A single, blow-up bed
claims my stake
on this house
mostly empty –
dust remnants
of former occupants
rise at my passage –
I chase them
Renovation
will precede
settling in
yet, I will not leave
wrapping myself
in these walls
waiting for
the revelation
that this is home.
(Linked to V.J.’s weekly challenge: home.)
Outside, clouds hover,
heavy, threatening.
Inside, men haul –
china cabinet,
weathered couch –
accumulation
marking years,
exiting under duress
echoes fill in the spaces
scent of soured sweat lingers
kitchen counters
glare, empty
layers of our lives
stripped away
our vacated shell,
an emotional tug
Is it fear? Â Sorrow?
What was it all about anyway?
closing the door behind us
locking memories in the past
we load our small boxes
essentials for a simpler life –
a home on wheels life
point our nose forward
and drive away
as the sun breaks through.
(A year ago, we sold our bricks and sticks house, along with its contents and moved into a motor home. Â Now we are reversing the process – accumulating and setting up house again. Â Apparently, we like change. Â V.J’s weekly challenge is fittingly about home.)
Solitude.
I dream
of expansive landscapes,
crave your panoramic
silence, thrill to the ideal
of your boundless sanctity.
Solitude.
You wrap me
in separateness, strip away
my cardboard walls, tear
at the corners of my instability;
no refuge from the stillness.
Solitude.
I am smothered
by your starkness, by my
starkness, cries of madness
reverberating through vast
canyons of aloneness.
(Solitudes first appeared here in May 2017.  From 2014 to 2017, I lived in isolation and silence due to ME/CFS.  I examined the phenomena often through poetic expression. This edition has been altered from the original.  I submit it here for dVerse’s “Sounds of Silence” challenge.  Thank you Dwight Roth for hosting.)
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.)
