Category: aging

Moon Message

I stand on the threshold of change
anxiety and depression howling at my side
the shadows of uncertainty elongated
by the fullness of the moon.

She is no guide, this orb-faced
deity, whose countenance
fails to reveal a directive –
and yet, at some primal level

I feel we are aligned,
know that her pull is primal
her presence a reminder
that life is cyclical and

just as the emotional waters
rise, so too will they ease
and her voiceless essence
calls me to still the madness

close my eyes to the distortion of fear
and attune to a calm inner glow –
to trust the light within, and
move noiselessly into the unknown.

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(Today’s prompt is to select a tarot card and write about it.)

6 Wheels

He drives; I sit
armrests down
blanket secured
seatback reclined.

We are trucker-high
panoramic witnesses
living a transformer life –
retractable walls, 6 wheels

bus-like we navigate
destination discovery
former stagnation distant –
we are nomads, defying roots.

He drives, and I sleep
two old people undertaking
a journey of impermanence
thriving in each given moment.

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(Today’s challenge is to write a paragraph describing some aspect of life and then by erasing words to create a poem.)

Shoebox Dreams

A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents

snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness

this one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained, the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice

how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so

much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning

but wait – this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?

That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom

does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.

(Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge asks us to consider future.)

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On Snakes in Drawers

Moving on – it’s top priority,
sorting through the collected,
the unused, the forgotten –
ready to let it all go, but…

there’s a snake in the drawer
and the temptation is real –

to do the irrational, flee
in a panic, shoot the beast,
or set the house on fire –
I’m overcome with anxiety

there’s a snake in the drawer
and it sure is getting to me.

Practicality says this isn’t helping,
hasn’t got time for the drama, says
let it go, re-prioritize, focus on
what’s important, making progress

there’ a snake in the drawer,
and if it got in, it can get out

I’m terrified now, my skin crawling
with the certainty of confrontation –
the cold-bloodedness of a reptile
immobilizes me, and I’m certain

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and it will be the end of me.

Common sense directs me back
to the task at hand, uses distraction
to dissuade panic, promises to deal
with it tomorrow, tucks me in, but

there’s a snake in the drawer,
and I won’t sleep a wink, only…

I do, and in the morning light
it’s clear the snake didn’t make it
a lifeless body, coiled in death
revealing a harmless garter –

there’s a snake in the drawer,
dead now by my own negligence

an unfortunate serpent, lost
and afraid, misinterpreted
by a woman desperately trying
to move on, apparently still afraid.

(Day six of NaPoWriMo focuses on line breaks.  It’s not to late to join in
for National Poetry month.

Plateaus

The quest for love
an uphill climb,
the footholds
loose and failing

Scrapes heal, and
hearts yearning
begin again, forget
the falls, aspire

Unconditional love
a dizzying height,
soulmates and
pre-destination

Goals for romantics,
by my heart reaches
for a memory, a return
to the beginning

When kisses warm
and embraces strong
conveyed desirability,
love’s reverence a peak

much steeper to attain
when age, in its folly
lusts after a youth’s game,
time a cruel intervener.

If I Was a Kitchen

If I was a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning  pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike.

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

(Originally posted on June, 2016)

Passion Exposed

Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me –  so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…

step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope

my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.

(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic.  Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)

The Journey So Far

From the North we travelled,
left just as autumn’s brilliance
retreated under the startling
white of winter’s cold breath

Drove through towns grayed
by overcast skies, witnessed
a reversal of seasons, return
of burnt oranges, rusted reds

until green gave over to desert
hues – chalky yellow hills with
dusty, low shrubs, burnt umbers
and muted violet prickly pears

Westward we drove, over wide
open spaces, followed rivers
into mountains, tracked birds,
wildlife, the mystery of saguaro

Encountered red rocks and black
mountains, the Colorado, and
further expanses of barren land
desolation betraying hard times

Continued on till highways widened
and the congestion of civilization
startled us out of our desert sedation
tossed us back into urban bustle

Then we turned north, headed back
to the mountains, now green, rolling,
promising milder temperatures and
the reassurance of flowing river beds

In time, we’ll turn eastward, set our
compass for home, knowing that
there will be disquiet, this lust for
wandering settling in old bones.

(The image is from my personal collection.  To read more about our adventures on the road, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)

Retreat

Immersed in the spiritual –
not yet fully present –
participating,
considering
new beginnings,
openings

so much easier
to go back to sleep
leave the living
to the younger
more energetic

generations
surpassing me
clued in to
technology,
modern nuances

yet, even they
slumber, lulled
by a confidence
I too once donned,
before immersing
myself in the spiritual.