance of noble youth?
Passion persists, intelligence
intact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.
(Lighting Call first appeared here January, 2019.
Linking up with Reena’s Xploration challenge: light. I
mage my own.)
Forgive the dance –
it’s what I do –
step forward,
slide back,
shuffle, then
lose the rhythm
and start again.
Reaching forward
heart securely tucked,
something embedded –
cellular perhaps –
invites the struggle
and so, I dance –
yesterday, a warrior
today the fool
tomorrow only knows
multi-faceted,
roughly cut,
a gem
of an undefined hue
I will always try again.
(Poem first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, entitled “Forgive The Dance”, October, 2019. Image my own.)
Cornflower submits
to Time’s deadlines
so, why am I always
gasping to catch up?
Is it strength, or failure
to amplify pressure –
expectations set on high?
Oh, to be a simple flower.
(Photo my own).
Summer yearns
sun burning
water cooling
life affirming
longing for love
I would hold you there
in those days of youth
when relationship
donned mystery
and fear shrouded
the path
But Autumn reigns now
a time for letting go
a time for turning
back clocks – time
lost in a mere blink
on the shores
of our story
And soon Winter
when I will knit
our memories
into cozy dreams
and while away
the frosty mornings
sipping from the cup
of moments lost.
(Eugi’s Weekly Prompt is : Autumn. Image my own)
Every child a dreamer
school the tribunal
where imagination
is sentenced to death
Adulthood is a canyon
where ambition shelters
the broader view, till age
resurrects the child.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
Silent as the Great Blue
Autumn hues creep
shifting the landscape
altering my mood.
Do feathers quiver
at the ensuing chill
or is it merely human
this seasonal affect?
(Heron Reflection first appeared here August, 2019.
Image my own.)
Eventuality
of gravity
is bona fide
Flesh is not iron
Minds, however,
can strengthen, if
nurtured with
open compassion
Spirits plummet
and revive, buoyant
as the grace that
serves them.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
Two at the ends, two at the back
one for the cook, one for the help
this was the way of Sunday’s table:
hungry tums anxiously waiting,
family dog glued to the floor
lest any scrap should need saving.
Father would pray for all our saving;
serve himself before handing back,
while Mother paced the dining floor
ever offering us kids some help
till dishes, her end, piled up, waiting –
always an imbalance at our table.
Silence was the rule of the table,
stories and anecdotes were for saving,
politeness called for patient waiting –
chairs tucked in and shoulders back
and no cutting the meat without help,
cold potatoes slyly sloshing on floor.
Youngest feet not reaching the floor
tended to swing beneath the table
kicking knees could not be helped;
from fiendish scowls no saving –
Father’s hand flashed a wicked back,
scolding sermons he kept in waiting.
My tongue would tire of the waiting
no matter how I focused on the floor
and if a sister should glance me back
that would be the end of a quiet table,
giggles nervously emerging from saving
any hope of control beyond our help.
Mother’s good nature was seldom help,
nor Father’s silence as he glared, waiting,
for the situation was far beyond saving,
and his chair angrily scraped the floor
as his storming presence left the table
we happily waved at his regressing back.
***
All the stories we’ve been saving –
childhood foibles we couldn’t help
Days and people we’ll never get back
hoping that somewhere they’re waiting
That one day we’ll meet, share the floor
minus the hurt, forgiveness at the table.
(My poetry circle tried their hands at a sestina.
This is my attempt. Another tale from dinner
with Dad. Image my own.)
Curious by nature
and driven by hope
we push forward
Spring ourselves
from mud-mired traps
of psychological undoings
Focus on a horizon
where sunrises
and sunsets
offer glimpses of glory
Optimist and pessimist
alike, daring to believe
that the beckoning future
bears equal promise.
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 