Category: writing

Boxed Revelation

Insignificant enough
to go missing –
a single box,
stored away,
one, maybe two,
moves ago –
the absence
of its contents
now called into question.
Seems that redundancy
is not permanent –
what was once inconsequential
now has purpose –
gives me renewed hope.

(Today’s quadrille prompt is box.  Visit dVerse to participate.  Our host this evening is De Jackson.)

Interior Motives

Mother lives in me –
her hopes and fears
now embodied
in my choices,
this guilt borne
of her suffering…

and her mother –
who laboured often
with unwelcome toil,
her only respite
widowhood –
it’s her legacy
I bear.

Potential –
who once appeared
with all the radiant
charm of youth,
exists within, also,
although our connection –
drowned out by the banter
of those gone before –
lacks substance.

I remember how
we used to sing –
hearts joyful,
full of daring.

How even in the face
of rigidity, we raised
our voices, dreamed

Now, both distracted –
I, shaking off fragments
of Mother’s hapless life,
extracting splinters
of a grandmother
destined to woe;

potential,
glances away,
forlorn as
a forgotten child,
pouting.

Hand Holding

Found my first love
holding hands
walking home
from school –
grade one.

Father’s grip
crushed,
controlled,
warned against
disobedience,
held on until
compliance
was assured.

My sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until her internal heat
burned the touch
and I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.

A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles,
employs sensuality
to invoke desire.

Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go,
prideful possession.

My granddaughter’s fist –
still pink from birthing –
wrapped around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life –

My husband’s hand
reaches out for mine
conveys support
for unsteady legs
offers strength
to propel me forward.

Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments,
leave deep impressions.

(Tonight is Open Link night at dVerse, and our host Lillian has invited us to celebrate with her, as August 9th marks many National celebrations, one of which is National Hand Holding Day.  To see the others and join in, visit here.)

 

 

Moss

The past clings,
like moss, nurtured
by tears unshed,
like sap untapped,
warps minds,
sense of self,
craves perceptional
shift –
a vernal appreciation
for the grandeur
of our contours,
brilliance of wisdom
garnered through strife –
the undeniable elegance
of lush green moss.

(Photo from personal collection: rainforest on Vancouver Island.)

Malevolent

Sensing foulness of mood
they slither out from dark places –
whirling wisps of putrid insinuation

Clever they are, and almost imperceptible
but I am clever also, have succumbed
one too many times to the deceit

will not be played by the mutterings
prodding me to find fault with others
to claim myself unjustly wronged.

With the force of a mountain
I stand fast, repel the daemons,
command uncompromising clarity.

Hissing with disappointment,
the spineless creatures retreat,
disappear to plot their next attack.

(Tonight’s prompt at dVerse comes from Jilly who challenges us to write about the unseen.  I am also including this post in Ragtag Community’s challenge: play.)

The History Lesson

“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”

She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply.  I considered her:  an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.

Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say.  Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.

Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment:  ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.

***

History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.

(dVerse’s Haibun Monday is hosted by Frank J. Tassone, who challenges us to write a piece for Hiroshima Day.)

 

A Tragic Flaw

Was it real,
or a dream?

Flash of brown eyes..
that smile –
just for him –
inviting…

Consumed was he

raced everyday
to that place
in the square

hoping…
to catch her…
to know her name…
something…

Tragic, really,
his inability to separate
dream from reality

How fantasy
kept him single.

(Every Thursday, Deb Whittam at Twenty Four offers a photo and quotation prompt for 50 Word Thursday.  Drop by her site and join in.)

Re-Settling

Front porch –
a balcony view –
retirement’s play.

Novel – this place –
silence stretches,
pauses briefly –

a car creeps by,
or a dog barks –
my heart beats…

inside – commotion –
pounding hammers,
swoosh of legs in motion –

not mine – body bankrupt –
mind impoverished –
no – not that – just struggling.

empty boxes pile up,
others – contents lingering,
unresolved – call my name,

but the front porch
makes promises –
there is time…

(I am a day late for dVerse, but intrigued by the challenge, decided to join in anyway.  Today’s prompts are: commotion (Fandango), novel (Ragtag Community), poverty (Daily Addictions). Photo is front porch view – our first sunset.)