Sun blazes before it falls,
slashes the day’s sky –
blue guarding against blaze.
Golden grasses absorb
the fire, brazen in their
clay-baked fields.
Branches blacken –
forlorn bristles –
stark against light.
I stand on the precipice,
day’s end beckoning,
taunting, my spirit alive
Will blaze before it falls,
lashing against the heavens
who dare to threaten darkness.
Downy blankets of white softly settle,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.
Inside, my body craving hibernation,
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.
My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.
She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.
Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less: a mere carcass.
Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.
(Soul Stalker first appeared here in January of 2016. I am submitting it for dVerse’s prompt: Confessional poetry, hosted by HA.)
We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I linger at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.
“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims,
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.
The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.
Some destinations are clearly defined –
death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.
(Penned for dVerse’s poetry forms – the sonnet.)
“My children have come home to watch me die,”
she tells her doctor, repeats to me, #5, when I arrive.
“You leave the world the same you came in,” Doc said,
as if that makes sense, as if that offers comfort.
“We don’t want to see you suffer anymore,” I offer.
She agrees, tired of the pain. 92 and nothing but pain.
It’s not death that she fears – she’s ready –
it’s the dying – not knowing how it will happen.
“Will you be with me? When the time comes.”
I will. Just as I did with a sister, two cousins,
father, an aunt, and countless others.
“Angel of Death,” a nurse called me once.
I shrugged: “Would you want to die alone?”
Death, I do know, is like birth,
in that the timing is unpredictable.
So, together, we’ll wait –
biding our time, talking about the present,
reflecting on the past, wondering what lies ahead.
Not all transitions, I’ve learned, are alike.
(I’ve returned home to be at my mother’s side, although, as the poem indicates, she may survive the current setback. I’m linking this up to Manic Mondays 3 way prompt: reflection, and my own weekly challenge: transition.)
Winter –
the colour of my hair,
a sedentary state of being,
the numbing over of ambitions…
These are but illusions…
I am fluid,
essence flowing,
passion undaunted,
creating.
99 emails await attention
brain, like legs, plastic –
To do’s flood consciousness,
constrict breathing –
The sun, reacting to yesterday’s
intensity, has stayed away –
a co-conspirator in misery
I wait for illumination –
clear direction on how
to begin, motivation
to follow
Dampness seeps in –
a body-snatcher –
I must move
Emptied wine glasses
linger on countertop –
remnants of celebration
I turn the faucet to hot
immerse glass and flesh,
will progress.
(Written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing prompt: illumination in 73 words. Also linking up to Fandango’s flood, and Ragtag Community’s plastic. Image from personal collection.)
Escape sits
stalled,
waiting,
one small key
an ounce of courage
and off I’d go,
a wake of water
heralding my exit.
Instead,
I retreat –
courage resides elsewhere,
such exhilaration
belongs to youth –
will ponder adventure
another day –
wait,
stall,
escape
into a nap.
(Written for Twenty Four’s: 50 word Thursday. Photo supplied with challenge.)
Sporting crisply pressed regrets
and tight-assed judgments,
the past happened upon me,
caught me mid-mediocracy,
eye-balled me with a sneer,
and then strolled on by as if
I wasn’t even worth a ‘hello’.
Wait a minute, I cried out
trying to pull myself together,
noting too late, my lack of
grooming, how unfairly
I’d been caught off guard –
Wait! I’ve been wanting
to tell you…I mean… I was
just too young…
All in vain, he’d vanished,
left me gaping and rattled –
damned he looked good –
foolishly pining after
righteousness, imagining
the past as something
tangible, curable….
Age
masks the depth
and breadth of ability –
houses more than anticipated
room for expansion, however;
current state of disrepair –
walls buckling, wiring faulty,
and security systems failing –
compromises output.
Old
holds a certain charm,
character well-earned,
but it would be useful
to install a mechanism
for locking out the past –
perhaps the future too –
eliciting and validating
the fullness of present.
Life! One day rushing to collect kids, stopping for the dry cleaning, and praying the slow cooker is indeed cooking; and the next strolling down uncluttered lanes, contemplating absence. How did we get here? How did we dream so big and land so humble? Gone are big homes and hefty mortgages. Hell, we’re down to one car. Sunday dinners with the family are memories and nowadays, my head spins to think of cooking for more than we two.
Now we speculate about time left. Ponder what distances will support us. Shall we travel, avoid the winter months, and if so, will our health cooperate? Will the children understand? Forgive my melancholy. The silence is echoing off the walls, and I am reflective today. Not in a good way. I’d best get myself outside for some fresh air.
Time slips through fingers
palms reaching outward, hopeful –
Fall’s hues distract woe.
(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 Word Thursday, and dVerse‘s open link night. Photo supplied by Deb Whittam)
One Woman's Quest 