The idealist is annoyed,
cannot forgive these flaws –
how delight can melt into forgetfulness,
exertion transform into immobility,
the insistence that I have no control –
choosing anger over depression,
either way, a loss – unacceptable
to the one who promotes perfection –
I wear the blame, like a hairshirt –
penance for intolerable truths.
The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…
The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak
Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.
Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,
but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.
This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.
(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)
Image from personal collection.
Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms. Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside. Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck, hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood. A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek. I step back, startled. No damage done.
I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy. I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom. At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away. I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.
Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence. I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture. The crickets keep on singing.
Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.
(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)
Came across this post today, and felt the hand of synchronicity at play. Michele’s words reminded me that my experience is not unique. She speaks to the human condition of aging eloquently.
“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
Some of us fight aging. Some of us embrace it. Whichever approach is yours, though, aging beats the alternative. In the immortal words of someone.
People in my family die young. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to be old. Or maybe it’s because I’d hoped to be old and wise, to stop making the same foolish mistakes over and over again.
That hasn’t happened yet, but aging has made me lazier, meaning that I now have no energy at all to boss other people around about how to spend their days. It’s all I can do to manage my own days.
One of my…
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Insignificant enough
to go missing –
a single box,
stored away,
one, maybe two,
moves ago –
the absence
of its contents
now called into question.
Seems that redundancy
is not permanent –
what was once inconsequential
now has purpose –
gives me renewed hope.
(Today’s quadrille prompt is box. Visit dVerse to participate. Our host this evening is De Jackson.)
Found my first love
holding hands
walking home
from school –
grade one.
Father’s grip
crushed,
controlled,
warned against
disobedience,
held on until
compliance
was assured.
My sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until her internal heat
burned the touch
and I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles,
employs sensuality
to invoke desire.
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go,
prideful possession.
My granddaughter’s fist –
still pink from birthing –
wrapped around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life –
My husband’s hand
reaches out for mine
conveys support
for unsteady legs
offers strength
to propel me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments,
leave deep impressions.
(Tonight is Open Link night at dVerse, and our host Lillian has invited us to celebrate with her, as August 9th marks many National celebrations, one of which is National Hand Holding Day. To see the others and join in, visit here.)
Front porch –
a balcony view –
retirement’s play.
Novel – this place –
silence stretches,
pauses briefly –
a car creeps by,
or a dog barks –
my heart beats…
inside – commotion –
pounding hammers,
swoosh of legs in motion –
not mine – body bankrupt –
mind impoverished –
no – not that – just struggling.
empty boxes pile up,
others – contents lingering,
unresolved – call my name,
but the front porch
makes promises –
there is time…
(I am a day late for dVerse, but intrigued by the challenge, decided to join in anyway. Today’s prompts are: commotion (Fandango), novel (Ragtag Community), poverty (Daily Addictions). Photo is front porch view – our first sunset.)
Chance encounter,
a simple “hello”,
and I reel
backwards,
grasping…
blank
the mind a trickster,
memory inaccessible,
panic pulses
a response…
hovers
out of reach
expectancy
a deadline…
Am I smiling?
Or just an inert fool,
this brain fog
a cruel master.
(Ran into an old friend today. Could not remember her name, nor where I knew her from, only that we knew each other quite well. This is has been happening frequently – maybe as I get out more. Very disconcerting.
Prompts today are from Fandango: deadline; Ragtag Community: pulse; and Daily Addictions: access.)
She dresses for company,
every day –
just in case.
Keeps a puzzle at her side –
a distraction for lonely times,
entertainment for guests.
Body failing,
eyes challenged,
but mind is sharp.
At ninety-one,
how she keeps going
remains a mystery to most.
(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight. The challenge is to write a poem in 44 words (quadrille) using the word puzzle. Thanks Mish!)
One Woman's Quest 