Absence of table
echoes in a room
reserved for its
central role –
I am at a loss,
no explanation
proceeding
this disappearance
have just woken
from a slumber
deep, to this hole
in certitude
grasp for answers
wonder at significance
if I’ve missed signals
question permanence
left with silliness
of chairs, the mockery
of dust – balled
fragments revealed
stand at kitchen counter
nibbling, dubious
unable to relax –
the table is gone.
The years have done their damage,
resentments, like border guards,
line up between us…
and then you just show up,
as if somehow that makes you the better person,
as if your presence will make me forget, forgive
and I fumble for the right words,
attempt graciousness, even as I’m struggling
to feed the hurt, coddle the innocence lost
you hurt the deepest core of me,
the child, barely able to stand on her own,
the burden of her frailty heavy enough
what amusement must you derive
from revisiting our torturous past,
I cannot fathom – all too much for me.
(Inspired by Steve Still Standing‘s  “An Exercise in Poetic Styles”)
Even the river bleeds –
fiery frigid essence –
earth’s watery voice.
***
It is the river
that calls, waters flowing
through my veins
and I am the banks
steadfast in my holding
the razor sharp edges
like liquid steel
eroding my earthen
postures, challenging
the hardened places.
How bright is the soul
that dares to stand alone,
who gives voice to injustice,
who is willing to sacrifice
self for a higher purpose…
What song might we sing
if such a spirit moved us?
A shrill note
pierces night’s curtain –
an insistent, pestering alarm
Is it loneliness
that motivates the caller –
the need for a warm body
to calm her feathered fears
or a throaty hum to lull her?
Or is this an infant cry,
a hunger for nourishment
anxious in separation
waiting for mother’s
regurgitated assurances,
father’s watchful stance.
An onerous honk
breaks through
the high-pitched peep
and then, as
warmth wanes
a softer, sweeter
melody presents
followed by
a laughing trill
avian pleasure
prefacing night’s slumber.
Suggestion of blue
framed by barren, hopeful branches
underscored by coniferous tops
fronted by yellow-green optimism
and a floor of brilliant new growth
as filtered through metallic screen
and black-framed windowsill
focus interpreted by progressive
lenses of the one confined inside
perspective horizontal.
Spring willow
aspiring to yellow
wispy curtains
graceful queen
my heart bows
to your majesty.
The freedom to be unafraid,
even alone, connected
to a sense of purpose,
a trust in a higher being.
Never a thought given
to whether the attire is right,
hair just so, or whether or not
there’s enough money to live on.
Unfiltered honesty, a heart
full of wonder, a mind open
and eager to learn – will
unblemished by vanity.
Some call it naiveté
some call it innocence
I call it authenticity
this five-year-old sprite
whose simplicity of being
defies any other reality.
Ego
ambitious, exuberant
striving, contriving, worshipping
self, accomplishment, others, service
honouring, encouraging, inspiring
quiet, selfless
humility
(Remember writing a diamanté in school.  This one took me back to younger days, but I still like the way it evolves.)
Serenity waits,
wrapped in Nature’s artful call,
harmony’s invite.
One Woman's Quest 