I am woman
questing…
a warrior
slashing bonds
of painful past
an aerialist
balancing strife
with fleeting bliss
a she-reptile
shedding distrust
in vulnerability, growing
I push through
the tangled maze
of personas, seek a truth
that frees my spirit
and roots my essence
into blessed being
For I am woman
with a quest…
striving on…
(Art my own. I call her The Mother Tree)
Examining the intricacies
of a spider’s weaving
Marvelling as a mother raccoon
carries her babies one by one
while a bobcat prowls the tree line
Delighting in the birth of a calf
anticipating the arrival of more
Wonder and trepidation
coinciding – and I, behind
lens, am child again
wide-eyed basking
in the glorious outdoors.
My faith is goat steady –
surefooted in rocky times –
I keep her within sight,
safely separated.
Store her with potential –
mountain lion persistent –
set them on the other side
of vision – lock myself away.
It’s the tigress in my heart
that unsettles me the most –
certain by her pacing
that she’ll consume me
Tremble at the demands –
self being called to embrace
something higher, deeper –
an assertion of essence.
( “Contemplating Emergence” is the name of the art, that like the poem, found its origins in my dreams.)
Autumn dons a mask,
regales the changing season,
ignores Winter’s threat –
and I too, dance, brightly clad,
deny the nearness of death.
Forged in a crucible of fire
my essence is flame –
I smoulder in silence
burn in indignation
ignite with passion –
stir these embers if you dare.
(Image from personal collection.)
Subtlety unknown,
Spring’s repertoire bold and bright –
soul responds in kind.
Body falters,
mind the same,
but spirit dances,
lithe as a flame.
Elaborate, the tree forts
imagination envisions
Indifferent, the rationale
that overpowers inspiration
I balk, abandon hope,
build a wall instead,
forgetting…
Creativity is not linear,
tolerates input, planning,
some alternatives preferred.
(Featured image from personal collection. Doesn’t it just say: “Climb me!”? This image is a Live Oak, in Texas, and is available on various products at Society6.)
Is this inherent restlessness,
a fiery blue spark
of eternal angst
igniting passion –
a call to write?
(Image from personal collection)
Somewhere inside,
beneath the noise
of to do’s, or regrets,
buried so deep,
that I disbelieve
it exists, and yet…
there it is –
pulsating in sleep,
disrupting idle moments –
a hum, a breeze, a niggling,
as if I’ve trapped passion,
like a firefly, jarred it
in some inner cellar…
and still, it glows –
begs for the light of day,
a slit in consciousness
through which to escape –
inspiration demanding
expression.
One Woman's Quest 