The scenery outside my window
is passing by too fast, and
I’m facing backwards, waves
of nausea disrupting the view
I focus on emotion, animated,
try to discern its origin, realize
it is misplaced; I am disoriented
laugh at the enormity of my blunder.
Girls are lucky:
just need to find the right man –
looked after for life.
Advice from a teenaged brother.
Right! I yell back,
fifty years later.
It was all a vacation –
raising the children on my own
looking for God in the midst of chaos
partners with wandering eyes
or absent…always absent…
still waiting for that “looking after”
And how did you make out, Dear Brother?
Oh, that’s right…married…
woman with a good job
willing to let you putter in the background
Guess we were both misled.
(No Idea! first appeared here November 2020. Image my own.)
I called you
that one time
poured my heart out
such despair
I called you.
You weren’t there.
Left a message –
garbled words
rushed to beat
inevitable beep.
Regret immediate
then panic
ineradicable
the outpouring
of a lonely heart
fantasizing.
I called you.
You didn’t answer.
You never called back.
Thank you for that.
(I found this poem on my other blog, and have given it a new title. Image my own.)
This body fortress
stories untold, locked in cells
I am brick by brick
self-made, deluded – haunted
by expectation’s ruins
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile
in our old photo album –
stares fixated on unseen lint –
distracted, we three sisters,
all reeling from the cold,
unwell, immobilized…
What is absent is the photographer
whose pointed directions critique
each decision – a derisive repetition
that eats at our souls, each girl
wrestling with self-nurture vs
self-annihilation, landing somewhere
in between – mannequin targets
for male abuse…
Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against
the dominance, the oppression, but
only succeeded in settling for disconnection,
while one sister turned tricks for attention,
the other retreated into full dependency,
her madness, out of date, nevertheless
relevant – despite our tormenter’s death,
the images are permanently recorded
in that old photo album.
Words, like crickets,
leap from my mind –
chirping pests
whose trajectory
eludes my dulled
reflexes, scuttling
around the periphery
of my awareness
Harmless, really,
in the singular,
a cacophony
in multitudes
threatening
to multiply further
and destroy any
semblance of sanity
I must intuit
their rhythm,
define the notes
in workable phrases,
capture the essence
of their meaning
and inscribe the message
before they disappear again.
(Pestilence of Words first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, October 2016. Edited for this edition. Image my own.)
The stare isn’t vacant;
it’s absorbed; attentive –
the being on high alert
I’ve seen cats like this before
crossed the road to avoid
their supernatural curse
But this creature is different,
dares me to make a move…
Why do I feel I’ve already lost?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image mine.)
What is it that a woman of maturity quests for?
Autonomy: to feel that her decisions/wants/needs
are not overshadowed by the dictates of another,
or by a past that is forever looming.
Empowerment: to know, once and for all, that
the victim is laid to rest, so that she can embrace
her authentic self.
Inner peace: to live without guilt or the need for
permission. To be able to forgive and self and other
in order to be free. To trust, innately, her own
inner resources, releasing fear’s hold.
Sacredness: to stand firmly upon the Earth,
breathe freely, and engage with life. To make
a difference.
Celebration: to live with anticipation, surprise,
and ultimately joy.
Connection: to recognize in each living moment
that none of the above is obtained in a bubble.
I quest for true connection. The bravest quest of all.
(Reading through old posts I came across one from November, 2014 which inspired this write. Image my own.)
Does resolution follow inquisition?
History suggests otherwise…
Yet, here we are
seeking enlightenment,
counting on understanding
to amend the unresolved
Wrestling with denial
praying that research
will unravel falsities,
berate the inappropriate
Good and evil vying
for omnipotence
each of us personally engaged
Righteousness
such a vile possession.
(Image my own)
Pockets of light
illuminate the shore:
day submitting to dark
I trace the lines
of our passage
remembering
How winds and tides
shaped us; how carelessly
we wasted time…
Danced around
our solitudes –
imitating intimacy
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 