Neighbour locates dandelions,
meticulously digs up roots
muttering incoherently
in a gruff brogue
I ignore his temper, watch
the yellow-crowned beauties
surge beneath a warming sun;
hum a childish tune –
Dandelions wink.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)
You misconceive the calling,
says bird in bush –
troubled times
call for comfort
not derailment
of humanity –
petty, bickering
without soul –
I may be bird-brained
but human sense
has the consistency
of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
If I were a kitchen,
I’d want an old-fashioned woman
at my counters – rolling dough
canning pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce,
and every Sunday, a roast.
She’d wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back –
one practiced hand feeding
her Carnation baby, while
other children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the stove
perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers
and induction cookers –
let the children belly up
to the breakfast bar, chomp
on veggies and humus, while
cook totes baby in a sling,
and preps bone broth,
strains of Baby Einstein
emitting from a propped up iPad,
while a cellphone vibrates
on granite, and the Keurig
spits out Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me,
piles of unopened mail,
or tossed aside receipts
company for coffee rings
on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers, or
dishes caked with processed cheese –
don’t leave my stainless steel sinks
stained, spoiled food reeking
in the refrigerator, traces
of late night mishaps curdling
on the floor; absence of familiar
sounds declaring my presence invalid.
(Rewrite of a rewrite. Image my own)
The eight of cups –
an octopus balancing
multi-tasks; I juggle
fog, attempt
to calibrate logistics
but instincts
are dull-edged,
my tentacles lacking
suction – will slither
back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Sky gallery –
anything but banal –
recalls innocence
Geese attempt
an instinctual dance
(few will actually migrate)
Cheers this aging mind,
also prone to redundant acts –
sexagenarian fun.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Checking symptoms for possible diagnosis: tab 1
Searching for gluten free recipes for leftover turkey: tab 2
Black Friday specials on tab 3
Writing a blog post on tab 4
Email on tab 5
Too many tabs open to concentrate
and Christmas is looming
and the fridge needs cleaning
and I got the groceries
but forgot the milk
and potatoes
and guests are coming
and laundry is piling up
and,
and,
and…
Somewhere at the bottom of the pile
is a note to self:
compassion.
(For Reena’s Xploration Challenge: My brain has too many tabs open; and Eugi’s Weekly prompt: compassion. Image my own)
The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once vital but oppressed
Miss, whose identification
was stolen by means of
unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective
that not only restores, but
aids in the teaching of other
shadow-selves, that to reassert
original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge: a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
I wake before dawn,
drive through blinding snowstorms,
if lost, alter course – without faltering –
even set out on foot when driving
becomes impossible, navigating
treacherous snow and ice, for you
So you can get where you need to be
So you can succeed
I risk it all for you
I keep you by my side
so that you will be safe
so that I can ensure your arrival
But, I grow weary, and my body
won’t go on, and all I ask for
is that we rest awhile,
so that I can catch my breath
And in that instance, you are gone –
no hesitation in your step, no looking back –
and when you finally stop to wait for me
it is too late…
A barrier has grown between us:
like an eight-foot, chain-link fence
separating me from protecting you
And you look at me with that glare
of exasperation that says:
“I should have done it on my own.”
Wait! Wait, I say.
This wall may seem insurmountable
but I can do it. I can do it; give me time.
I’ll just climb to the top.
It’ll be easy; you’ll see!
Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance
to prove my love. I do it all for you.
(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014.
This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)
Baiting her line with incantations
she casts her spell… imagines
an ocean of possibilities
ready to nibble at her bidding
As if words hold sway
and patience, power;
believes right intent is lure enough
to reel in destiny, determine fate.
(Rewrite of piece formerly entitled ‘Fishing’.
Image my own. Perhaps a silly goose?)
I like to wear garlic
when creating art –
keeps the demons
from taking part
Days I forget
perspective lost –
whirlwind of ink
quite deceptive
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson
Art my own)
One Woman's Quest 