Category: writing

This Is How It Happens

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.

Time To Cruise Is Not Now

Is there an itinerary for this lockdown?
I watch as engagements line up

Adventure-seekers, eager to connect
willingly engage, purchase a ticket

How I would give my life to be a part
hop aboard a sailing ship, escape

Except disability has recalled my passport;
I am a vehicle without fuel, grounded

Disappointment and I watch as
familiar faces venture out –

a friend’s brother
an old crush
a high school acquaintance

While envy reminds me
I’m always an outsider
Sensibility wakes me up

This boat I’m missing out on
is no luxury cruise ship, but
a dalliance with death –

I surrender to isolation
count the casualties.

( Image my own.)

Obnoxious

Try to hide this longing
but am as obstreperous
as a Blue Jay proclaiming presence.

Please know, that behind
awkwardness is a heart true
purity of intent incognito.

(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own. As a child and into my dating years, I was called obnoxious. Now that connecting with others is limited, I am once again aware of how this over exuberant side of myself emerges from time to time.)

Snakes at My Door

A preacher dominates
six o’clock news
megaphone voice
commanding protest
mask-less hordes roar

A young repairman
offs his mask with distaste
claims it’s all a hoax,
the cure is withheld
a ploy to control –
read it on the internet.

A friend whose wisdom
and words have inspired
confesses she’ll not accept
vaccination, as her life
is in God’s hands.

And from behind a curtain
of despair, I observe
as words, like snakes
gather on my front step
nest in a writhing menace

The virus’ venom
a poison I’m not sure
I can defeat

And what am I to do
when abstinence from public life
makes me conveniently invisible

and fear that if I speak up
will reveal a truth I cannot bear
that the devout, the young, the compassionate
care not a wink for the likes of me.

Hand Holding

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.)