Gambled late in life –
one more spin on love’s wheel –
we got lucky
You’ll need protection,
ego said,
and led me down paths
soaked with yesterday’s tears-
annoyances nipping at progress
But I am strong-willed
better than that,
I said, choosing to follow
a different route
The roulette wheel spins
and here I sit, alone
counting my wins
No amount of bargaining
can alter current misfortune
Pray my husband
finds his way back.
(Image my own)
Anfractuous connotes
splintered, yet you and I,
never broken, dance
a circuitous route
lost in personal reveries
interlocking threads
solid as the symbols
adorning ring fingers.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
For every child
vowed to be the calyx
to cradle each budding soul
with a tender heart
But I am imperfect
ideals devolving
in the face of loss
cross unbearable
Tend my own garden now
recognizing the power
of example overriding
oppression of control.
(Image my own)
Concrete is cold, imposing
does nothing for aesthetics
At least we’re protected,
I tell the littles, ignoring
Snot dripping, slime
oozing from unsealed
windowsills, cobwebs
and bits of shedding pink
It’s the best I can do:
four walls and a roof.
Except the ceiling
is bulging, mold and rot
certain to rain down on us
While upstairs, the man
ignores the leaks, luxuriates
in his abundance…Momma
Said marry a rich man,
you’ll be set for life,
but it’s dawning on me
there’s more to it than that.
(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dawning. Image mine)
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.
Lust ignores warning signals
fancies itself a savvy consumer
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.
Loneliness, nearsighted, shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient
and patience is the key to harmony.
Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, nor a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
dis-abled hearts bordering insanity
nor is it initiated by determination
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion
misinterpreting openings. The path
to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer-based passage –
no bargains in the commitment dept.
(Love in Aisle Nine first appeared here in December, 2017. Image is my own.)
Fancy myself pragmatic
but these cherubic faces
render me nostalgic
Not for the times –
for they were hard –
but for the ideal lost
Speculate on failings
shallow expectations,
pray I did enough.
(Found this old photograph of my two girls.)
No amount of empathy
could help me understand
the storm inside my father
Even in his death, thoughts
cloud my writing, his presence
preserved in prose…
(Even though it’s been fifteen years, my father’s essence remains strong – sometimes taunting, sometimes inspiring, always mysterious.)
Even heroes lapse
life’s connections tenuous
I set my dial on pleasing
regret failures –
Wish I could shake
this empathetic impulse
Allow others just to be –
focus on accountability for me.
(Image mine)
Father’s grip
controlling crush
warned against
disobedience
First love
Grade one
holding hands
walking home
A sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until too hot to touch
I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles
sensuality evoking desire
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go
prideful possession
A granddaughter’s fist
still pink from birthing
wraps around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life
Husband’s hand
reaches for mine
conveys support –
strength to propel
me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments
leaving deep impressions.
(Hand Holding first appeared here August, 2018. I submit an edited edition here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: hands. Image from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 