I have ventured
into your atmosphere
slipped my skin
your skin
and discovered
a universe
thoughts
emotions
beliefs
blending
into a physical dance
of light and shadow
nuances of colour
delineating life
At our core
we are light
leaning into mystery
cellular interpretations
of a symphony
we cannot hear
Compassion extended
mind altered
we meld.
(Melding first appeared here June, 2020. Image my own)
Supper dishes abandoned,
we cruise the backroads,
destination: river’s edge
A muskrat creates ripples
distorting mirror images
disappears into murky unknown
A canoe glides by,
occupant a silhouette
in the golden sun’s descent
We linger in the warmth
of the fading glow, celebrating
summer’s gracious moments.
(Image my own)
There are shores that remain
ever-etched upon my heart –
emotional tides that tug
and carry me, currents
of past revelations –
I remember drowning
in the swells of loneliness
always the outsider, the grains
of this sentimentality
still shredding my adult soul.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
There is safety in apart-ment living;
would corral the little ones, declare
responsibility, obligations as a mask
for this self-banishing compulsion…
except that I am lying prone, exposed –
brains spilling onto concrete – shadows
revealing the darkness of my condition,
hopelessly locked in physical inertia.
I am an unwitting contributor to
scientific (and pseudo) probing:
audacious autopsies pronouncing
conclusive evidence of motives.
Too polite (and weakened) to deflect,
I submit, demonstrating complacency,
sacrificing autonomy; fail to assert
that it is I who is taking this life test.
And, by the way, am passing quite
adequately, which defies all rational
diagnosis and prognosis, and serves
to reassure me of ultimate success.
(Not Dead Yet first appeared here June, 2016. Image my own.)
Not programmed to comply –
cannot tolerate oppression:
a pressure cooker
ready to explode
Do-gooders sit up
straight and smile
encouragement:
I slouch defiance
Don’t ask me to respect
that which is disrespectful –
my fuse is short
of that I’m certain
Don’t slot me;
leave me –
creative inspiration
is not lacking here
I’m a free agent
a incorrigible scamp –
authority doesn’t scare me
’cause I’m beyond control.
(That Kid, first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, June 2017. Found poem here. Image my own)
Every child bears the spark
of eternity’s promise…
Where’s the threat in that?
What mechanism of hate
equates slaughter
of innocents with justice?
This is society’s bane –
the unconscionable policies
of greed lacking accountability
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams –
paper affirmations of aspirations –
shelved and forgotten, its contents
snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future –
captured when potential was prime
and possibility untainted by illness
This one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour
has drained the cracks obliterating
pride of accomplishment; and notice
how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as
my life has dissipated, the image
lost before memory resurfaces, so
much loss when circumstance dictates
direction, overpowers will, and plans
like snowflakes, vanish in the heat
of reality – pain and insult burning
But wait…this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image
discernible – could it be that there is
hope yet – a future author I might be?
That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray,
our hope, like balloons set free in a sea
of unforeseen challenges, and seldom
does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in
the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old
with new photographs to store away.
(This is a rerun of a rerun. Still resonates. Image my own)
What is this ocean,
this vastness?
Blue upon blue
tiny crisp white sails
the only demarcation
between sky and water
infinite flow
a lulling swell
and I as witness
Docked
waiting
wondering
What is this ocean
that calls to me?
(Image my own)
I dwell in mediocracy
where Larkspur takes a spotlight
and sunsets enforce sleep
A background figure, I hide
behind mundane assertions,
practice subtlety
Lies I tell myself, of course,
any reader knows – I decry
normality, as passion is my way.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Nuances of nostalgia –
jagged edges
succumbing
to unsuspecting cubes
nourishment
moving and opening
I distract
We grapple
under construction
Meaning percolates
This is life
these bits and pieces
of a resurrection
dragons and time machines
ticket stubs
scattered.
(Originally titled, Weaving Bits and Pieces, this was a found poem – the product of collective responses to a prompt. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 