To be as the nightjar,
identity hidden
in a nest of leaves
hunger for solitude
the time it takes
to heal soul wounds
Lies I tell myself –
true healing happens
with compassion
Sacred gift
of unconditional love
bestowed by a kindred heart
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Once I counted your love
on daisy petals –
loves me, loves me not
Followed you to Aberdeen
where the grey wafted
like haar off the sea
Everything cold –
cruelty of avarice
absence of compassion.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
We are not islands:
isolated,
insulated,
to be ignored.
We are hearts engaged
in a relational dance:
intertwining stories,
weaving new tales
Yearning for love’s reciprocity
Delighting in wonder of discovery
Slugging through painful demise
Striving to be better
We build walls,
construct towers,
follow paths leading nowhere –
the pitfalls of our quest
Artificial barriers:
lofty ideals,
dead ends…
and still we push on
Dreaming of hands that hold
and gentle waters – soothing
and warm – passionate kisses:
Love’s rewards
We exist
not for accumulation
but for the gifts that arise
when open hearts dance
(Image my own)
Is it selfish
this chosen solitude?
How I treasure silence,
stillness baiting my muse
And is it my calm
that attracts chaos?
The sorrow of others
landing on my doorstep
What if I rejected pleas,
locked out the troubles?
How long can I sustain
peace until need answers?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
This ache,
this searching
how rawly
I feel your absence
Selfishly ignoring
your heart
reaching out
trying to connect
a lifetime of circling
without closing the gap
Ironic
illusion
of distance
Positioned scapegoat
remind me why? This exile
arid, confusing –
did not create the chaos;
merely tried to rescue you…
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Do not apologize –
the fault lies not with you
Love, while lauded for its cures,
is not always compensation
for a life of turmoil –
I know you loved her
Watched as you let your dreams slide
heart wringing with your own sorrow
There was just something about her
men lined up to grasp… to make her
What? Theirs? Happy?
It was not to be
She barely possessed herself..
Even in death, I reach for her
try to define the ruse,
but her essence is elusive
No, you are not at fault…
for she was never really there.
(Mirage first appeared April, 2021. Image mine)
Melancoly drags –
one young lovelorn foot stuck in
regret’s muddy path –
ignores what is near, mistakes
what if for what is. Tragic.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)
Sister was a hurricane –
destruction her path
Tried to calm, encourage
but her core was damaged
Try to reach her now,
across death’s abyss
understand before
her legacy swallows me.
Snapdragons transport me
back to Father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate floral lips
Forbidden, was I
tiny feet banished from
tiers of ordered colours –
how he worshipped those rows
Hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer… attention
lavished on nurturing growth
while I shrivelled on sidelines
Longed to dig beside him,
sully my hands and share
his passion, ignorant of
an inner drive to weed
Felt only walls of separation
the coldness of perfection,
so in my wilful way,
I rebelled against taboos
On tiptoe, stepped between
the bobbing arrangements
marred the well-tended soil
and pinched the snapdragons.
(Snapdragons first appeared here in March, 2018. Edited for this edition. Art my own)
One Woman's Quest 