Art, like a compass,
guides my soul – watercolour
inspiring life force.
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Â art & compass. Â The image is a piece I recently started. Â It did not turn out so well, but I like the idea. Maybe I’ll start again. Also, I’m linking up to dVerse poetics, which tonight is all about journeys. Â Since I don’t leave the house very often, and when I do, my husband is driving, my journeys these days are more ethereal – into the realm of imagination.)
Sun slices through slumber –
Day, wrapped in cerulean, beckons.
Not an early riser, I balk, until
sensibility intrudes, argues
autumn’s passing –
I concede, break out,
push limitations –
a sexagenarian rebel.
Later, I crash,
golden lustre
enveloping me –
halo-like.
(Kim is hosting at dVerse pub tonight and challenging us to write a quadrille – poem in 44 words – using the word early. Â I am also linking up with Ragtag Community for their prompt: Â lustre. Â More photos and information about this outing are posted here.)
Two-tongued –
speaking both heart and mind –
complex languages, whose nuances
I’ve never quite mastered, yet
am conversant in.
It’s a constant learning
to nail enunciation –
linguistics a tiresome topic
the mind,
a guttural language,
leans to equation and absolutes –
hard consonants and long vowels;
while heart-speak rolls
off the tongue in softer,
cooing syllables –
elongated tones and
whimsical passages.
I’d happily demonstrate
the extent of my proficiency
but the two-tongues,
are currently contradictory,
the clamour of their discord
drowning out the peace
requisite for translation.
Inhale – chest rises –
exhale – chest falls – summon new,
expel old; repeat.
(Haiku written for Ronovan Writes Haiku challenge: Â rise/fall)
Intuition and compassion
combined with knowledge
an effective healer make,
yet, historically, women
applying such skills – labelled
witches – burnt at the stake.
The injustice of such trials
now commonly accepted – still
the title reeks of something sinister.
And if a man raises his voice
in ire, driven to protest, he
is righteous – to be heeded,
but let a woman speak out
against lack of fairness – she
is a witch by another name.
I say we banish the verbal putdowns,
condemn the ignorance inspired by fear,
listen to one another, and invite progress.
(Written for Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt: witch, witchy, bewitched.)
Even in togetherness there is distance.
I am alone –
a central figure, distracted,
aiming for contact,
unable to eviscerate control,
repeatedly producing a singular confusion.
Define success…
Is it the one on top,
the know-it-all,
or are these the machinations
of estrangement?
I am unable to discern –
stability never more than a dalliance.
The pavement ahead whispers
promises of belonging –
can I tolerate the quest?
Unfulfilled, I am defensive,
fear off-shoots of depression,
shield tender inner places…
Bring on change;
others watch – look to me
as an example.
I can do this, on their behalf.
Never alone.
Always distances to cross.
(V.J.’s Weekly Challenge is distance. Also submitting this for Open Link Night at dVerse.)
Purpose –
much coveted,
despair-driven –
has returned.
Energy –
motivation
to proceed –
building.
Willingness –
once vibrant,
now constrained –
resists.
Chasms –
loss created,
unparalleled –
defy bridges.
Purpose –
discovery born,
enthusiastic –
persists.
A single tear –
white-hot acid
announces self pity –
abhorrent emotion –
mid-day, body crashed,
I am foul-minded, drag-down
unreasonable – spiteful
shut my eyes against
a world of able-bodies
immune to the struggle
loathe this weakness,
this intolerable disconnect –
body, mind detached from will
futility reality’s wall –
could cry – will not cry –
this day is not done.
Later, tasks accomplished
I pushed through –
I sleep, awaken to nightfall
Soft pinks and blues
in a cottony sky greet me –
beauty offering serenity
and for a brief moment,
a tinge of admiration surfaces
for the woman who survived this day.
(Mish is hosting at dVerse tonight and challenges us to find beauty in something we consider ugly.)
Ancestral circles
steeped in lore – symbolism
lost, and imminent –
Geometric rhythms play
with destiny, ascribe fates.
(For Willow Poetry’s What Do You See?  Image supplied by Hélène.)
Digging for gold
in an overcrowded mine,
the dust of narcissism
blinding our passage.
Rural roots worship
celebrity – well-travelled
hype overshadowing
common decency –
Powerless, we are
throngs of insignificance –
fraudulence and anti-social
rhetoric failing to elicit pause.
Our screams, ignored, do not
alleviate the suffocation –
How do we blast through
the rage, re-enact a vision,
draw lines that reset respect,
encourage care, listen to needs,
recognize the treasure we seek
is in humanity’s survival?
(Submitted for Ragtag Community’s daily prompt: blast, and Fandango’s: draw. Â Image from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 