Category: poetry

Heavenly Day

Sun slices through slumber –
Day, wrapped in cerulean, beckons.

Not an early riser, I balk, until
sensibility intrudes, argues
autumn’s passing –

I concede, break out,
push limitations –
a sexagenarian rebel.

Later, I crash,
golden lustre
enveloping me –
halo-like.

(Kim is hosting at dVerse pub tonight and challenging us to write a quadrille – poem in 44 words – using the word early.  I am also linking up with Ragtag Community for their prompt:  lustre.  More photos and information about this outing are posted here.)

 

Tongue Tied

Two-tongued –
speaking both heart and mind –
complex languages, whose nuances
I’ve never quite mastered, yet
am conversant in.

It’s a constant learning
to nail enunciation –
linguistics a tiresome topic

the mind,
a guttural language,
leans to equation and absolutes –
hard consonants and long vowels;

while heart-speak rolls
off the tongue in softer,
cooing syllables –
elongated tones and
whimsical passages.

I’d happily demonstrate
the extent of my proficiency
but the two-tongues,
are currently contradictory,
the clamour of their discord
drowning out the peace
requisite for translation.

Sticks And Stones

Intuition and compassion
combined with knowledge
an effective healer make,

yet, historically, women
applying such skills – labelled
witches – burnt at the stake.

The injustice of such trials
now commonly accepted – still
the title reeks of something sinister.

And if a man raises his voice
in ire, driven to protest, he
is righteous – to be heeded,

but let a woman speak out
against lack of fairness – she
is a witch by another name.

I say we banish the verbal putdowns,
condemn the ignorance inspired by fear,
listen to one another, and invite progress.

(Written for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt: witch, witchy, bewitched.)
 

 

Distance

Even in togetherness there is distance.

I am alone –
a central figure, distracted,
aiming for contact,
unable to eviscerate control,
repeatedly producing a singular confusion.

Define success…
Is it the one on top,
the know-it-all,
or are these the machinations
of estrangement?

I am unable to discern –
stability never more than a dalliance.

The pavement ahead whispers
promises of belonging –
can I tolerate the quest?

Unfulfilled, I am defensive,
fear off-shoots of depression,
shield tender inner places…

Bring on change;
others watch – look to me
as an example.

I can do this, on their behalf.

Never alone.

Always distances to cross.

(V.J.’s Weekly Challenge is distance. Also submitting this for Open Link Night at dVerse.)

VJWCbanner

Mining Civilization

Digging for gold
in an overcrowded mine,
the dust of narcissism
blinding our passage.

Rural roots worship
celebrity – well-travelled
hype overshadowing
common decency –

Powerless, we are
throngs of insignificance –
fraudulence and anti-social
rhetoric failing to elicit pause.

Our screams, ignored, do not
alleviate the suffocation –
How do we blast through
the rage, re-enact a vision,

draw lines that reset respect,
encourage care, listen to needs,
recognize the treasure we seek
is in humanity’s survival?

(Submitted for Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: blast, and Fandango’s: draw.  Image from personal collection.)

Sleep is For Other

I toil in the dreamtime
like a night manager
in a hotel without walls,
catering to clientele –
whose needs, so diverse,
rattle the rows of beds –

settling disputes and
encouraging discretion
and succeeding only
in waking exhausted.

I am like a keeper in
a hostile hostel –
trying to find a key
when there are no
doors to unlock.

(Inspired by sleepless nights and erratic dreaming, and submitted for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt – unlock.  Featured image is titled “Self-Portrait with Colours” although my son says it looks more like a LSD trip – I didn’t ask. Alternate title:  “I am Slowly Going Crazy”, lol.)

Smoking Pit

Cigarette butts
no longer linger
concrete, but
I swear the cloud
of smoke lingers,
the sweat of adolescent
anxiety – the suffocating
pressure to comply –

Names escape,
but I remember
smugness and
rivalry, and
the spine-crawling fear
of confrontation,
and indisputable
in my mind
are the scars
of being so alone.

(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday prompt.  Image supplied by Deb Whittam.)