Nostalgia casts rainbows
over stormy passages
Why is darkness so alluring?
I breathe passion into losses
soul revolting against the light
committed to seduction of perhaps
Where is the wisdom in this brooding?
Naïve rumination seldom begets the gold
best to look away when rainbows appear.
(For Eugi’s Weekly Challenge: rainbows. Image my own.)
Talk to me of horses
the young man says
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.
Talk to me of horses:
the world is losing its grip
and I care not about
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional –
help me understand.
So, I come daily to his bedside
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.
We discuss horses –
the power of their bodies
their beauty and grace
their role throughout history –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then…
I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable,
between sleep and awake, figures
grey and frightening hover over
my bed like body snatchers….
A chill runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin
and I shudder despite myself
scramble to maintain calm
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light
clouding his vision.
I missed his passing the next day
arriving to find his mother waiting
“He left you a message,” her eyes
quizzical, “says that you were right
about the visions; there was nothing to fear”
I smile through the grief –
ever the teacher that one
now dead at twenty-one
“Oh, and one more thing”, she adds “
“Could you talk to me of horses?”
(Talk to Me of Horses first appeared her in April 2018. This version has been edited slightly. Image my own.)
Depression monitors my movements
eyes me from across the road, waits
I struggle to define myself, here
at the margins of life, career lost
As teacher, days were outlined
bells, rubrics, and semesters
Now I must learn again, find
purpose in nothingness
Despair wants to move in, overwhelm
But I’m building my fences, regaining
routines – markers motivating
each day – a reason for being.
(This poem is a response to my weekly challenge: define but don’t reveal. Image my own.)
Past love’s deadline
wolves no longer prowl
vultures, smelling rot,
circle overhead, plot
My essence is solitary
feather fallen between
wide-eyed expectancy
and maturity’s abyss
Abandonment or neglect
I truly cannot say…
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
The pages of this life
bound by aging leather
gilded letters cracked
intended meaning
long forgotten
No images adorn
the weathered face
the colour faded
shade of auburn
like my hair
once upon a time
Spine still sturdy
threads fraying
corners curling –
indicators of
a life well read.
(Written for Reena’s Xploration challenge #176. Image my own.)
Extraordinary
how efficiently
I wield the knife
Slay the very hopes
that keep me afloat
Slash potential
disembowel a future
Opportunity presents –
so many ports and
I unprepared, freeze
None of it meant for me
surely…I am sentenced
to an institutional life
Murderess that I am.
(Submitted for Eugi’s Weekly Challenge: extraordinary. Image my own)
Had a kinship once
with gentleness
and acceptance
confidence, too
Till independence
made me tough
a fortress against
imagined battles
Married myself
to distance
disengaged
from fluidity
Age necessitates shift
those barriers of old
they’re just cons
Readopting tenderness
re-friending acceptance
confidence with humour.
(My challenge this week is con/ scams/ catfish. Image my own.)
Tether me
to the riverbank
I will resist
There are currents
to follow, contours
to memorize
Let me soar
these wings capable
imagination intact.
(Image mine)
Rebellion rages in my veins, Dreamcatcher,
so tightly wound I have blocked hope
I want to be good – a good girl –
like that man of God says
but his preaching ways violate
prophecies a cover for sin
and I am so sullied that I fear
love will distain me.
How did I get here, Dreamcatcher
childhood a lost notion –
I try to minister to the past,
but Father’s sermonizing possesses
even in death, his will a barricade
I need guidance to help me emerge
I’m an unreliable navigator, Dreamcatcher,
oppression’s familiar, no high able to release me
suspicion of promises nauseates
I’m tired of facades – good girl facades –
locked in this nightmare
won’t you please help me out?
(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dreamcatcher. Art my own)
Your voice, he said, it sounds…different…
Project your voice
I learned in theatre,
speak to the back
keep it strong
don’t falter
I had to replay your message several times….
Hold that note
dig deep –
from the diaphragm
sing from your belly
Must be something wrong with the machine…
Demonstrate conviction
let your tone convey passion
stand tall, be confident
motivate your audience
Dad, the orator, told me
I couldn’t make out your words….
Performance demands voice
activism relies on voice
change requires voice
You sound so…weak…
not yourself at all
I am losing my voice
but not my words;
I have much to say
who will say it for me?
(Who Will Speak for the Silent first appeared here in October, 2015. My voice was the first thing to go at the onset of ME. It would be years before I could speak and sustain a conversation again. In revisiting this poem, it occurs that it is still relevant for all those who do not have a voice, who cannot speak for themselves, so I resubmit here on behalf of Woman’s History Month and am linking up with my weekly challenge, dig. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 