Coordinated by the curator of our local art gallery, the poetry circle partnered with a photographer to create The Minimalist Eye. Yours truly has two poems featured in the project: Slanted Orange and Big Red.
To see the full exhibition, visit the virtual tour:
So fortunate to be part of a such a vibrant community. As a bonus, the collection has been published.
Jumbo Jet
they called her –
fast on her feet,
zooming in,
swooping up trays,
delivering with flight-
attendant flair.
When did she turn
to autopilot,
stop paying attention
to her destination?
Didn’t she know
she was set
on a crash course,
headed for disaster?
Tried to warn her,
wake her from stupor;
told me she’d reset
but danger remains.
She’s cruising now –
over-sized
turbo-lacking
under-fuelled,
no longer able
to soar – trapped
in a treacherous game.
Waits tables,
tries to keep
a clean house,
caters to others,
lends an ear,
has squeezed
every drop of self
into a low flying life
needs to land
a space of her own,
with room to breathe;
take life in shorter
intervals, refill
her jets.
(Portrait of a Waitress was originally written in 2016. Image a self portrait. Note: once upon a time, I was a waitress, whom the cooks referred to as “Jumbo Jet”. I waitressed my way through university, and a few rough spots in life. While I gave up the job, the metaphor of ‘waiting’ continued to be a theme in my dreams for many years after.)
Next door cultivates perfection –
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
shimmering with prideful confidence
My garden is overgrown vines,
chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows there will be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.
Life has schooled detachment
lessons in loss counsel defensiveness –
better to guard hope than plant it…
How can next door be so reckless;
do they not know this all for naught?
(This a rewrite of former poem also titled Next Door. Image my own.)
Anticipating owl’s hoot
dove’s coo startles me
I am plodding turtle
hard-shelled
searching for circles
in this squared-off existence
Dove offers a throaty laugh
then is gone before
my soft-bellied self
can beg deliverance.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Days like this –
life without spin –
one emotion
one conflict
one moment
colouring response
as if singularity
is all we can bear –
(Photo mine)
Quiescent, the river
that flows through me
nudged on by a sea
I cannot touch
I am bud resisting
the bloom, reluctant.
If this life is spoiler
for what lies beyond,
then leave me,
dormant…
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
I know that abyss –
swallowed up as I was
punch-drunk on darkness
Bled as I emerged,
each reach a scrape –
there was release too
Revived now, I honour
that passage, recognize
the making of a woman.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknuton. Image my own.)
Fragility blindsides me –
I am a strong woman,
not courageous
but accepting
in face of pain,
grief,
illness.
Fragility is pervasive –
body fibres stretched
and torn, on brink
of brokenness;
mind overwhelmed,
obsesses, unable to organize
or let go…
If only I could let go.
I am weeping and not –
weeping from frustration
of immediate impossibility;
unwilling to weep, for totality
of loss is beyond me.
Outside these walls,
life continues,
regards me with disgust/
indifference/repulsion –
equality ignores the ailing.
And, yet…
in this state of rawness,
stripped of busy-ness,
I am as any other –
Just a soul seeking
a meaningful existence.
(The Same, But Broken first appeared here December, 2014. This edition has been revised. Art my own.)
Deception holds these walls in place
denial renders them invisible
I am a dreamer floating
in a bubbled realm…safe
Breathe softly, still
the midnight air,
calm the inner
children,
sing tender
lullabies
of forever…
pretend
Solitude lends
perfection
to daily noise
I am invisible
motionless
free….
deluded.
(For Reena’s Xploration challenge: writing from inside the bubble.
Image my own)
Cornflower submits
to Time’s deadlines
so, why am I always
gasping to catch up?
Is it strength, or failure
to amplify pressure –
expectations set on high?
Oh, to be a simple flower.
(Photo my own).
One Woman's Quest 