Category: writing

Washed Ashore

Was willing to settle
even before casting off

anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, no oar to steer

left fate to the currents
a vessel adrift, naïve

trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware

of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks

like to circle wayward
boats, certain of a catch

no wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked

I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism

had failed to register
the dangers of sailing,

into uncharted waters,
the necessity of navigational

resources, and a life jacket,
the knowledge to stay afloat

and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves hearts.

(Inspired by the image and Laura’s Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt: wrecked)

Early (Hidden) Roots

The house is brand new and we move in without our mother, who is in the hospital getting our new baby.  There are three floors of living space, but I am most interested in the room in the basement – the one that no one else knows exists (except my dad, of course, ’cause he built the house.)  You have to go through the rec room, past the door to the bar,  into the laundry room, and then squeeze past the furnace. There’s a long narrow hallway that leads to a secret room behind the bookcase.  The walls here are concrete, but there is a rug on the floor, and some of those fold-up chairs.  There are boxes too, and it smells kind of bad, but the best part is a hole in the wall, just large enough to peek through, and if  I come down here before anyone else, I can spy on them.  Mostly, it’s my oldest sister and her icky boyfriends – boy are there things I could tell Mom and Dad, except I’m not supposed to be here, and if Dad knew, he’d kill me, so I have to keep it quiet.  Why do we need a secret room anyway?

Frosty panes glisten,
while innocence bears witness –
mysteries rampant.

(Lillian at dVerse invites us to delve into the traditional with a halibun examining a room from our early childhood. )

The Hunt

Breathe!
I must still
this pounding;
quiet my nerves,
think.

Days light fades –
time is running out
movements need be
precise, swift,
silent

No room for error
as I navigate
this rocky path
cling to
shadows

I salivate,
the taste of
salty flesh
teasing tongue
obsessed

Joy of stalking.

(Written for Deb Whittam’s 50 Word Thursday prompt.  Image courtesy of Deb.  Visit Twenty Four to participate.)

Laundry Day

Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.

Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.

Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango:  melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate.  Thanks for dropping by.)

Gratitude for dVerse

This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!

(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)

Artist’s Calling

Spirits dwell
in unlikely places,
speak to us
through lenses
their essence
embodied in
child-like faces,
or animal snarls,
begging to be freed.

I am shamed
by my awareness,
helpless to intervene,
have not perpetrated
the original sin –
guilty by DNA,
lineage tracing back
to the slaughterers,
those who ravished
land and Peoples,
disregarded the elementals
who once breathed life
into this sacred place.

How is it then
that I should capture
the tortured?
Is this merely projection
of an internal demon,
or am I being called
as witness,
my hand poised
to illuminate,
give voice
in service to
the suppressed
and violated?
Is this not,
after all,
the artist’s call?

(The image that inspired this poem was taken on the Kettle & Stony Point Reserve on the shores of Lake Huron. Can you see the face?)

Enough

Whatever you do
give it 110%

Father’s words
whirl,
confuse,
belittle

ambiguous, at best,
attainment remote

I am not enough

Good, better, best,
never let them rest…

morning chant –
eggs and bacon,
(seldom acceptable)
served up
by an ever-inadequate
mother,

Father’s criticism
whipping,
cruel

I will never be enough

apologize before beginning
a wallflower
on the social scene
a plebe
in the working world

presence hesitant
accomplishment tentative

Winners never quit and
quitters never win

blood boils
silently
I scream

Till I cannot bear one more
extempore lecture
face my foe
square on

catch a glimpse
of what?…
self-doubt?
fear?

These tirades
are not personal
it is not my ineptitude
at stake

merely the railings
of a tortured soul
trying to find
solid footing
on unsteady ground

I am learning to be enough.

(V.J.’s weekly challenge is accomplishment.  I’ve been pondering why it is so difficult to feel as if I’ve accomplished anything, when logically I know I have.  The daily prompts helped me to put this in context.  Thanks for Fandango for ambiguous, Ragtag Community for extempore, Daily Addictions for remote.)