Love evolves –
a consideration
we overlooked
those day when
passion drove us
to fanciful displays
Tried to align myself
to the certainty
of your dreams
but my compass
was set elsewhere
Memory, though
has tattooed us
on my heart;
the ink still bleeds.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image mine.)
Softly, his fingers
caress piano keys –
lost in a melody
Swan-like she drifts
across the dance floor,
enchantment in motion
Their love is like this –
wordlessly he manipulates,
gracefully she capitulates.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
In anticipation of guests,
the hostess – always bent
on pleasing – carefully selects
the script, ascribes roles,
envisions an afternoon
of light repartee, peppered
with philosophical pondering –
satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, confident
in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails
to read disinterest in eyes,
politely attempts to orchestrate
interactions, while they cast about,
calculating, shunning protocols
of etiquette, dispersing in
an unsettling way, then returning,
savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, panic rising,
confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself –
bears no arms but the giving type –
she ducks, grasps, attempts
retreat from the onslaught
of vindictive agendas, but the wall
of stored grievances, spotlighting
a history of injustices, corners
her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all,
she tells herself, knowing
full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end,
who save her – a surefooted
cavalry, bearing the swords of
understanding, compassion
their war cry – reigning in the
once-invited, now betraying
guests – objective hearts
demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all,
she tells them, tells herself,
composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders
now plead for forgiveness,
beg for help, pretend the slights
were unintentional, harmless,
expect their hostess to step
over the bloodied and slain bits
of herself, and with benevolence,
restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all,
she says weakly, the torn script
of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
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)
Tiger’s eye
reminds me of youth,
how you remarked:
“Save it for luck!”
before brushing aside
my unruly hair…
one last time.
Found you again
decades later,
sipping tea
in a corner café,
dropped the marble
in your saucer,
your smile
bridged the years.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson, this poem edited. Image my own)
(Hi all. This post was pre-scheduled. I have turned off comments. We are currently coming to terms with the loss of a close family member. Will visit when I can, but likely be off for a bit.)
In your absence
I paint the ceiling
midnight blue,
await the return
of stars, ride out
the gut wrench
of abandonment
I know your motive
is happiness, and
that I shall emerge
all the wiser,
but for now
I don the spatter
of indigo grief.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
He is rhino tough,
destined for greatness,
intimidates foes
She is rabbit cautious,
freezes in his shadow,
a prolific creator
They debate the meaning
of existence, unlace
personas, find harmony.
(Image mine)
A mother wakes, moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles
Call it instinct, or premonition
A sister calls in timely fashion,
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed
Call it instinct, or premontion
A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side, senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness
Call it instinct, or premonition
Then, why, when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?
Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.
(Premonition first appeared here February, 2018. Image my own)
Ask me how I’m doing
and I’ll say “fine”, not
because I’m actually fine,
but because “fine” is the only
socially acceptable response.
If I said that I have been lying
here, for three hours now,
willing my body to move,
that would elicit unsolicited
advice and tarnish my “fine”.
I’d berate myself for breaking
my promise not to moan,
knowing that complaining
provokes a compulsive need
to fix, which just infuriates me
Because my concept of trying –
which is defined by getting dressed
each day – does not match trying
every new therapy, drug, exercise
offered by well-meaning but clueless
others, who may experience fatigue
at times, but have no understanding
of what is is to be exhausted after
something as simple as bathing,
let alone debating what I haven’t tried.
So, ask me how I’m feeling, and
I’ll say “fine” and we move on
to the weather, or the latest
movie must-see, and I can bask
in the warmth of the contact
carry the conversation into the
void of the rest of my day, smile
to think that I still have friends
who accept my “fine” even though
they know I anything but…
(Re-de-fine-d first appeared here February, 2016. Edited here. Image my own)
Daddy yelled
and Mommy cried
and new dresses appeared
A pattern
my young heart
vowed to break
Chose a man,
reticent in nature,
pursued a career
Then babies came
and I stayed home
and he withheld cash
Pendulum swings
left to right – money
holds the key to power
(Money first appeared here January, 2019. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 