Guilt’s a child –
nonsensical in actions –
attempts to hide,
shame-faced, lies –
Guilt is but a child
holds me hostage –
adult self, emotionally
captive, plays along.
(For Willow Poetry’s challenge: What Do You See – featured image)
Guilt’s a child –
nonsensical in actions –
attempts to hide,
shame-faced, lies –
Guilt is but a child
holds me hostage –
adult self, emotionally
captive, plays along.
(For Willow Poetry’s challenge: What Do You See – featured image)
I dined on your expectations,
enticed by the spice of your words –
insatiable this hunger for approval.
Mistook self-assuredness
for wisdom – how bitter
the aftertaste, how empty
the truth –
Learning to feed myself –
sustenance geared to fulfilling
personal dreams.
Restlessness accompanies me
on the sojourn today –
unfazed by ripe red
belly of robin,
or shimmering emerald
of breeding merganser’s crown.
My lens seeks out decay –
rotting wood, darkened cavities –
as if my soul craves reassurance
that life persists even where death
hovers – I need a sign.
Discontent, I move on –
drive the river road,
snail pace – praying for
something to shake
this malaise –
birds come and go,
trees radiate Spring green,
I pause, unmoved.
And then I spot it –
across the river, high up –
a massive hulk –
lens raises, adjusts, snaps –
the regal hunter turns towards me,
regards me with ferocious intensity,
does not falter on his perch –
All-seeing, fearless,
he is spirit-manifested,
a messenger, lifting me
from stagnation –
momentary redemption.
(Linking up with my weekly challenge: Â in-between.)
Does illness have a voice,
and if so; is it melancholy,
or dark and dank, divulging
deepest despair, or revealing
a vileness of nature?
Discord creeps along my veins,
disrupts muscles, systems failing
under the oppression –
“Stay strong,” friends counsel,
cannot hear the gathering storm,
feel the heaviness cloaking me.
I am not myself, but then;
who am I? Â Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or  redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…
(Written for Reena’s Exploration challenge: Â featured image as prompt.)
Curiosity, it seems,
flows both ways –
as I adjust focus
so too, do you –
can’t help but wonder
if the takeaway joy
also flows both ways.
(In response to Paul Vincent Cannon’s poem: Â Her Gift Remains.
V.J.’s weekly challenge is response. Â Image is from personal collection.)
I throb,
belly a swill of green –
never smoked…
There is good air & trees,
and warming chards
Breathe out…and spit..
Only champagne cup
would wet and waken
Let up bug!
(Friday is Magnetic Poetry day for me. Â Coincidentally, I have been fighting a bacterial infection, so the words are fitting.)
The veil grows thin
past midnight, as
sensibility dares
to sleep – spirits,
restless, yearning,
drag me from dreams,
fill my thoughts –
messages from beyond –
I am but a simple
woman, hold no sway
in the physical realm,
send them back
to carry on
their haunt.
In corners, I scrounge –
resilience fading;
hope, it seems, is sleeping.
Living a quarter life,
even ascents depressed;
dubious that alternatives
are worthwhile.
Walls would suffice –
once dreamt of co-habitating
with abundance,
now housed with constraints.
Age losing preferences,
counting worries either way.
Frozen surfaces
linger, defy offered warmth –
heart afraid to thaw.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge #84)
Mother is fearful,
time slipping through her fingers,
loneliness enveloping her.
I hold space for her in my thoughts,
my heart aching in beat with hers.
Guilt tosses me up and down –
inadequacy knows no bests.