In your absence
I paint the ceiling
midnight blue,
await the return
of stars, ride out
the gut wrench
of abandonment
I know your motive
is happiness, and
that I shall emerge
all the wiser,
but for now
I don the spatter
of indigo grief.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
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 premontion
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.
(Premonition first appeared here February, 2018. Image my own)
He fills the home
with sweetness –
serenades their love –
while she picks away
at every gesture,
imagining subterfuge
His floral words
only serve to poke
doubts – she reads
between the lines
of ornamental landmines
He lights candles
to set a mood,
but she is already
planning a funeral –
her wrung out heart
unwilling to fall.
Too much black
Too much colour;
Fashion out of sync
Too many calories
Extra weight a turnoff
Comparisons cut deep
Stay close;
Stop being anti-social;
Friendliness invites abuse
Children need their mother
How do you plan to pay?
Better find a job.
Never enough
Beaten by criticism
A lonely marriage
Control suffocates
Narcissism cares not
Road is dead-end
Break free
Take the leap
True love begins with self.
(Image my own)
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 – 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.
(This poem first appeared Dec, 2019. Image my own)
How a single ray of light
slips through a thicket
setting a leafy row ablaze
How the Kingfisher’s trill
echoes off silken waters
How our love remains despite
the ills that pursue us …
Glorious mystery.
(Glorious first appeared here December, 2019. Edited here. Image my own)
Beneath icy stalactites
youth catches the first whiffs
of love…merges with a kiss
An icicle drops
startles the pair
their euphoria
broken – an omen?
Prelude to love’s
fickle nature…
How coldly lust
looks away…?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Envisioning breakup –
past haunting possibility –
she navigates uncertainty
an angry dreamer
Tries to settle on truth
but with rage as filter
she processes and processes
reaching no solid ground
Love, she concludes,
is beyond availability
plans a solitary existence
until vulnerability caves again.
(for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: haunting, and Reena’s Xploration challenge: filter.
Image my own.)
Summer yearns
sun burning
water cooling
life affirming
longing for love
I would hold you there
in those days of youth
when relationship
donned mystery
and fear shrouded
the path
But Autumn reigns now
a time for letting go
a time for turning
back clocks – time
lost in a mere blink
on the shores
of our story
And soon Winter
when I will knit
our memories
into cozy dreams
and while away
the frosty mornings
sipping from the cup
of moments lost.
(Eugi’s Weekly Prompt is : Autumn. Image my own)
She’s in the kitchen
cleaning, prepping
sweetness, wishes
to nurture childlike
longings – sugar laden
gifts, honeyed chops
hooks her men with
culinary preciseness –
as legend prescribes
wants a strong, reliable
type to stir her ovaries
keep her dishing up love
Disappointment, like raw egg
drips off china plates –
shame of misadventures
she cannot scrub away
only serves tea now –
the smell of liquor
mingled with cigarettes
in lecherous calloused
hands turns her stomach
avoids the coffee maker
in the same way, despises
the way the bitter brew
makes her head spin –
wits need to be in order
has settled now as hostess
caters to near strangers
whose attention, riveted
by television screens, are
lulled by the rhythmic
sounds of her sanitizing
while stew simmers in pot,
dreams of romance shelved.
(Originally titled “Hatched”, this poem first appeared here in July, 2017. I am submitting an edited version for Reena’s Xploration challenge: Stranger in a strange land. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 