If Nature had a human heart
how fickle she would be –
one day fiery, another ice,
so much based on jealousy.
If humans had Nature’s heart,
then instinct would be key –
to each their own understood
a master plan for harmony.
Category: Love
One
Laughter bright as
yellow dresses,
curiosity
and
endless play,
mind and spirit
constant delight –
this is a one-year-old.
(For my  youngest granddaughter.  I miss all my babies.)
Premonition
A mother wakes moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles.
Call it instinct, or premonition.
A sister calls in timely fashion
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed.
Call it instinct, or premonition.
A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side , senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness.
Call it instinct, or premonition.
Then, why when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?
Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.
(The Daily Post prompt is premonition.)
Mother Bee
She sprinkles her commentary
with spikes of criticism
like a bee intent on finding honey
but stinging instead
strikes hard at the heart of the matter
manages to counter my aspirations
all attempts to swat away her words
are weak – she is my mother
and my sentiments are clouded
her jabs bite, inflame
and despite my apparent maturity
reduce me to childish panic.
Fruitless
Fruitless is worry –
useless sensitivity
undermining vibrancy –
love smitten are victims,
pause as memories rise
analyze old wounds
revile infatuations
pain threatening
uncertainty too rough
a ride – open arms
wilt with inactivity,
isolated, regretful,
ideals grounded,
smashed by
fruitless worry.
Off-Track
Met him on the way to tomorrow,
pitched a tent on his front lawn,
both ignoring impermanence.
How is it the heart’s drumming
blots out the soundness of mind,
negates former promises to self?
The weather changed and with it
sentiments cooled, tempers heated,
a tempest ensued, she packed up
hitched a ride on a passing train
headed in the wrong direction,
her heart still a discordant drum.
Puppy Love
I am exuberance –
frenetic and nippy
I am cuddly, curled
up in warm laps
out of control energy
bundled into a four-foot
floppy-eared mutt,
demanding attention
leave me out and
ask for trouble
accidents do happen –
thankfully, I’m cute.
Seasons of Love
Winter came early –
seeped into intimate
corners, froze hearts.
Walls papered white,
intending cheer, only
accented bitter cold.
Layers of submission,
hope, denial, ineffectual
in refueling the warmth.
She followed him down
the unavoidable slope
deep into the abyss.
Chilled, shaken she
braced for the arduous
trek ahead, injected
lightness into an
impossible situation,
committed, unaware
that he’d moved on,
abandoned her with his
customary indifference.
Years later, thawed
by the warmth of solitude
she reflected, wondered
how the blatancy of his
oddities has escaped her –
his fixation on antiquated
ideals, how he furnished
her mind with incoherencies,
collected things, not values.
She had merely been
an observer in his life,
yet it had escaped her
that it was the fiery
summer of her soul,
that had melted his ice
her scorching, all –
embracing passion
that had united them
and, as in all things
seasonally inevitable,
their love would die.
(Seasons Of Love originally appeared in February 2016.)
I am Listening, Child
Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?
What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?
Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.
If I have wronged you,
speak, I need to hear it;
if peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.
Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old;Â linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.
Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason,
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.
(Image: confessionsofanadoptiveparent.com)
Poisonous
She is beauty defined –
the flash of deep brown eyes
a wry smile: suggestive, inviting,
she tilts her head, black tresses
cascading over silken skin, and
men flock, eager to bask in her
sweetness, catch the ray of a smile.
She taunts me, mocks my insecurity –
an easy target for one so self-assured –
ridicules my values, my labour, shreds
any sense of self-respect, and then,
with a the flip of a manicured hand,
shrugs it off, invites me for lunch.
I acquiesce, an unwitting stalker,
mesmerized, angry; she is poison,
recognizes my ambitions –Â I am fish
nibbling at her bait, disregarding
menace – oppressed by feminine
power, born undesirable, will vomit
her rejection and still come back
for more – a willing victim, adverse
to offense, failure certain, hooked.
