I throb,
belly a swill of green –
never smoked…
There is good air & trees,
and warming chards
Breathe out…and spit..
Only champagne cup
would wet and waken
Let up bug!
(Friday is Magnetic Poetry day for me. Coincidentally, I have been fighting a bacterial infection, so the words are fitting.)
Hope glitters
like rays of golden
sunlight piercing
the thick overgrowth
of this life.
Dare I respond,
or is this merely
the sharp deflection
of light on tinfoil
meant to keep
scavengers away?
(Dare I Hope? first appeared three years ago, when the four walls of my bedroom and the mattress I laid upon defined my life. I have polished it a bit here for my weekly challenge which is “anniversary”. Looking back to those times, I am able to acknowledge progress and affirm that the hope I was feeling had validity. Featured image is from personal collection.)
Cancer.
The fear reverberates, ping-pongs
through our community –
seniors with hope,
fresh start
desire
after years of toil, children, woes
we congregate, create –
new family,
future,
plans rise
yet, we know, existence is
unpredictable, key
in another’s
hands – God
drives, we
follow, fulfill, crave redemption,
or at the very least,
a few year’s rest,
pleasure
unchecked
before the ‘C’ word is unleashed
and hearts throb with sorrow,
band together,
support.
(Written for Dark Side Of The Moon’s Cinquain Poetry Challenge. This is a Cinq-Cinquain. Check here to try out this form. Image from personal collection.)
Winds picked up yesterday, gathering grey. Cold seeped in through the windowsills, and we set the furnace on high. Forecast for today is just above zero, even though we are in a tropical zone. Oh well, I decide, a nice spicy soup will warm our innards.
Seems my body mirrors the weather: health declining, forcing me to bedrest frequently. Have slept most the morning. In between, I check emails, the blog, and we speculate about what will happen next with Mother Nature. Soon, it will be time to venture home – a both welcome and sorrowful thought.
Confused winds blow cold,
winter reversing itself –
piquant soup simmers.
(It’s haibun night at the dVerse pub, hosted by Merril who challenges us to write about March Madness. I am also linking up to Ragtag Community’s prompt: speculate and Fandango’s: health.)
Should I escape these shackles,
manage to re-surface, swim
despite this weakened condition
against the currents of disability,
find myself once again on the
solid grounds of civilization;
will I be embraced with cheers
of victory, or slotted into some
backroom, reserved for the fallen,
spoken to in hushed tones,
forever handled at arms length,
an object to be feared?
And if I manage to fight these
bonds that for so long have
threatened to annihilate,
will I have the bravery to face
the calling that once defined me,
shake off the cobwebs of
disorientation, defy the
certainty of unpreparedness,
draw from the well of past
experiences and rise to
a new battle, proving the
validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look
to opportunity, clear the slate
of former ambitions, rewrite
the pages of my destiny,
embrace an attitude of
rebirth, decide to relinquish
the sword, cut my losses
and redefine a new, gentler
way of being in the world,
less dependent on a system
which undoubtedly propelled
this descent in the first place?
(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge. Reena gives us a choice of prompts. I have chosen ‘disorientation’. What Scars Remain was first written in August 2016.
Why must I suffer acne still?
What trick of fate, whose wily will?
I am too far over the hill,
refuse to take a teenage pill,
must be this state of chronic ill.
(A funny ditty for Dark Side Of the Moon’s Whyquain challenge. I might have taken liberties with the form, but it was fun to write.)
We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I linger at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.
“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims,
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.
The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.
Some destinations are clearly defined –
death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.
(Penned for dVerse’s poetry forms – the sonnet.)
Take me to the desert
with mountains at our side,
walk with me in shadows,
let nature be our guide
We’ll stroll amongst the cacti,
pay homage to the quails;
take me to the desert
help me gather tales
The seasons are passing,
we’re running out of time;
take me to the desert
to heal this heart of mine.
***
By the time you read this, Ric and I will be on the road, headed south. Texas and Arizona proved to be places of healing for me last year, and I hope that this journey will continue that process.
so tired…
the heaviness of slumber
settles on me like a straight jacket –
no point resisting…
was it a poisoned apple
that struck me so –
or is this exhaustion
emblematic…
of what….
a soul aspiring to flight
weighted down by sensitivity…
an ego tied to ideals
no more salient than balloons
whose once inflated bodies
now pollute the landscape…
I am withered…
lifeless…
breath shallow…
pulse irregular…
cursing the elusiveness of sleep…
suspended in a tortuous limbo,
mocked by vitality,
scorned by ambition,
loathed by the hale…
is there purpose
to this perpetual cycle…
a message
carved within the walls
of this fleshy tomb…
cryptic whispers
buried deep beneath
the hardening layers of fog?
no strength here
to decipher riddles…
encumbered by lassitude,
like an iron blanket
smothering desire…
even weeds will push
through concrete barriers
follow the sun’s rays
to find life…
why then can’t I…
…so tired….
(Tired originally appeared 04/17. I submit it here again for Daily Addictions prompt mock.)
I search for father
in this pain, recall
limbs wrapped,
liniment-lathered,
how he cried out
relief beyond reach
judged his suffering
as emotional –
a karmic penalty
for a life of tyranny –
compassion lapsed.
Now, I fight with legs
that will not settle,
arms that ache to bone,
moments inconsolable
spiralling into moodiness
seems I misunderstood –
overlooked the possibility
of genetics – pain compounded
by the guilt of impotence
curse my failure
to express sympathy,
offer comfort – the habit
of retracting into defensiveness
enacted till his death –
softness not a component
of the barriers that stood
between us…
One Woman's Quest 