Weekends at cottage
we’d linger over coffee,
dew sparkling on primroses
How we’d race to the lake
laughter emerging
from cool depth
Flowers scowl now
Lake’s chill hardened
Do you wait for me
in the eternal darkness?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Here on the threshold of change,
anxiety and despair howling,
shadows of uncertainty lengthen
beneath the fullness of the moon.
She is no guide, this orb-faced
deity, whose countenance
fails to reveal a directive –
and yet, at some intrinsic level
I feel that we are aligned;
know that her pull is primal,
her presence a reminder
that life is cyclical, and
just as the emotional waters
rise, so too will they ease,
and her voiceless essence
calls me to still the madness
close my eyes to fear’s distortion
and attune to an inner calm,
to trust the light within, and
surrender to the unknowable.
(Moon Message first appeared here April, 2018. This is an edited version. Image my own.)
The ability to alter one’ perspective –
to shift certainty to openness –
allows for deeper engagement,
life affirming and inspirational,
akin to wonder…
To deviate is to dare.
(Image my own)
(Comments are turned off. Hope to be back tomorrow)
Tiger’s eye
reminds me of youth,
how you remarked:
“Save it for luck!”
before brushing aside
my unruly hair…
one last time.
Found you again
decades later,
sipping tea
in a corner café,
dropped the marble
in your saucer,
your smile
bridged the years.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson, this poem edited. Image my own)
(Hi all. This post was pre-scheduled. I have turned off comments. We are currently coming to terms with the loss of a close family member. Will visit when I can, but likely be off for a bit.)
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up,
that adulthood, awash
with responsibility,
would also be lonely
And, no one told me
that the days and nights
of sweating over lessons
would likely not lead
to the life imagined
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies –
does not exist – the word itself
bearing more substance
than the act, fickle as it is
No one told me that
motherhood would change
my reality permanently,
colouring it with unfathomable
pain and joy – such juxtaposition
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for,
regardless of its justification,
is really a struggle with self –
inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age,
with seismic force,
would alter my perspective so –
leave me barren and yet enriched,
enthralled with the ordinary
and unfazed by the rest
And, in the end, as I watch
the vernal rains announce renewal,
in the quiet of my solitude, I am
amazed and grateful for all
that this crazy, driven life has become
and that no one ever told me.
(This is an edited version of a poem published in April, 2019. Art my own.)
A child like me
doesn’t believe
in wishes –
bruises a reminder
that wishes are bombs
Don’t ask me to dream –
eyes fixed on escape –
give me a nook
where I can hide –
buy one more day.
(Image my own)
You misconceive the calling,
says bird in bush –
troubled times
call for comfort
not derailment
of humanity –
petty, bickering
without soul –
I may be bird-brained
but human sense
has the consistency
of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Jumbo Jet
they called her –
fast on her feet,
zooming in,
swooping up trays,
delivering with flight-
attendant flair.
When did she turn
to autopilot,
stop paying attention
to her destination?
Didn’t she know
she was set
on a crash course,
headed for disaster?
Tried to warn her,
wake her from stupor;
told me she’d reset
but danger remains.
She’s cruising now –
over-sized
turbo-lacking
under-fuelled,
no longer able
to soar – trapped
in a treacherous game.
Waits tables,
tries to keep
a clean house,
caters to others,
lends an ear,
has squeezed
every drop of self
into a low flying life
needs to land
a space of her own,
with room to breathe;
take life in shorter
intervals, refill
her jets.
(Portrait of a Waitress was originally written in 2016. Image a self portrait. Note: once upon a time, I was a waitress, whom the cooks referred to as “Jumbo Jet”. I waitressed my way through university, and a few rough spots in life. While I gave up the job, the metaphor of ‘waiting’ continued to be a theme in my dreams for many years after.)
In increments
we measure the rain
as if centimetres
can quantify sorrow
A falcon has chased
the birds away,
naked, a tear-stained
tree stands alone
Our hearts resonate –
arms, like branches, aching.
(Image my own)
Running –
an allegory
for strife
for recovery
for all the shards
of a blown-apart life –
this mountain, this becoming
this chest-pounding flight.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 