I am woman
questing…
a warrior
slashing bonds
of painful past
an aerialist
balancing strife
with fleeting bliss
a she-reptile
shedding distrust
in vulnerability, growing
I push through
the tangled maze
of personas, seek a truth
that frees my spirit
and roots my essence
into blessed being
For I am woman
with a quest…
striving on…
(Art my own. I call her The Mother Tree)
Tired of same old endings
in which hopes are slaughtered
and tragedy and insanity win.
Raised by the bottle, learned
to set standards low –
still afraid of heights –
have fallen as the ground
beneath my aspirations crumbled –
a certainly under alcohol’s rule.
Tired of same old endings
in which self is battered by indifference
and ego loses the battle for control.
Mother’s denial a coping mechanism
negating children’s need, obliterating
safety, disregarding long-term damage;
even in older years, when we tried
to get her out, were powerless against
his manipulation, his eternal imprinting.
Tired of same old endings
in which the heroine, resources spent
succumbs to the madness, suicides.
Want to believe in a future, greener,
hopeful, in which relationships
are fulfilling, and life goals are
supported; in which encouragement
is not the ploy of deviousness, and
personal best is rewarded, sustained.
Tired of same old endings
haunting my dreaming hours
unforgotten in waking dreams.
(Tired of Same Old Endings first appeared here June of 2018.
Edited for this submission. Linking up with Reena’s Xploration
Challenge: insanity, and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: unforgotten.
Image my own.)
Pain circumvents our fears
squeezes relentlessly
Still we proceed
withholding complaint
for this is labour –
a trial that harnesses
depth of determination
unfathomable focus
Somewhere along the process
an instantaneous shift
there is wonder to behold
and indescribable bliss
Birth is happening
and they’ll be no going back.
(Art mine)
Trapped inside
two-dimensional torus
backward spinning
Not even my pulse
emits an echo – would need
a third dimension for that
Am geometrically disfigured,
an illusion, I fear, for human
substance seldom adds up.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own,)
I am gregarious
initiator
risk-taker
eagerly anticipating
the unknown
But the subconscious
alights on old stories
gathers sanctimonious
rumours of unworthiness
spits out shame
and rage
Reveals the truth –
I am vulnerable.
(Facing Truths first appeared here July ’19. This version is edited from original. Art my own.)
Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious…
inviting
Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr –
not mythical, but yielding…
mindful
not worshipful nor boastful
but comforting…
warm
I am waning light
the mistral wind wafting
no longer a force of nature
but smoke, spiralling
vanishing into non-existence
And yet,
even as shadows spread
I yearn – heart
beating true
not lost,
not forgotten,
but withdrawn…
humbled
passion mellowed
by years of constructing walls –
grit and tar –
scar’s long buried
save the limping gait
of a ghost.
(Even Ghosts Yearn first appeared here in July, 2018. Image my own.)
Burrs of misadventure cling
I am not beholden to them
Progress, not always visible
requires breathing room
Tenderness heals wounds
patience guiding movement
One by one, I extract the hooks
sigh with each deliverance.
(Image my own.)
Beneath the willow
a young woman dreams
Harlequin romance
in hand – portrait of
stormy-eyed perfection
Innocence luxuriates
in spicy dreams, awaits
love’s sweeping encounter –
hormones not yet bearing
the bruises of disappointment.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
I chase dreams
never daring to rise
beyond the water line
keeping to the reeds
and shoreline of familiarity
afraid of being shot down
Afraid that dreams aren’t mine
to claim, that I am damned
doubled cursed as woman
and child of sin
I will fall often
drown in pools of stagnation
till one days these wings
A mind of their own
will lift me up
and catch those dreams.
(Afraid To Fly appeared here June 2019.
Art my own)
Tiresome this halo
the repercussions
Instincts cheetah fierce
domesticity a struggle
Shameful, this confession
perhaps – had to be said
No pussycat here
just a woman who’s real.
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 