Pain circumvents our fears
squeezes relentlessly
Still we proceed
withholding complaint
for this is labour –
a trial that harnesses
depth of determination
unfathomable focus
Somewhere along the process
an instantaneous shift
there is wonder to behold
and indescribable bliss
Birth is happening
and they’ll be no going back.
(Art mine)
Morning melee
with coffee pot –
canister escaped grip
contents scattered
clean up ensued
sharp warnings
to dogs eager
to help –
second round
forgot to empty pot
hot liquid seeping
everywhere –
I’m a tea drinker.
Need I describe more?
Trapped inside
two-dimensional torus
backward spinning
Not even my pulse
emits an echo – would need
a third dimension for that
Am geometrically disfigured,
an illusion, I fear, for human
substance seldom adds up.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own,)
I am gregarious
initiator
risk-taker
eagerly anticipating
the unknown
But the subconscious
alights on old stories
gathers sanctimonious
rumours of unworthiness
spits out shame
and rage
Reveals the truth –
I am vulnerable.
(Facing Truths first appeared here July ’19. This version is edited from original. Art my own.)
House creaks
ferocious
decries starkness
of bare walls
absence of furniture
finality of boxes
stacked and sealed
Sleep eludes me
mind recalling
passages –
his cancer
my fear
twist of fate
that left me housebound
We could not stay here
this place chosen for healing
turned prison
“You’ve been good to us”
I whisper, “Now
you’ll favour someone else”
She grumbles in response
this old house, sharing
my trepidation
of unknowns, change
always precarious
Another groan
and I concur
we grand dams
need extra TLC
but I have faith –
an injection of
new life
will do us both good.
(This is a found poem, excerpted from a post of the same name which appeared on my second blog in July of 2017. Image my own.)
Flowers awaken
imagination – magic
paints the garden bed.
(Image my own)
Rings me every time
he’s in town –
Tumbleweed, I call him –
a man I love to hate
He tints my normalcy
with neon rushes,
flames of screaming lust –
I’m better of without him
wish he’d lose my number…
well…maybe after next time.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own. Piece is purely fiction, I promise)
Devil borrows
Twilight’s voice
tortures sensibility
Tangled bedclothes
grumble, inflexible
bedmates – unsupportive
Where is reason?
my mind wails
heart drumming discord
I access light,
perch on edge of bed
will myself to breathe
(My dear husband is in hospital again, his fifth surgery to reconstruct his knee. It’s been a long ordeal and my heart bleeds for him. Fear is an awful bedmate. I submit this poem in response to the promptings of Eugi’s Weekly prompt: twilight and Reena’s Xploration challenge: devil. Image my own.)
Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious…
inviting
Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr –
not mythical, but yielding…
mindful
not worshipful nor boastful
but comforting…
warm
I am waning light
the mistral wind wafting
no longer a force of nature
but smoke, spiralling
vanishing into non-existence
And yet,
even as shadows spread
I yearn – heart
beating true
not lost,
not forgotten,
but withdrawn…
humbled
passion mellowed
by years of constructing walls –
grit and tar –
scar’s long buried
save the limping gait
of a ghost.
(Even Ghosts Yearn first appeared here in July, 2018. Image my own.)
Burrs of misadventure cling
I am not beholden to them
Progress, not always visible
requires breathing room
Tenderness heals wounds
patience guiding movement
One by one, I extract the hooks
sigh with each deliverance.
(Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 