“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.)
Eagle arrives
and I am at once
small, insignificant
Breath held
I am stillness
basking in majesty
Till ubiquitous crow
calls his cronies,
chases eagle off
Everything gains perspective.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Cast my shadow over white banks
assert presence: proud, defiant
Will find beauty in deserted places
and colour in the monochrome
Haunted by a Winter state of mind
resolved to stretch despite chill.
(Image my creation)
He fills the home
with sweetness –
serenades their love –
while she picks away
at every gesture,
imagining subterfuge
His floral words
only serve to poke
doubts – she reads
between the lines
of ornamental landmines
He lights candles
to set a mood,
but she is already
planning a funeral –
her wrung out heart
unwilling to fall.
The eight of cups –
an octopus balancing
multi-tasks; I juggle
fog, attempt
to calibrate logistics
but instincts
are dull-edged,
my tentacles lacking
suction – will slither
back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge,
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 