
(RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge #209 Old & Days)

(RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge #209 Old & Days)
How delicate
these threads
that bind us –
frail filaments,
whispery darts
of affection –
How willfully
we ignore connection,
ignore ensuing pain…
individuality usurping
love’s needs –
a harsh lesson.
(Inspired by the featured image and written for the daily prompts:
Fandango: lesson; Ragtag Community: dart; Daily Addictions: frail.)
Insults and mockery
and off the cuff remarks
all marks of authenticity
merely plain talking larks
so says the republican
in the president’s defence –
we are just oversensitive
those who take offence.
When was it disclosed,
I ask the figure on the screen,
that authenticity is ascribed
to spewing things obscene?
Now I am not American,
so neither right nor left,
still I cannot help but object
when justification is so bereft.
Authenticity, I cry out
implies honesty and trust,
building a self that is hospitable –
openness and compassion a must.
To equate such a concept
with this poor excuse of a man
has really pushed the boundaries;
I’m ready for a Trumpian ban.
(Today’s prompts are as follows: Â Fandango’s word of the day: Â object; Ragtag Community:Â hospitable; and Daily Addictions is disclose. Â I am not usually political but hearing Trump’s recent comments described as authentic got me going – apparently. Photo is from my personal collection – reminds me of an angry forest spirit.)
Jilted by a philandering husband and defrauded out of my share of the assets, I made a convincing victim.
“You are righteously angry,” a friend counselled.
Perhaps so, but something niggled at me.
“A man does not stray unless there is a reason,” someone said, and I felt as if she looked right through me, could see the flaws at my core. Â My mother’s repeated warnings came back to me: Â “No one will ever love you.”
What is wrong with me? Â my broken heart wailed.
Urgency drove me to find answers. Â I never wanted to go through this again. Â I had to know why my life had turned out this way.
I read.  I read Daphne Rose Kingma’s Coming Apart, and Susan Anderson’s The Journey from Abandonment to Healing, and The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz:  all offering glimpses of insight and understanding – something I could hold on to.  So many books passed through my hands and desperate to learn more, I turned to a galley copy of a book I’d received as a bookstore owner.  A commercial piece, now released, but that I’d never bothered with in the past, having stashed it beside many other soon-to-be published editions.
It was Relationship Rescue by Dr. Phil McGraw.
“Too Late for this, really,” I told myself but I decided to give it a chance.
Dr. Phil wrote the words I had suspected all along: Â good relationships begin with the self. Â His advice made sense, and more than that, I felt like I was finally onto something. Â I attacked the book as if reading a how-to manual, highlighter in hand and pencil at the ready.
Relationship Rescue delves into the different “bad spirits” that we bring to our relationships, and as I read along, I began to recognize bits of myself in the “scorekeeper”, the “fault-finder”, and the control freak, but when I reached the eighth category and began to read, I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach and wanted to throw up. I was the “bottomless pit”.
I told myself that I didn’t need anything so that I wouldn’t be a burden. Â What I was actually doing was sabotaging my partner’s chances of ever meeting my needs. Â “He should know without me telling him,” was another one of those false beliefs that I measured by husband against.
The spirit I brought to my marriage was ugly. Â I had so many expectations about what I wanted and didn’t want based on my parents failures that any partner was destined to fail.
With understanding comes change.  It would not be easy, and I am still a work in progress, but Relationship Rescue gave me solid understanding so that I can be accountable and achieve a healthier relationship.
My challenge this week is to write about (or submit images of) a book that made you sit up and pay attention. Â What book(s) made a difference in your life?
More black than red,
blood gathers in the tube
puncturing the crux
of left elbow –
a drip, drip of saline
curtails effects of dehydration,
while the newly infused
Gravol spreads – a calm
settling nausea; I sigh
Tests indicate an invader –
infection toppling an already
fragile system, cannot afford
the onslaught..
Hours later, I lie watching
as a storm rages outside –
the sweltering heat
having peaked,
now clashing with
cooler air advancing
Partner tracks the weather
patterns on apps, alerts
me of approaching systems
but I don’t need technology
am feeling resonance with
nature’s thunderous fracas.
(Today’s prompts are as follows: Â Fandango’s One Word Challenge is curtail,
Ragtag Community’s offering is trace, and Daily Addictions is afford.)
Photo is from personal collection. Â With the help of wonder drugs, I am at home recuperating.)
Let’s resurrect the fireworks
pretend we’re young again
we laugh to hide the sorrow
the ludicrousness of it all
reliability applicable only
to sentiments, little else
post surgeries, chronic
illness and radiation’s turn
fireworks are for the young,
we agree returning to our screens.
(We’ll blame this poem on the prompts of the day: Â Fandango’s: fireworks, Ragtag Communities: resurrect, and Daily Addictions: reliable.)
Ignorance divides –
willingness to cross fear’s lines –
chance for unity
(Written for Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Challenge: Â chance & unite)

Viewed from the shelter
of Fog Harbour’s luxury,
Pier 39, a serene snapshot
vessels tethered silently
waiting, a single gull
bobbing nonchalantly by
sea-inspired dishes satiate
appetites, as we ponder
the legacy of Alcatraz
watch the ferries line up,
load up and slip away –
robotic whale-like rhythm
on a far dock, a gigantic
mass of darkened bodies
indiscernible from this height
the pungency of their odour
and discordant bray of roars
unavailable from our perch
afterwards, we will join
the serried rank of onlookers
attempt to determine who
is gawking at whom –
the oily swarm of lazy flesh
or the camera-toting fans
fulfilling our contract
as tourists, memorializing
San Francisco’s wonder.
(Daily Addictions prompt is gigantic, Fandango’s word of the day: contract , Ragtag Community has offered serried. Â Image is from personal collection: Â Pier 39, Fisherman’s Wharf, SF)
Suspect
these sentiments,
gnarled and ungrateful,
only serve to tip the scale
in favour of cynicism
have, therefore,
decided on self-
imposed quarantine;
will be keeping thoughts
to myself, thank you.
Suffice to say
that having confronted
multiple betrayals,
and insurmountable
heartache, all pointing
vile accusations
at a lack of discernment,
and questionable self-worth,
I am currently not imbibing
romantic dribble –
Oh, dear! I’ve said too much.
(Inspired by the daily promptings of: Fandango (suspect), Ragtag Community (scale), Daily Addictions (intimidate), and Sammi Cox’ Weekend Writing Prompt (quarantine).
Image produced by yours truly.)
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.
(Originally penned for National Poetry month, I am repurposing this poem here for Daily Addictions prompt: generate, Fandango’s: captured, and Ragtag Community’s: reduce.)