Calm, the morning air,
mind lost in reflection,
mirror-still waters
Raise my eyes skyward,
pray for release, an end
to Mother’s suffering.
Nothing. Death
has its own rhythm –
emotions mud.
(I wrote this poem a year ago, when my Mother was in and out of hospital with heart failure and pneumonia. Now, a year later, she continues to struggle. “We live too long,” she says. “Pray for my release.” Photo: Mom at 94, courtesy of my son.)
His cadence is shallow –
these are familiar waters
He’ll swear the addiction
saves him from madness
Ignore the wrenching
pain in my heart…
leave to find his next fix,
another page in misery’s tome.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Sacrifice belies
original plan – the young
overlook fine print
sign up for adventure -war
renders them heroes – souls torn
(Today, we remember those who have fallen – heroes of war.
Photo mine)
Shadows stalk our conversations,
hovering between lines spoken.
Mother fears death and I,
sidestep darkness…
It’s delusional to believe
we can think ourselves well
or avoid pain by seeking only light
I chew on my words
not wanting to inflict harm –
have done enough of that over the years
Pray for peace to guide her passage
the reassurance of forgiveness
love unconditional
Times like this, language
is sorely lacking, we stumble
build sentences, capture moments
Tell ourselves it will be enough.
It won’t be in the end.
It never is.
(A found poem, borrowed from a previous post, July 2019, on One Woman’s Quest II. Submitted for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: peace. Image my own)
Abandoned, this heart –
old walls scarred but solid
Lest you look upon me with pity,
remember – roses grow here
planted at the peak of love’s hold
vibrant despite the ensuing thorns.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
How long the soil
housed tiny souls, pleas ignored –
crimes leave footprints
Plant a rose for each child
blood red to mark evil’s path.
(Image my own. Poem borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
Burn the love letters
watch as each quaint lie curls
sham interrupted –
betrayal’s intricacy
scatters amongst the embers.
(Image my own)
That time, playing in the muck,
foot emerging without boot,
hopping and laughing
all the way home.
Then, later, on the bus
that car hitting where we sat
the windshield cracking
like a giant spider
blood all over the dead lady’s face.
I thought I’d made it
when my new car had a sunroof
kids riding along, music blaring
But trauma is a spider
Arachne reaching into happy places
and as much as I speed up to avoid her
Fight to disable her attack
she weaves herself new limbs
begins the onslaught anew
And I am stuck in the mud again
no longer limber enough
to dance my way home in the rain.
She looks over my shoulder
that sister, born dying –
whom I mocked, cajoled
and judged so harshly
She breathes down my neck
that sister, I despised
for her sin, and mistakes
how she always abandoned me
She taunts me constantly
ridicules my failing ways
her thoughts poisoned darts
attack me at my core
My eyes are opening,
compassion too late
“Karma bites”, her ghost
hisses as illness seeps in.
(For Reena’s Xploration Challenge: karma bites. Image my own)
Talk to me of horses
the young man says
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.
Talk to me of horses:
the world is losing its grip
and I care not about
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional –
help me understand.
So, I come daily to his bedside
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.
We discuss horses –
the power of their bodies
their beauty and grace
their role throughout history –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then…
I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable,
between sleep and awake, figures
grey and frightening hover over
my bed like body snatchers….
A chill runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin
and I shudder despite myself
scramble to maintain calm
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light
clouding his vision.
I missed his passing the next day
arriving to find his mother waiting
“He left you a message,” her eyes
quizzical, “says that you were right
about the visions; there was nothing to fear”
I smile through the grief –
ever the teacher that one
now dead at twenty-one
“Oh, and one more thing”, she adds “
“Could you talk to me of horses?”
(Talk to Me of Horses first appeared her in April 2018. This version has been edited slightly. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 