A backlog of beacons
light this pitiful path
Am I too morose to respond,
or is this stubborn arrogance?
Resigned to believe
no good will come
Like a broken record, stuck
on that one sad love song.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
“Just like your father!”
Words that chill me
to my core, bile
and self-loathing
follow
I abhor ego –
its need
its pandering
its petulance
Would skin
and exile
the beast
but, alas
Self absent
interface
cannot deal with
what remains
So I wrestle
with the father bits
and bolster the tried –
ego negotiation
(Image my own)
In illness, I am passenger –
no matter how venturous
mind’s reach, the raw truth
is that limitations confine
This is not a sentence
for some perceived crime,
but a re-framing – attitude
shifting to acceptance
Choice becomes thoughtful –
time allows for that now –
and gratitude takes hold
in every corner of “I can”.
(Art my own)
Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge,
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
This pedestal of responsibility
has elevated me, out of reach,
out of touch – lumps together
children, mate, mother, sister…
Caregiver extraordinaire
present overcrowded by
obligations…am unwell,
off topic, fed up, surely…
I am other abled, have room
for more – not martyr related –
hesitant to plan, my purpose
for being so intricately tuned
to the needs of others, should
quit while I’m ahead – silence
the inner nag – free us all
from this unhealthy game.
(This poem first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II
in September, 2016. Edited here. Image my own.)
It’s just a moth, I offered
that blue moon night
rattling windows
chafing nerves
We’d chosen exile –
sister and I – refuge
from family demons,
not ours to claim
Innocence borrows
responsibility – I bore
it like a badge;
she shattered
Could not discriminate
darkness from her own
inner light – sought
to end the fury
I’ll carry us both,
I murmured, too young
to recognize the magnitude –
altruism destined to fail.
She’s buried now
beneath the madness
her mind the moth
slamming against my pain.
(Image my own.)
Tell my woes to River
she listens graciously
an empathic mirror
Not so the Jackdaw
whose arrogant clattering
derides self-pity
Slaps me conscious
for I am victim, yes, and
if not careful, abuser.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknuton.
Image my own)
I lied.
The initial seed of disappointment has fermented,
and in the absence of confrontation, grown roots
written sorrowful chapters
conclusion: unworthiness
Why couldn’t I just have said:
I don’t understand
this makes me unhappy?
Where did I learn that prevarication protects
that I alone am responsible for emotions
that I do not matter?
Decades later
I still cannot uproot the weed
the lie remains.
(Image my own)
Tired of same old endings
in which hopes are slaughtered
and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned
to set standards low –
still afraid of heights –
have fallen as the ground
beneath my aspirations crumbled –
a certainly under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings
in which self is battered by indifference
and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism
negating children’s need, obliterating
safety, disregarding long-term damage;
even in older years, when we tried
to get her out, were powerless against
his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings
in which the heroine, resources spent
succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener,
hopeful, in which relationships
are fulfilling, and life goals are
supported; in which encouragement
is not the ploy of deviousness, and
personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings
haunting my dreaming hours
unforgotten in waking dreams.
(Tired of Same Old Endings first appeared here June of 2018.
Edited for this submission. Linking up with Reena’s Xploration
Challenge: insanity, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: unforgotten.
Image my own.)
I am gregarious
initiator
risk-taker
eagerly anticipating
the unknown
But the subconscious
alights on old stories
gathers sanctimonious
rumours of unworthiness
spits out shame
and rage
Reveals the truth –
I am vulnerable.
(Facing Truths first appeared here July ’19. This version is edited from original. Art my own.)
One Woman's Quest 