Category: poetry

River’s Draw

Idleness is not a ploy
asserted by the river,
her banks, ever vital,
project confidence –
life’s continuum

Her waters, sturdy,
fluctuating, tame
the deepest emotions

I come to the river
hoping to imbibe,
to be intoxicated
in her presence

I come to the river
to be revived.

Cedar Waxwing

A spot of red
and dash of yellow
bandana masked eyes
how you transport me
to simpler times –
childhood days
when you and I
wiled away hours
hidden deep
beneath summer
canopies – maple,
beech and willow –
listened for whispers
on the wind,
searched for treasure
on rocky creek bottom.

Years since our paths
have crossed like this,
have you returned
as reminder –
your sweetness
a blessing, now
that I only linger
at woods’ edge?

No matter the reason,
I am content
that we meet again,
my friend of old.

(For Granny Shot It’s Bird of the Day.  Photo from personal collection.)

 

Spirit Stands Strong

Progress – seldom linear –
tosses me into unexpected decline –
stranded and incapacitated.

My son – with labour-hardened strength
leaps to my side, steadying me
and I feel the fear in his caring grip.

My daughter, ever compassionate,
reaches out for me with horror-filled eyes
as my body crumples onto the bed.

My husband, my oak, seeks to comfort
his voice betraying the helplessness
this futile predicament imposes.

Beloveds, I know that you see me
this dis-abled, non-functioning shell
weakened and sickly, lying on this bed.

Do not be deceived – that is not me –
it is only an illusion –
a vessel – temporarily fettered.

I am, in essence, beside you –
ambitions and desires intact.
Feel me there, tall and proud.

Sense the wholeness of my being
remember me for the woman I am yet to be –
My spirit stands strong.

(I first wrote this poem in August of 2015, when efforts to sit up and visit with friends caused a collapse.  I wrote it as reassurance for my family that the woman they knew was still strong.  I post here now as a reminder to myself – of how far I have come, and how strong my spirit remains.)

Self Portrait In Colours

Found an old diary –
days when I painted myself white,
prayed to angels, believed God
cared about personal forever after –
painted myself pathetic.

Took me back –
days when I painted myself pink,
altruistic heart committed to indifference,
yearned for the unrequited, sacrificed –
painted myself foolish.

Read between the lines –
days when I painted myself yellow,
so desperately co-dependent,
projected sunshine, risked it all –
painted myself delusional.

Wonder that I’d survived –
painted myself broken,
found strength, moved on,
made better choices –
painted myself indigo.

(Self Portrait in Colours originally appeared here in August of 2016.  Edited.

 

 

Advocate for Wonder

I know what infinity means:
it’s one hundred plus one.

Voice of innocence
serene her sense of self
of life’s complexities.

Should borrow from her,
embrace that confidence,
but worry intervenes.

How do we preserve
the wonder of youth,
save her from cynicism?

That it is! I reply,
my smile a warm hug –
vow to be forever advocate.

(I submit this poem, inspired by my six-year-old granddaughter, to three challenges:
Ragtag Community’s, serene;  Fandango’s advocate; and Reena’s Exploration challenge.  Image from personal collection.)

Chronic Companion

She sits with me at breakfast,
follows me to the park,
hovers on the drive home,
celebrates when I lie down,
snuggles in with warming pad,
and moans…

Not a companion
I would have chosen,
preferred the active,
athletic life, and yet

She complains with me
in the afternoon, invites
excuses during dinner,
grounds me in the evenings
and tosses me at bedtime

Not a companion
I would have chosen,
but at least I’ll grant her this –
she’s chronically devoted.

 

 

The Queen Is Missing

She’s not in the kitchen
presiding over preparations,
thriving amidst the chatter,
tutting away thieving fingers.

She’s not in the classroom,
mastering subjects,
upholding order,
ruling with charitable hand.

Nor is she at social affairs,
head bent in rapt attention,
smiling cordially,
gracious with compassion.

The Queen is missing –
the poise and composure
that marked her carriage
has vanished without a trace.

Don’t ask the old woman
tottering down the lane,
stooped and stumbling –
she’s not all there.

Her mind’s a trickster,
her ego a petulant child,
unwilling to concede wrong –
she’s merely the court jester.

(The Queen is Missing first appeared August of 2015.)