Breathe!
I must still
this pounding;
quiet my nerves,
think.
Days light fades –
time is running out
movements need be
precise, swift,
silent
No room for error
as I navigate
this rocky path
cling to
shadows
I salivate,
the taste of
salty flesh
teasing tongue
obsessed
Joy of stalking.
(Written for Deb Whittam’s 50 Word Thursday prompt. Â Image courtesy of Deb. Â Visit Twenty Four to participate.)
Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.
Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.
Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango: Â melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate. Â Thanks for dropping by.)
This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!
(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)
Whatever you do
give it 110%
Father’s words
whirl,
confuse,
belittle
ambiguous, at best,
attainment remote
I am not enough
Good, better, best,
never let them rest…
morning chant –
eggs and bacon,
(seldom acceptable)
served up
by an ever-inadequate
mother,
Father’s criticism
whipping,
cruel
I will never be enough
apologize before beginning
a wallflower
on the social scene
a plebe
in the working world
presence hesitant
accomplishment tentative
Winners never quit and
quitters never win
blood boils
silently
I scream
Till I cannot bear one more
extempore lecture
face my foe
square on
catch a glimpse
of what?…
self-doubt?
fear?
These tirades
are not personal
it is not my ineptitude
at stake
merely the railings
of a tortured soul
trying to find
solid footing
on unsteady ground
I am learning to be enough.
(V.J.’s weekly challenge is accomplishment. Â I’ve been pondering why it is so difficult to feel as if I’ve accomplished anything, when logically I know I have. Â The daily prompts helped me to put this in context. Â Thanks for Fandango for ambiguous, Ragtag Community for extempore, Daily Addictions for remote.)
A two-story, red brick
set on the edge of town
was our castle, tall cedars,
like a moat, separating us
from unwanted onlookers
Strategically placed intercoms
tracked our movements, and
walls that moved revealed
forbidden spaces – passageways
that led to covert rooms
Our King was not benevolent,
and nor was our mother his queen –
for the woman he worshipped,
who held his heart’s throne,
dwelt in the shadows, and reigned.
Elizabeth, she was, regal
and bejeweled, long white gloves
brandishing a silver holder,
red lips blowing rings of seduction,
her presence a disquieting menace
She would not stir from our fortress
and none of us would speak of her
lest our kingdom might crumble
Our castle was two-storied: one
a man’s the other his alter ego.
(Written for Laura’s Manic Mondays 3-way prompt: Â castle)
Daylight softens
and my lens twitches
to follow the birds
into the brush
to a pond
where green water
ripples, exposes
the presence
of beaver,
slicing through algae.
I click. Â Success!
Later revel
in images,
red welts
raising on arms,
legs afire with itch.
(dVerse is back and celebrating 7 years with a quadrille, focus: itch)
We sail, determined,
and yet, the destination
is not of our choosing,
charted by memories
and the inadequacy
of words, language
faltering in foreign
depths.
We are islands,
formed out of
convenience
afraid to open
our foundational hatch,
face the illicit truth,
unwilling to examine
the precariousness
of our plot,
unable to pay
the price,
prefer the buoyant
arrogance
of pretence,
faith relying on
the ungrounded
swell of the ocean
to rebirth us.
(Inspired by a dream and written to conform to the daily prompts of Fandango: Â memory, Ragtag Community: open, and Daily Addictions: convenience. Â Thanks all for the fuel. Â Photo from personal collection.)
Certain, are we,
of the direction chosen,
authoritative in our drive…
yet, impulsivity rides along
and our assets are but plastic,
and these dreams of ours
are they even realistic?
Oh how adversity casts aspersions;
how easily plans crumble
focus deteriorates, threatens
to abandon, desire takes a back seat
to the dictates of old agendas…
we revert, wait for endings –
certain closure will refuel purpose…
and fret: is resolution even possible?
and is it necessary
or can we reload,
set course anew,
let faith keep us afloat?
(Inspired by a dream and written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing prompt #63: crumble, which challenges us to write a composition in 88 words.)
Sixties’ doctrine was all about love –
long-haired hippies espousing
anti-establishment, warriors sitting
for peace, getting their groove on.
Too young to grasp the concepts
of love not war, reduced to accomplice,
I eagerly followed along in borrowed
fringe, sporting obligatory peace signs.
Observed that hugs, and smiles, are free
and that mind-altering drugs are cool,
and guessed the establishment meant rules,
and that even in protest there was uniformity.
(Inspired by today’s daily prompts: Â Fandango, accomplice; Ragtag Community, groove; Â and Daily Addictions, doctrine. Photo from personal collection.)
I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.
You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood
Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me
you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…
So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted
than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach
something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.
(Midsummer Night’s Trap originally appeared here March, 2017. Â I am reposting for Laura’s Manic Monday 3-way prompt: poison.)
One Woman's Quest 