The river will not be pushed
nor outrun – still I try
shattered pieces of my efforts
littering her banks…
Illness teaches that I cannot
flow with or keep up, but…
openness counts…the river
brings and she takes away
I am witness, beneficiary,
a voice, for her bounty, her power
Life is the river. It brings opportunity-
I partake or not; it moves on.
No use building walls; better to stand
at the edge with heart and mind willing.
Is this progress,
this decision to uproot,
cast possessions aside,
free ourselves of ties?
Can his dependency,
my dependency, endure
the transition, released
from former justifications?
We are companions
embarking on adventure,
companions retiring past
lies, redefining possibility
Or, is this more of the same,
artfully camouflaged –
a continuance of flight
from tyrannical origins?
The paths behind are jagged,
wrought with rocks and crevices
and scarred riddles, and yet;
have we not survived? Thrived?
The road ahead is expansive,
our home an ever-changing
landscape, as wide as a continent –
our minds eager to absorb…
This is progress;
we are unburdened,
free spirited, submitting
to new tests of truth.
(Poem first appeared in October, 2017. Image my own)
I fear the denouement –
the moment of reckoning
when the winding path
unravels; when intentions,
transient at best, reveal
themselves as common lies
and soul crumples before light
recognizing this is not the end.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @ Vjknutson. Image my own.)
This pedestal of responsibility
elevates me out of reach,
out of touch, lumps together
childrenspousemothersister
Caregiver extraordinaire,
present overcrowded by
obligations, am unwell,
off topic, fed up…surely
I am other abled, have room
for more, non-martyr related –
hesitant to plan, my purpose
for being so intricately tuned
to the needs of others, should
quit while I’m ahead – silence
the noisy uncertainty, free us
all from this unhealthy game.
(Image my own. Poem first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, September 2016)
Travelled East
in search of self
Half-family extended
unexpected warmth
Was my identity here
with stranger-brothers?
I contemplated pausing
surrendering to other
But that was sleep-walking
The distance still remains
Journey has no end
till soul has purpose
and wisdom relieves
the wounded child.
(Still Travelling first appeared here July 2020. Edited for this version. Image my own)
Despite the long and arduous journey to life, this little one remains curious. We spent a wonderful day together getting acquainted.
Supper dishes abandoned,
we cruise the backroads,
destination: river’s edge
A muskrat creates ripples
distorting mirror images
disappears into murky unknown
A canoe glides by,
occupant a silhouette
in the golden sun’s descent
We linger in the warmth
of the fading glow, celebrating
summer’s gracious moments.
(Image my own)
There are shores that remain
ever-etched upon my heart –
emotional tides that tug
and carry me, currents
of past revelations –
I remember drowning
in the swells of loneliness
always the outsider, the grains
of this sentimentality
still shredding my adult soul.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Nuances of nostalgia –
jagged edges
succumbing
to unsuspecting cubes
nourishment
moving and opening
I distract
We grapple
under construction
Meaning percolates
This is life
these bits and pieces
of a resurrection
dragons and time machines
ticket stubs
scattered.
(Originally titled, Weaving Bits and Pieces, this was a found poem – the product of collective responses to a prompt. Image my own.)
Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence,
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
(Absence was written six years ago, while my husband recovered from a triple bypass. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 