These bones, they say
will finish me – too brittle
to withstand the race
But I am Willow
recollection wispy
my dance defiant
Porous as a sea sponge
soaking up each day
mettle despite the rattle
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Unquenchable thirst –
drink from the fountain of wild
yet plain, I remain –
sixty years of repressed fire
shall not be easily quelled.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)
I am orange
fiery as
a sunset
bright as
an Autumn
leaf –
brilliant
in the waning
hours.
(Art my own)
Like Atlas, I bear
the world’s weight
call it responsibility –
a painful delusion
requiring walls
Life has its own rhythm –
light and dark,
joyous and sorrowful –
orchestration outside
of my domain
Love, however,
is limitless
in its capacity –
open-hearted acceptance
protection in itself.
Trading one focus
for another
permits appreciation –
I vow to assert love
and forgo control.
Absent solar motivation
I contemplate grey
for grey’s sake…
How despite the dullness
grey does offer a valid backdrop
for white’s delicate presence
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
It’s not intentional
this accumulation
amounting to clutter
It”s inevitable, given
the emphasis on chasing
material happiness
Its impotency is ironic
all superfluous now
that health teeters
Weighs heavily
on my mental state
craving simplicity
The sentiment
we treasure beats
in heart’s memory
Objects age,
lose relevance
generationally
I let go of fear,
the guilt, find
blessed relief
New space inspires
openness, excitement
ensues – freedom.
(Image my own)
We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I busied 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.
(The Last Train first appeared January 2019. 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)
I am crow
perched high
observant
obscure
I am crow
loudly proclaiming
righteously incensed
a warning
I am crow
one-eyed, head-cocked
mystery, confronting
pompous pretense
I am crow
foolishly singular
ignorantly insulting
I eat myself.
(Image mine)
Thoughts, no more than grains,
block the path; how did I become
so invested in self-analysis:
a fool’s game, no winners
Light does not trip over molecules
but decorates, celebrates passage;
moves on – a hopeful dance
whose steps I’d do well to imitate
(Image my own. Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
One Woman's Quest 