Impossible to ignore –
even though I’ve tucked it away
there, between the chair
and credenza –
a life-sized story,
waiting to be told.
As much as it compels me
to pay attention,
I am repulsed –
this is my life
we’re talking about
And not just mine –
the tale weaves itself
with tragic threads of others
and what right do I have
to expose that?
And yet, I don’t know
that I have the strength
to squash it – this living
breathing thing…
wandering aimlessly
about this house.
(Image my own)
This pedestal of responsibility
elevates me out of reach,
out of touch, lumps together
childrenspousemothersister
Caregiver extraordinaire,
present overcrowded by
obligations, am unwell,
off topic, fed up…surely
I am other abled, have room
for more, non-martyr related –
hesitant to plan, my purpose
for being so intricately tuned
to the needs of others, should
quit while I’m ahead – silence
the noisy uncertainty, free us
all from this unhealthy game.
(Image my own. Poem first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, September 2016)
Mysterious, this pull
these avian dreams
I would rather fly away
lacking courage’s backbone
Yet here we are, facing
another day – me the bird
And you, the indomitable tree
roots to my wayward vision
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
“What happens after death?”
she asked one Sunday,
her long, thin body stretched
weakly across the settee,
her cousin balancing
his dinner plate at her feet.
Sundays they came together,
all the family, for Grandmother’s
dinners; the warm waft of fresh-
baked pies, the clank of dishes,
voices raised over old farm table.
He shrugged; it was always a concern –
she’d been frail from birth, this girl
he loved, two years younger, but
in every way his peer – said nothing.
“Let’s make a pact!” she blurted
“The first to die will leave a sign.”
“Grandpa’s bells!” They shook on it
and then, with a satisfied grin
she succumbed to sleep.
A more sombre clan gathered mid-week
eyes red and faces pale with the shock of loss –
no smells of warmth to greet them,
just cold platters prepared by church ladies
Slumped bodies, heads leaning close,
sipped tea on the place where she’d lain
that last gathering – no sound of children’s
laughter, the hole too hard to bear.
And when the sound came: metal
clanging on metal, ringing a joyous
clamour, she was the first to see –
Grandpa’s bells stirring – her sign!
She knew then he’d be waiting,
told me so before that last breath
and as I watched her go, I swear
I could hear the far off ringing of bells.
(The Pact was originally published September, 2018. Edited here. Image my own)
She is young,
this artist-self
celebrating discovery
He chastises enthusiasm,
this intellect-self, favours
logic over emotions
I use disability as an excuse
Accept intellect’s restraints
Ignore encouragement
Refrain from submitting
Halter progress
Youth has ambition
her paint spattered hands
grasp at opportunity –
her tender heart
emits a joyful tune..
…but age,
having abandoned ambition,
is hard of hearing.
(Art mine)
Rainbows and wishes
wings we give daughters
Little girl dreams destined
to hit walls – shortsighted
these laws of oppression –
for sweetness of youth
does not equate with folly
Women are warriors,
our rage underestimated.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
My memory of you –
distorted by childish exuberance-
distant and disinterested
Translated vacant eyes
through the lens of my needs
child that I was.
Failed to notice
the aura of defeat,
the battered heart
the robotic responses
masking unbelievable sorrow
missed it all
Till death knocked
and I saw you anew –
adult lenses now fully secured.
Wonder at the fortitude
that kept you upright
the love that served us both.
No fault here –
on either side –
just a bittersweet understanding.
(Distorted Lenses first appeared here August, 2019. Image my own)
We’ll venture
into the city
Pretend our bones
are not dust
Ignore our fails
Hearts soft
Love nostalgic
Hold hands
like lovers
Location historic
(ours alone)
celebrate resilience.
(Today we celebrate our anniversary. Image my own)
I try to draw the curtain
on your ominous darkness,
as if emotions can be delegated
to black and white; as if love
can be anything other than
this shadowy meandering –
roots of your uncertainty
roots of my deception –
a tangled path indeed.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twiiter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Progress, seldom linear,
tosses me into unexpected decline,
stranded and incapacitated.
My son with labour-hardened arms
leaps to my side, steadying me
and I feel the fear in his caring grip
My daughter, ever compassionate,
reaches out, eyes filled with horror
as my body crumples onto the bed.
My husband, my oak, seeks to comfort
his voice betraying the helplessness
this futile predicament imposes.
Beloveds, I know that you see me
this dis-abled, non-functioning shell
weakened and sickly, lying on this bed
Do not be deceived-
it is only an illusion –
vessel temporarily fettered
I am in essence, as before
ambitions and desires intact
hold this version of me
Sense the wholeness of my being
the woman I am yet to be –
my spirit stands strong.
(My Spirit Stands Strong first appeared here August, 2015; edited for this version.
Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 