The Great Blue heron declares me an annoyance
to which the Blue Jays rasp accordance –
I know I am akin to predator
but I come here with need
to this bug-infested
weed-ridden
riverbed
To be
Torn
as I am
by an undefinable
rustle, an inner bleed
that craves patterns, or signs
naturally occurring rhythms to define
my place within this current worldly disorder
(Image my own)
August eyes are brown
winking in yellow bonnets –
flirtatious Susans.
(Image my own. Summer Susans first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, August, 2019)
We climbed so high
this mountain of man
made obstacles –
I remember the rage,
no more than 9 –
how helpless it felt
a girl in a man’s world
but I climbed anyway,
we climbed anyway
and, instead of a hand up
we get this? Patriarchy
be damned! Your days are
numbered. Mark my words.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter. Image mine)
Consciousness commands
a shift of focus –
tired of the clash of colours
stimulation overload –
my muse is leaning towards
the nuance of black and white
A study of shadows
and shading
and how light
arouses the soul
Speak to me in subtleties
she whispers
in tones suggestive
of hidden depths;
I am listening
And so I submerge myself
clear the palette of vibrant hues
and take up the lowly pencil
seek the promise
in colourless world.
(Colourless Expressions first appeared here August, 2020. Art mine)
Too many bodies
encroach on peace;
I lack boundaries,
the self-worth
required to assert
needs – dwell
in basements,
mind cluttered,
external noise
obliterating me
Backdoor provides
escape, backyard,
back gate…
…freedom
I disappear
into the quiet
of the wild:
wooded sanctuary,
flowing water,
watchful eyes
of birds overhead
Here, I define self.
(Image my own)
Beneath vulnerability,
a piccolo, a sprite –
a tiny being with might,
a heart that shines,
radiance unsurpassed
One must dig past
brambles and spikes,
peel back wall of dislikes –
essence dwells in a den,
like buried treasure.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The gambler puts in fifty-cents
expects hundreds in return;
a simple flick of the wrist
and abundance will be his.
I feel like a slot machine:
paying dues for minimal input.
Tells himself there is more
to be had, if luck runs his way;
walks away from the richness
of family, joy of friendships –
Id’ be a slot machine for him
if love equated with money
Dreams of possibilities beyond
his daily reach, a fast track plan:
fortune is calling, palm itching
just one more roll of the die –
The die has been cast here;
no longer willing to gamble.
One more momentous win,
a promise to share the wealth;
what more could any woman want
from a man – half an empty dream?
Took a chance, myself once,
thought he was my windfall…
guess, in the end, all gamblers lose.
(Originally penned Gambler in July, 2016. Image my own)
The loon’s call
pierces complacency…
I spiral backwards,
inwards – depths
of dream forgotten –
an eerie awakening.
(Image my own)
Neighbour locates dandelions,
meticulously digs up roots
muttering incoherently
in a gruff brogue
I ignore his temper, watch
the yellow-crowned beauties
surge beneath a warming sun;
hum a childish tune –
Dandelions wink.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)
Was willing to settle
even before casting off
anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, nor oar to steer
left fate to the currents
a vessel adrift; naïve
trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware
of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks
like to circle wayward
boats, certain of a catch
no wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked
I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism
had failed to register
the dangers of sailing
into uncharted waters –
the necessity of navigational
resources, and a life jacket,
the knowledge to stay afloat
and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves hearts.
(Washed Ashore first appeared here July 2018. Image my own)
