Like fisherman throwing their lines,
she casts her spells…imagines
the universe as an ocean,
conceives of elementals, hungry
for bait, waiting to nibble at her intentions –
as if words hold sway –
thinks patience is her key,
believes that with just the right lure,
she can reel in destiny,
determine fate.
(This piece is inspired by the combined prompts of Willow Poetry’s What Do You See? and Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday – image below.)
She flows,
unapologetic of her girth,
does not flinch
at barges scoring her surface,
nor paddle boats laden with curiosity.
Confident in her fluidity,
she bears the secrets of life –
the sludge of our humanity in her belly –
stirs the minds of merchants, and children,
tolerates those who gather at her banks.
The final word is hers; she knows
no boundaries can contain her wrath –
still waters rise and spill –
she is a dragon –
nature’s force,
and she is magnificent.
(Originally penned November, 2017. Edited here. Â Image is a watercolour view of from our RV site. Linked to V.J’s weekly challenge: Â river. )
Art, like a compass,
guides my soul – watercolour
inspiring life force.
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Â art & compass. Â The image is a piece I recently started. Â It did not turn out so well, but I like the idea. Maybe I’ll start again. Also, I’m linking up to dVerse poetics, which tonight is all about journeys. Â Since I don’t leave the house very often, and when I do, my husband is driving, my journeys these days are more ethereal – into the realm of imagination.)
Two-tongued –
speaking both heart and mind –
complex languages, whose nuances
I’ve never quite mastered, yet
am conversant in.
It’s a constant learning
to nail enunciation –
linguistics a tiresome topic
the mind,
a guttural language,
leans to equation and absolutes –
hard consonants and long vowels;
while heart-speak rolls
off the tongue in softer,
cooing syllables –
elongated tones and
whimsical passages.
I’d happily demonstrate
the extent of my proficiency
but the two-tongues,
are currently contradictory,
the clamour of their discord
drowning out the peace
requisite for translation.
Inhale – chest rises –
exhale – chest falls – summon new,
expel old; repeat.
(Haiku written for Ronovan Writes Haiku challenge: Â rise/fall)
Intuition and compassion
combined with knowledge
an effective healer make,
yet, historically, women
applying such skills – labelled
witches – burnt at the stake.
The injustice of such trials
now commonly accepted – still
the title reeks of something sinister.
And if a man raises his voice
in ire, driven to protest, he
is righteous – to be heeded,
but let a woman speak out
against lack of fairness – she
is a witch by another name.
I say we banish the verbal putdowns,
condemn the ignorance inspired by fear,
listen to one another, and invite progress.
(Written for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt: witch, witchy, bewitched.)
Ancestral circles
steeped in lore – symbolism
lost, and imminent –
Geometric rhythms play
with destiny, ascribe fates.
(For Willow Poetry’s What Do You See?  Image supplied by Hélène.)
I toil in the dreamtime
like a night manager
in a hotel without walls,
catering to clientele –
whose needs, so diverse,
rattle the rows of beds –
settling disputes and
encouraging discretion
and succeeding only
in waking exhausted.
I am like a keeper in
a hostile hostel –
trying to find a key
when there are no
doors to unlock.
(Inspired by sleepless nights and erratic dreaming, and submitted for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt – unlock. Â Featured image is titled “Self-Portrait with Colours” although my son says it looks more like a LSD trip – I didn’t ask. Alternate title: Â “I am Slowly Going Crazy”, lol.)
Cigarette butts
no longer linger
concrete, but
I swear the cloud
of smoke lingers,
the sweat of adolescent
anxiety – the suffocating
pressure to comply –
Names escape,
but I remember
smugness and
rivalry, and
the spine-crawling fear
of confrontation,
and indisputable
in my mind
are the scars
of being so alone.
(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday prompt. Â Image supplied by Deb Whittam.)
A wounded creature, I circle the pack;
A laggard seeking inroads, missing cues;
A social wanna be without the smack –
This fogged state a waning of my hues.
My path a heartless road through blinding snow,
And I without a map or coat, alone –
To ask for help, a degradation – No!
Tis arrogance and stubbornness I own.
I’ll bide my time on sidelines crying ill,
Bemoan this wretched fate and limp along;
Til self-indulgence wears thin, then I will
By humble act, declare I do belong.
And in the end no consequence is worse:
Than mulish woman bearing no self-worth.
(This modest attempt at iambic pentameter is brought to you by the promptings of Frank at dVerse. Â Hope it wasn’t too painful.)
One Woman's Quest 