Penance

The idealist is annoyed,
cannot forgive these flaws –

how delight can melt into forgetfulness,
exertion transform into immobility,

the insistence that I have no control –
choosing anger over depression,

either way, a loss – unacceptable
to the one who promotes perfection –

I wear the blame, like a hairshirt –
penance for intolerable truths.

Conspiracy Theory

The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…

The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak

Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.

Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,

but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.

This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.

(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)

Image from personal collection.

Sacred Fire

Set the stones
with reverence
for the directions
for the spirits
for the elders –
stories,
like sacred threads,
weave legacy,

Bodies decline,
but spirit is fire –
built with sacred intent,
sparks become flames;
fire has ears
hears our prayers
transforms
the message –
praises
for the gods,
inspiring peace.

(Sacred Fire is dedicated to my mentor and friend, Emmagene, who taught me the importance of ritual and ceremony.  I am linking up to 50 Word Thursday, dVerse Open Link, Fandango’s inspire, Ragtag community’s elder, and Daily Addictions’ decline.)

 

Protesting is Pointless

Go ahead, spin
your yarns –
convince me
not to persecute

Can you not see
my skin is naught
but tin; I am metal
inside and out

You are looking for
sympathy – requires
a being with a heart –
I am no such fool.

Hush your mournful
pleas, quit dragging
on me; I’ve no time
for nonsense, child.

(Today at dVerse, Mish has challenged to write from the perspective of either the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, or the Tin Man.  Using the daily prompts of Fandango (being), Ragtag Community (yarn), Manic Mondays (hush),  and Daily addictions (persecute), this portrait of the Tin Man emerged.  If he sounds presidential here, it is purely coincidental. Image is from my personal collection, and seemed appropriate.)

Cricket Cacophony

Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms.   Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside.  Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck,  hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood.   A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek.  I step back, startled.  No damage done.

I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy.  I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom.  At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away.  I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.

Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence.   I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture.  The crickets keep on singing.

Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.

(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)

Poetry on Aging

Came across this post today, and felt the hand of synchronicity at play. Michele’s words reminded me that my experience is not unique. She speaks to the human condition of aging eloquently.

Michele Sharpe's avatarMichele Sharpe

“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Aging is the sort of inevitable, non-negotiable topic that fascinates poets. Birth, school, work, death, in the immortal lyrics of The Godfathers.

Some of us fight aging. Some of us embrace it. Whichever approach is yours, though, aging beats the alternative. In the immortal words of someone.

People in my family die young. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to be old. Or maybe it’s because I’d hoped to be old and wise, to stop making the same foolish mistakes over and over again.

That hasn’t happened yet, but aging has made me lazier, meaning that I now have no energy at all to boss other people around about how to spend their days. It’s all I can do to manage my own days.

One of my…

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No Race Today

Left leg
on strike,
brain
disengaged,
energy
scrounging
for re-charge
coming up empty

Body
derelict –
this illness
sensual agony –
forgive
my silences,
any absences

Spirit
like a racehorse
strains against
the reins
too taut,
hungry
to feel
the wind
in its stride,
breath
freedom.

Gate is closed.

(The challenge of living with chronic illness is to maintain balance.  There is a disconnect between what the body is capable of and what the spirit aspires to accomplish.  Today, body wins.  Thank you to Sammi Cox for the Weekend Writing Prompt: derelict; to Fandango for sensual; and to Daily Addictions for agony – all words that help convey this experience.)