Ghosts and Shadows

Ghosts have no shadows
they are unsubstantiated
rumours of a life…

I exist, not because
of my shadows, and despite
the times I’ve been ghosted

Ghosts and shadows –
without them I am two-dimensional
with them, I am poetry.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)

Origin

Anxiety burns
an acidic devouring
confidence impaled –
mind wanders to childhood dreams
uncovers fear’s origin.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. I came across this tanka written in May/21 that seemed to match with the image I recently posted on my other blog. I decided to pair them here.)

Shoreless

I attempt to predict
but the future is blank

Snapshots only portray
the past, fragmented

Sunsets might suggest,
birds leak probabilities

But I want to peek
behind the final curtain

Cut through the noise
of popular currents

Life is two-faced
deception paired

And row as I might
fighting the flow

Manna follows its own rhythm
nips at my fears, like a tail wind

Nothing in it but to breathe
Lighten this intense need to know

(Image my own)

The Opposite of Confrontation

Withdrawal does not negate
the duplicity of the situation
I am at once compliant
and unruly – conflicted

I do what I can to hush
the rule-breaker, amuse
her with trivial activities
but she is vociferous

Disapproval justify’s itself
with personal anecdotes,
as if judgement is queen
only fuelling righteous rage

I attempt to retreat further
but the beastly turmoil
has grown wings –
consequences knocking

Try as I might to swat it away
my excuses are flimsy,
I am without substantial argument –
best to open the door and let it out.

(Image my own)

Forgiveness

Resting, I pray for peace
but it is temporary
guilt intervenes

What if I withdraw
commit to solitude
keep my tongue?

I need angel guidance
this mothering heart
infectious, requires wisdom

My past is soiled
I am stinking, tainted
Can forgiveness help?

Pick me up,
give me strength
I am lacking courage

Teach me moderation
modesty to guide my words
I only want to help…

But this vile thirst
this self-deprecation
reigns me in

What value have I
in a world stricken by need
my offering mere morsels?

I pray for peace
I pray for grace
Forgiveness offers a hand.

(Image my own).

The Photo Album

Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile
in our old photo album –
stares fixated on unseen lint –
distracted, we three sisters,
all reeling from the cold,
unwell, immobilized…

What is absent is the photographer
whose pointed directions critique
each decision – a derisive repetition
that eats at our souls, each girl
wrestling with self-nurture vs
self-annihilation, landing somewhere
in between – mannequin targets
for male abuse…

Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against
the dominance, the oppression, but
only succeeded in settling for disconnection,
while one sister turned tricks for attention,
the other retreated into full dependency,
her madness, out of date, nevertheless
relevant – despite our tormenter’s death,
the images are permanently recorded
in that old photo album.