She dresses for company,
every day –
just in case.
Keeps a puzzle at her side –
a distraction for lonely times,
entertainment for guests.
Body failing,
eyes challenged,
but mind is sharp.
At ninety-one,
how she keeps going
remains a mystery to most.
(Mish is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight. Â The challenge is to write a poem in 44 words (quadrille) using the word puzzle. Â Thanks Mish!)
Old houses exude charm:
walls whispering nostalgic
wonder, eliciting yearnings
buried deep within the soul.
Purchasers are spellbound,
transported to simpler times,
read mystical forecasts in
archways and carved nooks.
Committed, they settle in,
noting too late cosmetic
fixes, startled to uncover
structural faults, despair
to learn that the dreams
which built this place have
now crumbled and cracked,
repairs needed extensive.
Overhauling beyond means –
physically and financially –
old houses not only offer,
but test, character – beware.
(Originally posted July 2016.)
Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.
Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.
Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango: Â melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate. Â Thanks for dropping by.)
We sail, determined,
and yet, the destination
is not of our choosing,
charted by memories
and the inadequacy
of words, language
faltering in foreign
depths.
We are islands,
formed out of
convenience
afraid to open
our foundational hatch,
face the illicit truth,
unwilling to examine
the precariousness
of our plot,
unable to pay
the price,
prefer the buoyant
arrogance
of pretence,
faith relying on
the ungrounded
swell of the ocean
to rebirth us.
(Inspired by a dream and written to conform to the daily prompts of Fandango: Â memory, Ragtag Community: open, and Daily Addictions: convenience. Â Thanks all for the fuel. Â Photo from personal collection.)
Is death a gentle reprieve,
a final release of suffering
a promised resting place?
Or is it contemplation
coloured by memories
demanding retribution?
Will death bring reunion
unleash forgiveness
shine with revelation?
Will one final earthly breath
call forth all the fragments of the soul
and restore wholeness?
I have witnessed death –
both embraced and unwanted –
snatch the spirit from its nest
felt the whoosh of escape
and a swirl of celebration,
known the peace that follows
witnessed the body, open-eyed
and open-mouthed
become a vacuum –
discarded membranes;
an impotent shell.
The spirit does not dwell there;
it lives on borrowed time.
Where it goes when all is done
remains life’s poignant mystery.
(Originally posted January of 2015, this poem fits V.J.’s Weekly Challenge theme of mystery, hosted on One Woman’s Quest II. Â There is still time to participate. Â Head on over and check it out.)
Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious, inviting.
Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr, not mythical
but yielding, mindful;
not worshipful nor boastful,
but comforting, warm
I am waning light,
the mistral wind wafting,
no longer a force of nature –
but smoke, spiraling,
vanishing into non-existence
And yet, even as shadows
spread, I yearn –
heart beating true,
not lost, not forgotten,
but withdrawn, humbled
passion mellowed
by toil of constructing walls –
grit and tar – scar’s long buried,
save the limping gait
of a ghost.
(This poem, worming its way into my thoughts all day, took shape when Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt appeared:  zephyr.  Image is from personal collection.)
A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents
snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness
this one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained, the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice
how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so
much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning
but wait – this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?
That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom
does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.
(Originally penned for National Poetry month, I am repurposing this poem here for Daily Addictions prompt: generate, Fandango’s: captured, and Ragtag Community’s: reduce.)
What lies ahead,
when pain has clouded the past
and fear is choking the present?
Is it possible to glimpse the future
without projection, without prejudice,
or do we need to clear the heart
before we can be guided by hope?
Every woman needs a man,
Mother told her, to be complete.
To submit, she realizes, too late
soul traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing
inner losses.
She eats to appease inner sorrow –
a second-rate childhood – afraid
of being a burden, loathe
to create a stir – conditioned
complacency:
appeasing,
pleasing,
follows plans,
avoids decisions…
never really knows where she is going.
Can she fault her man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male
taking ownership/charge?
His own lack, like a child,
feeding on impulses, craving
attention, overcompensating
for fears with bravado…
cannot understand her fear
of assertiveness – alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –
gut gnawing incessantly.
They stumble over each other, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss
repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues such as the fact
that they are both suffocating, near
jumping off the ledge of their high-
falutin’ existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them,
the noise of city living negating
their ability to listen, distractions
altering identities, until the distance
between
is too far
to bridge
in a single sigh            and she
no longer             submissive
has joined him
and checked out.
(This is a rewrite of a poem, by the same name, written in June 2016. Â Shared here for DVerse’s Open Link Night.)
One Woman's Quest 