A Mother Seldom Asks

Where does a woman store her dreams
while children need chauffeuring
and parents’ health is in decline?

What goal does she dare strive for,
that won’t supersede obligation,
nor tax already waning energy?

Why is it that her efforts –
exceeding expectations –
often fail, demanding more?

How does she keep hope alive
when illness usurps functioning
and the off-ramp is miles behind?

Who will carry her when winter’s grasp
makes passage undependable, and
she has no choice but to surrender?

(V.J.’s challenge this week is questions.)

Complacent

So bound are we
by customs,
and customary,
that seldom
do we recognize
absence –

sparks numbed
and motivation
dwindled –

what is awry
morphs into
projection,
deflection –
easier than
untethering
the leash,
the fear
accompanying
Spirit’s freedom –

the rearing up
of wildness,
or god forbid,
the moxy
to make
real change.

(Written for 50 Word Thursday, with added inspiration from Fandango (bound), Ragtag Community (absent), Daily Addictions (awry).)

Cracked Eggs

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.  Thanks to our host Jilly for the inspiration.)

Mother

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.)

Coddiwomple

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.)

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.