Aspire to transcend,
reach higher consciousness,
like a lotus rising out of muck –
but grace and virtue elude me,
more mud hen than delicate flower,
lack the subtleties of enlightenment –
spiritually inept.
(Image from personal collection.)
Aspire to transcend,
reach higher consciousness,
like a lotus rising out of muck –
but grace and virtue elude me,
more mud hen than delicate flower,
lack the subtleties of enlightenment –
spiritually inept.
(Image from personal collection.)
It’s complicated, really, but so much
is defined by the presence of a garage.
Here is a stand-alone, connected by
a breezeway, single-car with storage;
could have been so much more –
had planned for it, but life changes.
Once had an oversized garage – direct
access, housed two vehicles, custom
built – but the cars are gone now, and
the single stands vacant, like my mind.
Except, the other day, I swore I glimpsed
an animal there, perched on the shelving
fierce, cat-like eyes caught in the dim
light of an open doorway – a tigress,
body crouched – I backed away, but
not before claws pierced my imagination
tended to the bleeding, chastising my
foolishness – of course, she isn’t real –
I lost my feminine prowess long ago,
am more of a groundhog now – slow
moving, podgy, sniffing the air for hints
of change, burrowing in the face of trouble.
A family lived here once: a tightly knit
portrait of three, lulled by the protection
offered – no storms to weather –
until the husband left, daughter
in tow; ducked beneath closing
of the automated door –
me, trapped beneath layers of regret
choking on their fumes, homeless.
Would ignore her, except for
those grasping, white-knuckled
fingers pleading for rescue;Â would
shoulder her, but shudder to host such
destruction within my walls,
already robbed of equilibrium
this state of heightened vigilance
a cause for neglecting self – have
humoured one too many advantage-
taker, cannot trust my own instincts
am disillusioned, no longer content
with inconsistencies, need to
confront the condition of my garage,
clean out the accumulation of stored
nonessentials – maybe hold a sale –
whitewash the interior and buy a car.
(Reena’s Exploration challenge this week is the long and short of it. Â The above poem is the long. Â The short follows.)
If life is defined by a garage,
then mine is single, attached,
empty and needing work.
(The original version of this poem was published in August 2016. Â It has been reworked for this edition.)
Imitate Nature,
the guru said,
observe and learn.
Geese, I notice,
are loud, messy,
and communal.
Move slowly
without shame,
protest likewise.
Not sure I aspire
to goose-like behavior,
but balance would be good.
(For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day.)
Public displays seldom tell-all,
Vanity figures performance called for –
a ruse to make the hordes pander.
Clearly fault lies with us, audience
fuelling rhetoric, lapping up the hate.
Give politicians their due, they deliver
souped-up enemies to satisfy our tastes.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge, where the prompt is the line: Public figures make us hate their enemies.)
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.)
Idleness fills his hours
as if time knows no limits
I devour moments, afraid
tomorrow will forget me
we see-saw between
treacherous righteousness
and fusty avoidance
ignoring balance –
a sensible response.
(Inspired by the perils of an aging marriage, and submitted for Ragtag Community’s prompt: Â fusty.) Â Image from personal collection.
We grow our world
under evening light,
all soul charm and dance –
he a gentle father,
nice guy, quiet…
I believed.
But when search neared,
touchy –Â see a former ruse,
one smile warmed and…
sod off!
(Friday, I visit Magnetic Poetry online – words not my own, but I take responsibility for the construction. Image from personal collection.)
Looking for a rock at present,
preferably a boulder,
might dig myself a cave
and await resurrection
sacrilegious, I know,
but the tasks are overwhelming
and the words – just too much!
I mean, eleutheromania?
The mere utterance enough
to make me run for cover
and now I am to believe
that pulchritrudinous
equates with utter beauty –
oh my raspy voice
stumbles over the words
as brain loudly protests.
Too much, I say –
will have to save creativity
for another day
Meantime,
I’ll be under
that rock.
(Prompts today elicited irreverence: Â Reena’s Exploration challenge – see for yourself; and Ragtag Community’s unusual word; slightly tamed by Fandango’s “raspy“. )
Creativity’s
an eight-legged
life-sized terror,
has me cornered –
those menacing eyes
and crushing mandibles
paralyzingly frightful –
about to be consumed,
I throw her some cheese.