“Just like your father!”
Words that chill me
to my core, bile
and self-loathing
follow
I abhor ego –
its need
its pandering
its petulance
Would skin
and exile
the beast
but, alas
Self absent
interface
cannot deal with
what remains
So I wrestle
with the father bits
and bolster the tried –
ego negotiation
(Image my own)
Daddy yelled
and Mommy cried
and new dresses appeared
A pattern
my young heart
vowed to break
Chose a man,
reticent in nature,
pursued a career
Then babies came
and I stayed home
and he withheld cash
Pendulum swings
left to right – money
holds the key to power
(Money first appeared here January, 2019. Image my own)
Eagle arrives
and I am at once
small, insignificant
Breath held
I am stillness
basking in majesty
Till ubiquitous crow
calls his cronies,
chases eagle off
Everything gains perspective.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. 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)
Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge,
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
To orchestrate
harmony of the whole
banish dysphoric memories
Salvage unraveled bits,
extinguish sulphur stench
of failed flames
The show is underway:
banish past to backstage,
future is in the audience.
(Image my own)
I know that abyss –
swallowed up as I was
punch-drunk on darkness
Bled as I emerged,
each reach a scrape –
there was release too
Revived now, I honour
that passage, recognize
the making of a woman.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknuton. Image my own.)
Robin is absent
Winter’s silence
inviting retreat
Children embrace
snow-filled adventures
while I evade spills
Window watching
fluctuations, waiting
for the harbinger’s return.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Shunned for her sin
a young figure
rubs her swelling belly
compulsion driven by fear
Tremors from within
stunt her movement
uncertainty paralyzing
her words…
She is unwed,
repulsive to a society
reeking with ineptitude –
righteousness negating action
Unsuspecting, the baby arrives
emits a scratchy cry –
filling her lungs with hope
and anticipation, trusting
Does not know
in her stark nakedness
that her tragedy is set,
life will not embrace and provide
Poverty has marked her
for a life of hardship –
the pious turn their backs
she is, after all, born of sin.
(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)
One Woman's Quest 