I’m gnawing on possibility
the suggestion that my dabbling
could amount to something
What? my gut protests
reminds me of limitations
physical constraints
But I’ve had room to breathe
and resources at hand
and creativity, expansive
dwells in possibility
nibbles at suggestions
mind scrabbles to find
excuses – laundry,
a drawer that needs sorting
but the door has opened
and I’m seeing a path
a way through the noise
a sliver of light beckoning.
(For Ragtag’s daily prompt: gnaw. Image my own.)
Find hope in sunsets
bursts of magnificence
momentarily absolve
worry, guilt…
When did fear gain
such hold, and how
do I demystify its lies?
The setting sun knows,
I am certain, will follow her
into darkness…
(Image my own.)
This year the plague came
and I blamed the wind
for carrying destruction
and I blamed the sun
for its ineptitude
and the rain,
no friend of mine,
only served to drown
my expectations.
Lockdown
and social distance
masks and antiseptics
how was a soul
to survive?
Pushing 2020
out the door
certain relief
would follow
but change is not
a date on the calendar
a release of circumstance
I turned inward
faced the gloom
and found a spark
forgave the weather
the virus, the news
In 2021, I woke up…
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge: I woke up in 2021… Image my ow
Teach me reverence
am losing ground
children adulting
mothering in a void
Teach me acceptance
disability’s waters flood
I’m in the margins
an afterthought
I concede life changes
release control – passion
begs an outlet; I am worn
but I am open. Teach me.
(Image mine)
Sip of brewed mugwort
and reality shatters
pixelated beads
like a murmuration
shapeshifting images
luring me skyward
I am skin-shedding
anti-gravitational
Alice in Wonderland
watch me grow.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Spring-loaded
the lever
that releases us
from reality
One minute
set on a path
the next, victim
course uncharted
Survivors
question –
existential
questers.
There is no promise
life passes, sometimes trickles
we survive or thrive
love as glue, spirit reigning
heart open – sacred witness.
(Image my own.)
Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me
Of course, he does
I am schooled in compassion
seldom flinch at raw pain
I attend to the wounds
listen; reassure
but I am weary
My own sorrow unattended
loss and betrayal an inner bleed
know I have only so much to give
But he is not alone,
there is another
a mere child…
Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me
Of course he does
and I will sign on to stay…
schooled in the art of compassion.
(The stories that come to us in the dreamtime, often celebrate anniversaries. Years ago, I was in a cycle of abusive relationships, culminating with the one represented in the poem. We met on New Year’s Eve. My son, then early teens, remarked to me that I always chose relationships that asked a lot of me but seldom gave in return. While I laughed it off in the moment, his words remained with me, especially as this man also betrayed me with another. It was the turning point I needed to do some real soul-searching.)
Image my own.
A life of servitude,
the guru said,
surely leads to Nirvana
No debate permitted –
we are but plebes
answer his every need
mere women, born
to serve, to nurture…
I flee the cult
Why? Because I can.
Servitude does not
negate free will.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
