You misconceive the calling,
says bird in bush –
troubled times
call for comfort
not derailment
of humanity –
petty, bickering
without soul –
I may be bird-brained
but human sense
has the consistency
of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Jumbo Jet
they called her –
fast on her feet,
zooming in,
swooping up trays,
delivering with flight-
attendant flair.
When did she turn
to autopilot,
stop paying attention
to her destination?
Didn’t she know
she was set
on a crash course,
headed for disaster?
Tried to warn her,
wake her from stupor;
told me she’d reset
but danger remains.
She’s cruising now –
over-sized
turbo-lacking
under-fuelled,
no longer able
to soar – trapped
in a treacherous game.
Waits tables,
tries to keep
a clean house,
caters to others,
lends an ear,
has squeezed
every drop of self
into a low flying life
needs to land
a space of her own,
with room to breathe;
take life in shorter
intervals, refill
her jets.
(Portrait of a Waitress was originally written in 2016. Image a self portrait. Note: once upon a time, I was a waitress, whom the cooks referred to as “Jumbo Jet”. I waitressed my way through university, and a few rough spots in life. While I gave up the job, the metaphor of ‘waiting’ continued to be a theme in my dreams for many years after.)
In increments
we measure the rain
as if centimetres
can quantify sorrow
A falcon has chased
the birds away,
naked, a tear-stained
tree stands alone
Our hearts resonate –
arms, like branches, aching.
(Image my own)
Running –
an allegory
for strife
for recovery
for all the shards
of a blown-apart life –
this mountain, this becoming
this chest-pounding flight.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
If I were a kitchen,
I’d want an old-fashioned woman
at my counters – rolling dough
canning pickles, chutney, jam,
homemade pasta sauce,
and every Sunday, a roast.
She’d wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back –
one practiced hand feeding
her Carnation baby, while
other children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the stove
perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers
and induction cookers –
let the children belly up
to the breakfast bar, chomp
on veggies and humus, while
cook totes baby in a sling,
and preps bone broth,
strains of Baby Einstein
emitting from a propped up iPad,
while a cellphone vibrates
on granite, and the Keurig
spits out Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me,
piles of unopened mail,
or tossed aside receipts
company for coffee rings
on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers, or
dishes caked with processed cheese –
don’t leave my stainless steel sinks
stained, spoiled food reeking
in the refrigerator, traces
of late night mishaps curdling
on the floor; absence of familiar
sounds declaring my presence invalid.
(Rewrite of a rewrite. Image my own)
Maudlin convention
I balk at your constraints
jettison the traditions
that propagate hate
Future is an open road
I do not hesitate –
Yes, there is uncertainty
Yes, I’ll make mistakes
Vulnerability will conquer pride
mind willing, convention I’ll shake
(Art mine)
We decry loss of innocence
whilst downplaying our sins
Not news.
Blame is a tricky game…
Better to practice accountability
than to capture the podium…
Changing the world
inside out.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Next door cultivates perfection –
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
shimmering with prideful confidence
My garden is overgrown vines,
chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows there will be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.
Life has schooled detachment
lessons in loss counsel defensiveness –
better to guard hope than plant it…
How can next door be so reckless;
do they not know this all for naught?
(This a rewrite of former poem also titled Next Door. Image my own.)
Fierce hunter, osprey
carries his catch
like a prized ruby –
riveting sight
At home, hubby
prepares his pride –
squirt of extra-virgin,
dash of extra spice
I observe them both
bemused by the process,
cooking up this poem.
(Image my own)
In your absence
I paint the ceiling
midnight blue,
await the return
of stars, ride out
the gut wrench
of abandonment
I know your motive
is happiness, and
that I shall emerge
all the wiser,
but for now
I don the spatter
of indigo grief.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 