Category: passion

Fluttering

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.

Growing Wings

growing-wings1870518-prints

Even as we let go
of that which no longer serves
our hearts grow wings.

*****

I am venturing into new territory,
and have established a virtual store front with Society6:  KnutsonKreations.

I would love it if you’d check me out.  Society6 is offering an Artist Promotion through to Thursday, February 21 at midnight – 25% off and free shipping worldwide using the link above.

Creating “poetry-to-go” has been a dream of mine.  This is the beginning!

 

Oh Woe, Oh Why?

Why must I suffer acne still?
What trick of fate, whose wily will?
I am too far over the hill,
refuse to take a teenage pill,
must be this state of chronic ill.

(A funny ditty for Dark Side Of the Moon’s Whyquain challenge.  I might have taken liberties with the form, but it was fun to write.)

Hungering

How can we speak of desire when needs, unmet
ravage our sense of survival – we’ll regret
this wanton display – flames subside but hunger
remains – the body’s priorities reset.

Perhaps it’s the soul that stirs when you are near –
Spirit longing to overcome mundane fear –
as if the intertwining of flesh equates
with mortal release – quick come to me, my dear.

(Written for dVerse poetics, where we are examining poetic forms.  This week, hosted by Frank, we are challenged to write a Rubaiyat.  To find out more, click on the link.)

The Fire Dance

Thrum-thrum-thrum –
I awaken with a start –
heart pounding,
intense heat stifling –

flames shooting
ceiling high form
a ring around my bed,
as if dancing –

I am frozen, mute.
Is this death?

Distorted faces
leer through fiery curls –
like ancient tribal masks –
menacing, angry

the distinct sound of voices
penetrates the fire’s roar
and too frightened to respond,
I succumb to unconsciousness.

A hallucination, the doctor deduces –
an adolescent’s overactive imagination…

till, child no more, I gather
with other women,
and a drum –
thrum-thrum-thrum

and darkness pulls me back –
to the centre of the ring –
flames, and faces, and voices

only now, I am no longer afraid –
release my soul to the dance.

(Written for the dVerse pub where Victoria is hosting with the prompt: fire.)