I have eggs,
she cooed,
here in my basket –
care to have a peek?
Considered his response
carefully, not wanting to
count this chicken, even as
the plot was hatching.
Hesitation,
she scolded,
only ever loses.
Yes, he concurred,
but if I act too early
all you’ll get is a worm.
(Twisted Adages is the theme for Tuesday night poetics at dVerse. Â Thanks to our host Jilly for the inspiration.)
Mother
to a child – barely
able to tie shoes
watching,
listening,
ever-present
through fields,
trees, at
water’s edge
provided shelter,
grounding –
whispered cautions
child grew,
left her side –
pursued dreams
until life
overwhelming –
an adult returns
“Mother?” she cries.
“Here,” Earth responds.
(It’s quadrille night at dVerse, and Kim is hosting with the prompt earth.)
He’s an ingénue
don’t you know;
precious time
for lollygagging –
Dressed for success,
polished head to toe,
he’s a sight to see;
look at him stride by
Please don’t ask
for personal favours –
there’s no time for that
he’s an important man
Where is he going, you ask?
No one is ever quite sure,
but I’ve been here all day,
watched him pass ten times.
(Ragtag’s word of the day is coddiwomple, Fandango – ingenuity, Daily Addictions – precious.)
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.
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.
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.)
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: Â change & rebel. Â Image from personal collection.)
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. Â Using the daily prompts of Fandango (being), Ragtag Community (yarn), Manic Mondays (hush), Â and Daily addictions (persecute), this portrait of the Tin Man emerged. Â If he sounds presidential here, it is purely coincidental. Image is from my personal collection, and seemed appropriate.)
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.)
One Woman's Quest 