Who can measure
the cost of war?
How deep destruction
scars the human soul?
I see the trench lines
carved on fathers’ faces
the ghostly pallor
of mothers’ fear –
only the children sing
unaware, bending to fate
with graciousness;
grief’s shrapnel well buried
(Image my own. Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
My memory of you –
distorted by childish exuberance-
distant and disinterested
Translated vacant eyes
through the lens of my needs
child that I was.
Failed to notice
the aura of defeat,
the battered heart
the robotic responses
masking unbelievable sorrow
missed it all
Till death knocked
and I saw you anew –
adult lenses now fully secured.
Wonder at the fortitude
that kept you upright
the love that served us both.
No fault here –
on either side –
just a bittersweet understanding.
(Distorted Lenses first appeared here August, 2019. Image my own)
We climbed so high
this mountain of man
made obstacles –
I remember the rage,
no more than 9 –
how helpless it felt
a girl in a man’s world
but I climbed anyway,
we climbed anyway
and, instead of a hand up
we get this? Patriarchy
be damned! Your days are
numbered. Mark my words.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter. Image mine)
Too many bodies
encroach on peace;
I lack boundaries,
the self-worth
required to assert
needs – dwell
in basements,
mind cluttered,
external noise
obliterating me
Backdoor provides
escape, backyard,
back gate…
…freedom
I disappear
into the quiet
of the wild:
wooded sanctuary,
flowing water,
watchful eyes
of birds overhead
Here, I define self.
(Image my own)
Castles and lockets:
the makings of childhood dreams –
I wander pastures
of blue-tainted memories,
see patterns on regret’s wings.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @ Vjknutson. Image my own.)
There are shores that remain
ever-etched upon my heart –
emotional tides that tug
and carry me, currents
of past revelations –
I remember drowning
in the swells of loneliness
always the outsider, the grains
of this sentimentality
still shredding my adult soul.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Not programmed to comply –
cannot tolerate oppression:
a pressure cooker
ready to explode
Do-gooders sit up
straight and smile
encouragement:
I slouch defiance
Don’t ask me to respect
that which is disrespectful –
my fuse is short
of that I’m certain
Don’t slot me;
leave me –
creative inspiration
is not lacking here
I’m a free agent
a incorrigible scamp –
authority doesn’t scare me
’cause I’m beyond control.
(That Kid, first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, June 2017. Found poem here. Image my own)
The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…
Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes
Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection
What if I could go back
now that I can breathe
Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity;
would I discover a sudden windfall?
Makeover conditioned motifs;
reevaluate ceiling heights?
With resources to remodel
heart open, connected
might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.
(Childhood Home first appeared May, 2020. Image my own)
I’m being a good girl, Dad
Staying out of sight
Keeping my needs to a minimum
Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad
Cooking all his favourites
Letting him walk ahead
Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad
Just like you taught me; just like Mom
Only no one has to hit me to make me
behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
(Image my own)
A child like me
doesn’t believe
in wishes –
bruises a reminder
that wishes are bombs
Don’t ask me to dream –
eyes fixed on escape –
give me a nook
where I can hide –
buy one more day.
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 