Doctoring broken hearts –
my own legacy a training ground –
like an anesthesiologist
I keep the patient breathing,
asleep – muted by kindness,
unconscious and unable to react.
Why?
Because lulling others is more
effective than operating on self –
faux obligations such a balm
Administer lidocaine to the wounds
Numbness preferable to open-hearted
investigation…
no sutures strong enough
to remedy internal bleeding
(Art my own)
Wrapped in reptilian attire, change
climbs aboard my well-intentioned scheme
like a boa constrictor – disarming me
I am more inconvenienced than repulsed –
after all, snake is my power animal,
Or so the seer said…many years ago
Days when I would wear the scaly
comportment of power – invite
transformation- my essence a seeker
But I am trying to settle here –
embrace age and its complications
and yet the serpent persists
Sibilance insisting on co-navigation-
and what will be the outcome, I wonder
if I were to surrender to such a calling?
Change does not heed our fears,
our ego-driven agendas…
It bears its fangs and taunts
I exaggerate the threat, of course-
imagine being consumed or suffocated –
disregard the potential for healing
Have no time for reflection or pause –
the course is already set –
I hold on and feign control
(Art my own)
Essence is essence
and flat as I might feel
shadow reveals otherwise;
such is the mystery of life
Orange is my essence –
the promise of sunshine
and creativity, and… I envy
blue its expansiveness
Constrained as I am
by conformity –
this silver-framed
existence a settling
But shadows don’t settle
they stretch and bend
and exclaim rebellion
savagely defending essence.
(Slanted Orange was written in 2022 as a collaborative effort with a local photographer. The efforts of our poetry group are published in a book called the Minimalist Eye. Click here to see the whole collection as well as the photographs that inspired each poem. I’ve used my own art for this post.)
Creativity partners more with chaos than clarity
It craves colour, light, darkness
movement not supported by 2 dimensions
I delude myself into thinking that words,
cleverly positioned, can decipher the compulsion
fail to understand that soul, unchained, has no words
It is the free-flowing expression of music, dance
It follows the murmuration of birds, and
crawls along the earth, serpent-like
I seek the intimacy of knowing other –
raw and unblemished – but how can this be?
We are form emerging from mystery
That I should find you, Love,
there amid the noise of awakening
then I am more than blessed
Your mind reaches for the definable
while I drowsily bask in sensations
our coming together never akin to wholeness
Yet explosive in its imperfection
Oh, if we could see the artistry
arising from two souls seeking unity
Comprehend that we are the instrument
the vessel through which creativity speaks
a magnificent tribute to Life’s source.
(Art is a combination of my own effort and AI.)
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception,
once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred,
colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives
old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty
sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls
defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me
fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back
old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens
of my own making, distorted but secure.
(Image my own)
Maudlin convention
I balk at your constraints
jettison the traditions
that propagate hate
Future is an open road
I do not hesitate –
Yes, there is uncertainty
Yes, I’ll make mistakes
Vulnerability will conquer pride
mind willing, convention I’ll shake
(Art my own)
Teach me reverence;
I am losing ground
Children adulting,
mothering in a void
Teach me acceptance
disability’s waters flood
I am in the margins,
an afterthought…
I concede life changes
release control…
Passion begs an outlet;
I am worn…
And I am open…
Teach me.
(Teach Me first appeared here January 2020. Edited for this edition. Art my own)
In these inclement times –
fear stoking anxiety –
we seek anchors,
faith to carry us
Imagination offers an outlet,
distracts from the angst –
a creative reprieve
to lift our spirits
(Art my own)
The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once-vital, now 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.
(I’ve stolen Stolen Identity from an earlier post. Art my own)
Do not be distracted
by the blue-ness of words
nor the grittiness of tone
These are merely
contrasting elements
of a greater whole.
(Snapshot first appeared here in November, 2018. Art my own)
One Woman's Quest 