This confined life –
carefully construed –
ingrains order,
commands discipline.
I can free myself
from urbanity,
declare adventure
as prerogative, but
how long before
I release the need
for control, unburden
internal restraints
let go, and open
to divine rhythms?
Doubt I possess
the trust required
to live with such
uncertainty.
(Submitted for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Â Photo is part of the prompt.)
Emotions don wheels,
tear about, burn rubber,
congest – psychic traffic jam.
Alone, there is no outlet,
no scapegoat for this tirade,
just a damned discomfort.
No worries – I will pace
from distraction to distraction,
until sanity makes a comeback.
(Thanks to all the prompters for providing the words to describe today’s state of mind: Ragtag Community (comeback), Fandango (traffic), Manic Mondays 3 Way (damned), and Daily Addictions (tirade).)
Manufacture fresh starts –
build bridges across the abyss,
stay afloat,
imagining –
mythical passages,
fantastical places,
magic of wizardry
just keep the foes submerged,
act carefully,
the house
is under surveillance,
observers
quietly learning.
Memories are boats
anchored, idle,
awaiting calm –
quaint ideals
keep them docked,
undermine progress
never intended to harbour
so many secrets –
lack a personal compass
reliable enough
to navigate solo –
a necessary tactic
to release these boats
cluttering my
story’s shoreline.
(Written for dVerse, whose host Lillian challenges us to write a quadrille (44 words) around the theme: harbour. Â Hats off to the daily prompts from Ragtag Community: quaint, Fandango: personal, and Daily Addictions: solo. Image from personal collection.)
Weighted down.
I swallow rocks
to anchor this restlessness –
no exit available.
Would love to re-locate,
check self-assessment
into a sunnier place –
but the room is not ready.
I shove it back down –
am a silhouette
against stormy horizons.
My sister and I meet here,
at the edge of denial,
both seeking calmer waters –
she swims; I crave a shower
we are haunted in our sleep –
shadows clouding dreams –
projections of mermaid possibilities
and electric blue skies, dimmed
I gain ground, sifting
through basements, tossing
old ideals, reminiscing cynic;
she breaststrokes through debris
of family storms, ignoring the rubbish-
polluted pool, maintains motion
I am submerged, trying to work out
a relationship with father –
long since deceased, still present
have opened the contents
of our stored horror – no choice
but to carry on…
we are bit players in a staged drama –
no fame to add acclaim – just misguided
endings, fragile audiences, and
a sisters following
a different light
weighted down.
(Weighted Down first appeared here in September of 2016, and has stayed with me, begging to be revised.  Today, as I was playing around with images, I created this one (featured) and felt that it depicted the essence of the poem.  It was time.  I am also submitting this for V.J.’s weekly challenge:  shadows.)
Sensing foulness of mood
they slither out from dark places –
whirling wisps of putrid insinuation
Clever they are, and almost imperceptible
but I am clever also, have succumbed
one too many times to the deceit
will not be played by the mutterings
prodding me to find fault with others
to claim myself unjustly wronged.
With the force of a mountain
I stand fast, repel the daemons,
command uncompromising clarity.
Hissing with disappointment,
the spineless creatures retreat,
disappear to plot their next attack.
(Tonight’s prompt at dVerse comes from Jilly who challenges us to write about the unseen. Â I am also including this post in Ragtag Community’s challenge: play.)
Fan whirs,
like a cyclone
building pressure
head craves silence
thump –
automated shutoff
ears ring in aftermath
mind craves silence
shrill peep
shatters calm
pierces closed pane
heart craves silence
emotions churn
burning tears
anger screaming
soul craves silence
dissonance
a monotonous roar
bouncing off bones
no silence here
only craving
(Written for Manic Mondays 3-way Prompt: Silence)
This path I walk is not my own;
it’s paved with genetic markers,
familial dysfunction, and ancestral angst.
Can you see them walking with me?
Those whose lives were cut too short –
the addicts, the tortured, the diseased –
none of us free – ensconced in blame.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I stand at the intersection
of broken dreams and hope for tomorrow
and in my altered state of awareness
see the commonality of our striving,
understand the patterns that divide,
and grasp the illusion of injustice
that denigrates our interconnectedness.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I stop and wait for an opening
to share this revelation
of underlying harmonious intent,
but the whir of societal traffic
complicates communication,
and I can find no voice to cut
through the din of the dead.
If you walk with me,
I’ll help you carry your burden
and you can support me with mine.
I turn the corner on my old life,
detach with loving sorrow
from a road that never served me,
a direction wrought only with pain.
Tiny arms await me on this open road,
eyes wide with wonder and possibility.
There is joy to be found along the way.
If you walk with me,
I’ll share this new adventure
and together, we’ll have much to gain.
(Changing Directions was originally published June, 2015)
Tired of same old endings,
in which hopes are slaughtered
and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned
to set standards low –
still afraid of heights –
have fallen as the ground
beneath my aspirations crumbled –
a certainty under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings,
in which self is battered by indifference
and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism
negating children’s need, obliterating
safety, disregarding long-term damage;
even in the older years, when we tried
to get her out, were powerless against
his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings
in which the heroine, resources spent,
succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener,
hopeful, in which relationships
are fulfilling, and life goals are
supported, in which encouragement
is not fodder for deviousness, and
personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings
haunting my dreaming hours,
taunting my waking dreams.
Curious by nature,
and drawn by hope
we push forward
spring ourselves
from the mud-mired
traps of psychological
undoings
focus on a horizon
where sunrises
and sunsets
offer glimpses of glory
optimist and pessimist
alike, daring to believe
that the beckoning future
bears equal promise.
(This poem started with a few lines scribbled in the middle of the night. Â To see the writing process, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)
