The Last Train (Sonnet)

We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I busied at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.

“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.

The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.

Some destinations are clearly defined –
Death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.

(The Last Train first appeared January 2019. Image my own)

Sustenance Rekindled

It wasn’t the knowledge of stability –
chaos had the upper hand back then.
It wasn’t even that love was expressed –
unconditional an unheard of concept

It was an unspoken presence
the reassurance of rocks
the irrepressible allure
of a freshwater stream

How a child’s heart
found encouragement
in the whispering wind
solace in the arbored shelter

Naturally the din of home life
overpowered this self-assured
passage, disrupted kinship
and shattered childish faith

But all that is behind now
and when I clear cluttering
thoughts, disperse static
emotions, quiet the heart

The rhythms are still there –
presence offering sustenance…

(Poem first appeared here, January, 2021. Image my own)

Forgiveness

Resting, I pray for peace
but it is temporary
guilt intervenes

What if I withdraw
commit to solitude
keep my tongue?

I need angel guidance
this mothering heart
infectious, requires wisdom

My past is soiled
I am stinking, tainted
Can forgiveness help?

Pick me up,
give me strength
I am lacking courage

Teach me moderation
modesty to guide my words
I only want to help…

But this vile thirst
this self-deprecation
reigns me in

What value have I
in a world stricken by need
my offering mere morsels?

I pray for peace
I pray for grace
Forgiveness offers a hand.

(Image my own).

Winged

Heron’s wings span six-feet wide
great grey appendages in rhythmic flight

Dragonfly wings are camouflaged,
propel elongated bodies who hover in sight

Monarch’s wings are stained-glass delicate
with each flutter, sprinkle fantasies of delight

My wings, imaginary, give me faith and hope
mechanisms of spirituality, my soul’s fire ignite.

(Image mine)

Of Light

There is light in unknowns –
at least I project it there –
caught between the current
ashen landscape and the achings
of a solitary childhood…

I like to think faith guides me
but she is muted like the gardens
of my dreams, more ethereal
than palpable and I need concrete
have waited too long for that train

of certainty to carry me away…
course it never comes, there is no easy
just a slow, steady plodding: a pace
that age has settled on; so I turn
to inner landscapes, imagination
remembering colour…and yes, light.

(Image my own creation)

Age Has Her Own Quest

What is it that a woman of maturity quests for?

Autonomy: to feel that her decisions/wants/needs
are not overshadowed by the dictates of another,
or by a past that is forever looming.

Empowerment: to know, once and for all, that
the victim is laid to rest, so that she can embrace
her authentic self.

Inner peace: to live without guilt or the need for
permission. To be able to forgive and self and other
in order to be free. To trust, innately, her own
inner resources, releasing fear’s hold.

Sacredness: to stand firmly upon the Earth,
breathe freely, and engage with life. To make
a difference.

Celebration: to live with anticipation, surprise,
and ultimately joy.

Connection: to recognize in each living moment
that none of the above is obtained in a bubble.
I quest for true connection. The bravest quest of all.

(Reading through old posts I came across one from November, 2014 which inspired this write. Image my own.)

Melding

I have ventured
into your atmosphere
slipped my skin
your skin
and discovered
a universe
thoughts
emotions
beliefs
blending
into a physical dance
of light and shadow
nuances of colour
delineating life

At our core
we are light
leaning into mystery
cellular interpretations
of a symphony
we cannot hear

Compassion extended
mind altered
we meld.

(Melding first appeared here June, 2020. Image my own)

Moon Message

Here on the threshold of change,
anxiety and despair howling,
shadows of uncertainty lengthen
beneath the fullness of the moon.

She is no guide, this orb-faced
deity, whose countenance
fails to reveal a directive –
and yet, at some intrinsic level

I feel that we are aligned;
know that her pull is primal,
her presence a reminder
that life is cyclical, and

just as the emotional waters
rise, so too will they ease,
and her voiceless essence
calls me to still the madness

close my eyes to fear’s distortion
and attune to an inner calm,
to trust the light within, and
surrender to the unknowable.

(Moon Message first appeared here April, 2018. This is an edited version. Image my own.)