Passion for writing ignites my soul's momentum
Buried alive
by illness’ onset
only hope for escape
tunnel whose guilt-lined
walls oozed mucous
of neglect, sorrow
so raw, shredded
faith – no light
just a dull
pulse
screaming –
I am alive.
(Chronic illness is a game changer. No amount of ambition can turn the tide. One is left to face the onslaught of that which has been oppressed or skipped over. I wrote this poem early in my journey with ME. Amazingly, no matter what, spirit still clings to life. Image from personal collection.)
Situational –
term used to describe
this current state –
illness a thief
perpetuates the crime –
loss cavernous
depression real
and still,
Spirit roars.
Disability covets isolation –
this stripped-back, box-like state.
Rustic serenity, with room
to breathe would be preferable
but old memories creep in, and
lack of self-worth leaves the door open
phantoms of former torments
unwanted visitors, shadowy
invaders target loneliness,
misconstrue lack of health
for neediness, prey on weak –
hearted, presume incapability.
I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of
fellow travellers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach out
aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot
fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.
(Isolation’s Hold was first written in June of 2017. I am resubmitting it here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: isolation. Seems to me is also reflective of the times. Image from personal collection.)
Unnerved by invitations –
isolation equates with security –
fear the onslaught of questions,
the unleashing of a torrent –
emotions flooding, crashing
through this gated illusion –
best to withdraw.
Withdraw my best
when gated by illusion
crashing, emotions flood –
need to tame this torrent
question the onslaught, brave
insecurity, negate isolation
embrace the invitations.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from my Twitter poems. Follow me @Vjknutson. The first stanza is the original poem. I left it here, then unsatisfied, decided to turn it upside down and create a new outcome. . Image from personal collection.)
But for the beating of heart –
a discordant rhythm –
I am obliterated by fog –
numbness of unanticipated loss
clouded by dreams misted over –
I await sun’s return….
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
Source: “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot
I line my spoons on the counter –
measures of the day’s reserves
one spoon for morning tea
with a side of emails read
a shower requires two or three
with a guarantee of needed rest
I’ll linger horizontal – added care
when an outing is in the plans
the thrill of venturing, and delight
of conversation shared wipes
the counter clean – I’ll crash
and crave for one spoon more
enough to get me into bed
pray tomorrow’s count the same.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge, in which she challenges us to use one of the given lines of poetry. Spooning is the term used for those of us with chronic illness who have limited energy. Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is characterized by exhaustion after exertions. My day starts with depleted energy, and I work from there.)
Pain no longer a threat
having found numbness –
semi-permanent vacation
from insistence of
chronic battles,
this unchosen life.
(Image from personal collection)
She sits with me at breakfast,
follows me to the park,
hovers on the drive home,
celebrates when I lie down,
snuggles in with warming pad,
and moans…
Not a companion
I would have chosen,
preferred the active,
athletic life, and yet
She complains with me
in the afternoon, invites
excuses during dinner,
grounds me in the evenings
and tosses me at bedtime
Not a companion
I would have chosen,
but at least I’ll grant her this –
she’s chronically devoted.
She’s not in the kitchen
presiding over preparations,
thriving amidst the chatter,
tutting away thieving fingers.
She’s not in the classroom,
mastering subjects,
upholding order,
ruling with charitable hand.
Nor is she at social affairs,
head bent in rapt attention,
smiling cordially,
gracious with compassion.
The Queen is missing –
the poise and composure
that marked her carriage
has vanished without a trace.
Don’t ask the old woman
tottering down the lane,
stooped and stumbling –
she’s not all there.
Her mind’s a trickster,
her ego a petulant child,
unwilling to concede wrong –
she’s merely the court jester.
(The Queen is Missing first appeared August of 2015.)
Sky darkens
burdened clouds
release sorrow
in empathy
body throbs –
aching harmonics.
(Twitter Tuesday @Vjknutson)
