writing – Page 3 – One Woman's Quest

What My Body Knows: A Tanka

(Another poem written for Twitter. Image my own)

Snapshot

Do not be distracted
by the blue-ness of words
nor the grittiness of tone

These are merely
contrasting elements
of a greater whole.

(Snapshot first appeared here in November, 2018. Art my own)

Diamante for the times

Exhaustion
weighty, erosive,
plaguing, torturing, releasing
memories, grief, pain, forgiveness
inspiring, renewing, catapulting
joyful, wondrous
energy

(Image mine)

Unpublished

Worms have invaded
every sliver of my antagonist
by now, and still I tarry …

Minute details excuses
for hesitation,
the memoir languishes
unpublished

Wanting my audience
to savour each morsel,
declare it fit for consumption

The ironic death march
of a solemn vow
to make light of dark.

(Art my own)

Scold

Skyward I cast
this melancholy,
hook a cloud
and drift…

A dalliance
with the sun –
his irrepressible
optimism scolds

I let go the tether
retreat to sombre soil
re-commit to
gloom’s scold

(Image my own. Scold first appeared on Twitter)

Does Peace Have a Sound

Does peace have a sound,
and if it does, is it soft like a whisper,
or chime-like – a resonance
reverberating from tip to crown?

I have known exaltation,
felt my heart thrill at the dance
of dolphins just beyond my reach

I have known elation, awe,
honour and humility,
but would I recognize peace?

Joy is a child’s laughter
bliss, indescribable pleasure,
so why am I forgetting peace?

Does peace have a sound
and if it does, will I recognize it
attuned as I am to discord?

(Image my own)

Undeserving

Guide me to source
offer all that I ask, but
I have no voice…

Desire cut off in formative years
a product of dysfunctional loyalty
I am tethered to other
submissive by conditioning

Have forgotten my primal roots
my lupine instinct numbed
by domestication

Lead me to riches
and I will balk at the door
wander off distracted

It is not indifference
but an inability to relate

the concept of deserving
beyond my reach.

(Image my creation)

Fabricated

The loom on which
I weave
these threads
is more foreboding
than machinery

These fibres,
neither silken
nor wool,
cottoned
from misadventures,
miscommunication,
and inner unraveling

The mind,
an unpredictable
seamstress,
fabricates a flawed tale –
silver threads of wisdom
sewn between precarious lines –
consumer be wary.

(Image created by AI. This is an edited version of the original.)

Spinning

Circling,
dancing,
caught between
idealism of expectation
and harshness of reality –
one has lofty goals,
the other invites limitation

I’ve excuses aplenty –
none that assuage ambition
Incomplete work dangles
from spider web threads
waiting for rescue

Talking to myself
unavailing – best
step out of this dichotomy
stop the whirling

(Sketch my own)

Nose under throw rugs,
looking for what’s been swept aside;
or rustling about in back closets,
turning over the unused and out-of-date;
or straddling boards in the attic,
straining to ascertain new, if not precarious, angles –
the writer’s home of choice is seclusion.