Male mallard
once procuring
offspring, abandons
Female, charged with care
becomes a target, often
killed by next mate
I contemplate the orphans
the cruelty rendered
what purpose struggle serves.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Father’s grip
controlling crush
warned against
disobedience
First love
Grade one
holding hands
walking home
A sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until too hot to touch
I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles
sensuality evoking desire
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go
prideful possession
A granddaughter’s fist
still pink from birthing
wraps around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life
Husband’s hand
reaches for mine
conveys support –
strength to propel
me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments
leaving deep impressions.
(Hand Holding first appeared here August, 2018. I submit an edited edition here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: hands. Image from personal collection.)
And when the fatal breath expels
and all is quiet, will you remember me
Bright as an orange bloom
with my words locked inside
A poem inspiring eternity
or will my essence shrivel
Be lost – like dust particles
exposed in afternoon sunbeams?
(Image my own.)
Too young to understand
ethos of beauty regimes
she rejects girlish rituals
sees beauty in nature
in glitter of make-believe
This abnegation of grooming
not rebellion, but appreciation
a nuance that escapes
Mother’s frustrated efforts.
(My granddaughters balk at having their hair done, something that drove me crazy as a parent, but now reminds me of myself as a child. One generation removed, I view the issue from a new perspective. Image from personal collection.)
To chronicle a life
to extract truth
separate skin from soul
in search of essence
I try to listen
to the rhythms
diagram a blueprint
am discombobulated.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Invisibility is undesirable
I am flesh craving
in a touchless world
A voice yearning
to be heard, a heart
to listen – compassion
growing cold. This side
of the table intolerable
how long will we continue
Till the rage in me ignites
sets your paper walls aflame
and will you even notice?
(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge: feature image is prompt.)
I wade through the muck
of your vocal excretions
anxious to mend the schism
What species of human
are you, would fabricate
such lies, impose such pain
And what species am I
that would tolerate it;
strive for reparation?
(Image my own)
There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.
(To Old Friends first appeared here in December 2017. Image my own.)
It was desire
led me here
buried me alive
Lust borrowed
from loneliness
his heart a tomb
Flesh from flesh
can be extracted
psyche requires exorcism.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Solitude.
I dream of
panoramic
silence –
breathtaking
boundless
sanctity.
Solitude.
Wrapped in separateness
cardboard walls fallen
curling corners of instability –
no refuge in stillness.
Solitude.
Smothering starkness
madness reverberating
canyons of aloneness
overbearing.
Solitude.
Persevere
regale moments
feathered encounters
faces on screens
tenderness
in voices.
Solitude.
Grace finds me
mercy lifts soul
possibility
opens the door
panoramic.
(This is a rewrite of an older poem, last appearing here in August, 2018. I submit it for Reena’s Exploration challenge #163. Please visit her post for a most inspiring video. Art my own.)
One Woman's Quest 