What is it about alleys
magnifies fear?
Is it the reflection
of inner passages,
those narrow, dim lit
years, when despair
echoed endlessly?
Days I forgot
to look for light,
imagined none
discredited the truth
that glory dwells
even in dark alleys.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
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)
There are shores that remain
ever-etched upon my heart –
emotional tides that tug
and carry me, currents
of past revelations –
I remember drowning
in the swells of loneliness
always the outsider, the grains
of this sentimentality
still shredding my adult soul.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…
Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes
Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection
What if I could go back
now that I can breathe
Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity;
would I discover a sudden windfall?
Makeover conditioned motifs;
reevaluate ceiling heights?
With resources to remodel
heart open, connected
might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.
(Childhood Home first appeared May, 2020. Image my own)
Expectations are my enemy –
raised without standards,
boundaries full of holes,
I worship at the altar of lies
Fortunately, soul follows it own star –
rages against darkness encroaching,
shatters illusions, commands higher
aspirations – love overcoming fear
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
I’m being a good girl, Dad
Staying out of sight
Keeping my needs to a minimum
Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad
Cooking all his favourites
Letting him walk ahead
Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad
Just like you taught me; just like Mom
Only no one has to hit me to make me
behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
(Image my own)
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)
One Woman's Quest 