Wrestle me from the spotlight
there is comfort in the dark
Shadowed corners are fertile
where nimble imagination feeds
Weary of the light; I beg of you,
drag this scorched ego
Where edges softly disintegrate
and oblivion refills lost bliss
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Munificence of woods
forestalls growing angst,
imminence of need
Sheltered beneath
a canopy of leaves
I am armoured
paused
peaceful
reflecting
Tomorrow can wait.
(Image my own)
Days like this –
life without spin –
one emotion
one conflict
one moment
colouring response
as if singularity
is all we can bear –
(Photo mine)
Quiescent, the river
that flows through me
nudged on by a sea
I cannot touch
I am bud resisting
the bloom, reluctant.
If this life is spoiler
for what lies beyond,
then leave me,
dormant…
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Thanks again to Yvette for all the work she does.
“Just like your father!”
Words that chill me
to my core, bile
and self-loathing
follow
I abhor ego –
its need
its pandering
its petulance
Would skin
and exile
the beast
but, alas
Self absent
interface
cannot deal with
what remains
So I wrestle
with the father bits
and bolster the tried –
ego negotiation
(Image my own)
Daddy yelled
and Mommy cried
and new dresses appeared
A pattern
my young heart
vowed to break
Chose a man,
reticent in nature,
pursued a career
Then babies came
and I stayed home
and he withheld cash
Pendulum swings
left to right – money
holds the key to power
(Money first appeared here January, 2019. Image my own)
Our world spins
in contradictions –
grief prominent
Women and children
facing oppression
Indigenous souls
coming home –
So many dying
courtesy of lies
If there is a song
for our times
it is a wailing.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Art my own)
In illness, I am passenger –
no matter how venturous
mind’s reach, the raw truth
is that limitations confine
This is not a sentence
for some perceived crime,
but a re-framing – attitude
shifting to acceptance
Choice becomes thoughtful –
time allows for that now –
and gratitude takes hold
in every corner of “I can”.
(Art my own)
Where do the words go
when they slip through the cracks
of my mental filing system?
And where is recognition
when words reappear,
no longer categorized
or referenced –
out of alphabetical order –
not even an inkling of recall
as if our acquaintance
is akin to discovery?
(Mental-pause first appeared here January, 2018. This version edited.
Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 