Lies

I dwell in mediocracy
where Larkspur takes a spotlight
and sunsets enforce sleep

A background figure, I hide
behind mundane assertions,
practice subtlety

Lies I tell myself, of course,
any reader knows – I decry
normality, as passion is my way.

(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)

Numb

My son used to burn himself
press the lit end of a cigarette
against his bare flesh

an attempt to penetrate
the numbness –
this I know

because I did it too
walking barefoot in the snow
cutting till blood oozed

there is a pain
familiar to adolescents
that bears no explanation

a hellish limbo –
suspended between innocence
and adult expectations

unable to articulate
the wrongs endured
or separate shame

from responsibility,
an inexplicable grief
and longing…

…longing to understand
at least for a moment
the pain one dare not feel.

(Image my own)

Weaving Meaning

Nuances of nostalgia –
jagged edges
succumbing
to unsuspecting cubes

nourishment
moving and opening
I distract
We grapple
under construction

Meaning percolates
This is life
these bits and pieces
of a resurrection
dragons and time machines
ticket stubs
scattered.

(Originally titled, Weaving Bits and Pieces, this was a found poem – the product of collective responses to a prompt. Image my own.)

Absence

Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.

Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.

Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.

House, uncomfortable with silence,
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.

I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.

(Absence was written six years ago, while my husband recovered from a triple bypass. Image my own.)

Sorry

Sorry –
so much inadequacy
bundled into one word
as if five letters
can convey
depths of regret,
shock, dismay

Seems I am the spark
to your lighter fluid –
unintentional, I swear

Still reeling
from the aftermath
of the explosion

Attempting to
deconstruct the
formula –
precautionary

I am sorry –
that you are enraged,
that you are so obviously disappointed
that you are consumed with resentment –
except, it is sadness, not regret that I feel.

I cannot own this,
was always honest,
forthright,
did not feed your expectations

Besides,
learned long ago –
we don’t have the power
to make anyone
feel anything
least of all,
sorry.

So I’m not sorry,
but maybe
if you could just tell me,
give me an inkling
of what you might need,
I can help us out of this hole.

(Sorry first appeared here 2018. Image my own)