The loom on which
I weave
these threads
is more foreboding
than machinery
These fibres,
neither silken
nor wool,
cottoned
from misadventures,
miscommunication,
and inner unraveling
The mind,
an unpredictable
seamstress,
fabricates a flawed tale –
silver threads of wisdom
sewn between precarious lines –
consumer be wary.
(Image created by AI. This is an edited version of the original.)
This trail is a trial:
I’ve wheeled myself
through impossible
terrains, battled
unforgiving odds
regained purpose…
Is this resilience
or a stubborn refusal
to surrender, and…
who will dare criticize?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Flowers awaken
imagination – magic
paints the garden bed.
(Image my own)
River in the sky
exudes an eerie glimmer
cloud forms orchestrate
haunting melody – music
eliciting soulful tears.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Rest. Nap as often as you need;
life can be exhausting – store up.
Cry. Let your feelings be known –
your voice is your saving grace.
Joy is a whole body experience;
immerse yourself in total delight.
Hold on to those who love you;
your survival depends on them.
See the world through new ideas;
you never know what thrills await.
Listen intently when others speak;
they will be your captive audience.
Imitate other. Practice until you
have found your own expression.
(Image mine)
Trust the process, living fully
in each moment. Be present.
Honour the miracle of existence;
embrace the blessing that is you!
(Lessons from a Newborn first appeared here June, 2016. Image my own)
Blue expanding
crisp white
of tiny sails –
horizon
The lull is gentle
lucidity swelling
serenity present
How safe it is
to imagine limitlessness
when I am grounded
breast to railing
anchored ashore.
(Image my own)
Is it selfish
this chosen solitude?
How I treasure silence,
stillness baiting my muse
And is it my calm
that attracts chaos?
The sorrow of others
landing on my doorstep
What if I rejected pleas,
locked out the troubles?
How long can I sustain
peace until need answers?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
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? Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…
(Discord originally appeared here May, 2019. Image my own. Living with chronic, often debilitating disease, is an ongoing challenge. There is no cure, no end in sight, and yet, we must go on. This is for my fellow warriors, wondering, some days, what it is all about.)
Discharge the gun –
protection a vessel
through which our depths
are undefined…adrift
Fear is a burrower
wears a false crown
births loss
trusts danger
Hearts beg,
amid this trigger-readiness
for a guardian – unafraid
to court this meaningless
Futility unchecked –
to study productive options
unimaginable in the current
state of chaos on repeat.
(Art my own)
These bones, they say
will finish me – too brittle
to withstand the race
But I am Willow
recollection wispy
my dance defiant
Porous as a sea sponge
soaking up each day
mettle despite the rattle
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 