It’s a bird’s perspective I envy –
the ability to perch up high,
balanced no matter the weather,
unaffected by the drama below –
I shall never know such calm,
being afraid of heights.
(Previously published 08/19. Image my own)
It’s a bird’s perspective I envy –
the ability to perch up high,
balanced no matter the weather,
unaffected by the drama below –
I shall never know such calm,
being afraid of heights.
(Previously published 08/19. Image my own)
Favourite colour?
Black, says she
without hesitation
I falter, stumble,
mind reaching –
who likes black?
Is that a colour?
It’s all colours!
She’s nonchalant
intent on task –
carefully keeping
within the lines
Of course it is...
ill equipped am I
to disagree, images
of dark somber
corners, sorrow
and death crows –
Why black? ask I,
composure forced –
had anticipated pink
equate childhood
with primary shades,
splotches of yellow
and rainbow skies,
candy red apples
on lollipop trees
But black? No –
black obliterates,
negates, destroys
It holds the colour
inside, she explains.
It’s the outline.
Not annihilation –
order; her mind
conceives of order
So much to learn
from innocence,
have long forgotten
the art of staying
within lines, finding
good in all things.
(Colouring Lessons first appeared here June, 2017. Image my own)
This trail is a trial:
I’ve wheeled myself
through impossible
terrains, battled
unforgiving odds
regained purpose…
Is this resilience
or a stubborn refusal
to surrender, and…
who will dare criticize?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Blue expanding
crisp white
of tiny sails –
horizon
The lull is gentle
lucidity swelling
serenity present
How safe it is
to imagine limitlessness
when I am grounded
breast to railing
anchored ashore.
(Image my own)
Does illness have a voice,
and if so; is it melancholy,
or dark and dank, divulging
deepest despair, or revealing
a vileness of nature?
Discord creeps along my veins,
disrupts muscles, systems failing
under the oppression –
“Stay strong,” friends counsel,
cannot hear the gathering storm,
feel the heaviness cloaking me.
I am not myself, but then;
who am I? Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…
(Discord originally appeared here May, 2019. Image my own. Living with chronic, often debilitating disease, is an ongoing challenge. There is no cure, no end in sight, and yet, we must go on. This is for my fellow warriors, wondering, some days, what it is all about.)
Like Atlas, I bear
the world’s weight
call it responsibility –
a painful delusion
requiring walls
Life has its own rhythm –
light and dark,
joyous and sorrowful –
orchestration outside
of my domain
Love, however,
is limitless
in its capacity –
open-hearted acceptance
protection in itself.
Trading one focus
for another
permits appreciation –
I vow to assert love
and forgo control.
If I could touch the heavens
feel the reassurance of other
I know I would soar, untethered
to this bank of rusty dreams
and eroded faith…
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Revisiting capacity –
this old heart
more accommodating
than once imagined
Awe-inspiring
this perspective
wealth undiscovered
the fullness of being
Jealousy, such bile,
gnaws away at resolve
if I am not careful –
challenging, but I am wilful
Stay focused
task by task
there is no loss
in colouring the world
love rose
only endless bounty.
I am crow
perched high
observant
obscure
I am crow
loudly proclaiming
righteously incensed
a warning
I am crow
one-eyed, head-cocked
mystery, confronting
pompous pretense
I am crow
foolishly singular
ignorantly insulting
I eat myself.
(Image mine)
I mine my soul
for meaning
for reasoning
for hope..
find a tangle
of old and new…
revelation masked
as struggle
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)