Followed the wind –
a child without boundaries –
Experience, especially hardship
clipped those wings
Lost faith in the wind,
pushed against her flow
Till nothing was left of me
fight diminished by final blow
The wind, though, she persisted
picked up my diminished spirit
tossed me in her whimsical way
rekindled the child.
(Image my own.)
Clouds bundle
shift and fold
cotton strata
Trees huddle
confidence in
community
Emotions stack
one on another
co-mingling hues
Beneath layers
an eternal glow
sun certainty.
(For Reena’s Xploration Challenge: layers. Image also represents the prompt – layers of photoshopping.)
Simple phrases
words like scented blossoms
capture my imagination
carry me
How is it,
dear poet,
that you sense my needs
write my revival
(Image my own)
Mom said sh’e leaving Dad
can’t take it anymore
we move.
Relocate. Reset.
Bullying at school out of control
can’t take it anymore
we move.
Relocate. Reset.
Truancy a problem
then the rape
school says I have to go.
Relocate. Reset.
Sister move back home
one unhinged, the other battered
Moms says it’d be better if I leave.
Relocate. Reset.
Shuffle boxes from relationship
to relationship, change careers
like hairstyles – is this boredom?
Relocate. Reset.
Never did grow roots
too good at packing up
trouble comes…
Relocate. Reset.
Tell you more, but we’re about
to pull out, the road is calling…
you know how it goes…
(Relocate. Reset. first appeared here in December, 2017. I am submitting it here, edited, for my weekly challenge: I’m bored. All welcome to join in. Image my own.)
I am orange
in a monotone clime
radiant against
a melancholic backdrop
a poem within
a droning monologue.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Art my own.)
Considering
refurbishing
childhood home
Unrecognizable now
numerous makeovers
and even re-purposing
But my heart is invested
and well, I can see potential
and, oh…I know it will take work
All the walls I’ve torn down
and the excess furniture
and how I’ve imagined duplicity
Is this folly on my part
this revisionist thinking
see…I’m sure there is treasure
hidden amongst the forgotten
buried perhaps in the attic
or other overlooked nook
And as I remember it,
the backyard is an oasis –
Yes! I think I’ll do it!
Reflection and a good dose
of elbow grease, and I’m in!
Recreating an upbringing.
(for Eugi’s Weekly Prompt: reflection. Image my own.)
Heart beats uncertainty
aspires to full ignition
but spark-plug corroded
motion sputters
Society abandons wrecks
junkyard-strewn forgotten
easier to turn a blind eye
than face cold reality
Not all vessels were built
for speed or showmanship.
(Image my own)
Do we have to be away
to find home?
Not the mortgaged
two cars in the driveway
double-income kind of dwelling
I’m talking peace
in the heart, comfort
in the soul, blessed home
I have felt Presence
in nature, witnessed Spirit
in a newborn’s eyes
beheld reverence in a dying
sister’s final breath – fleeting
glimpses, nothing solid
I seek an eternal sense
of belonging, of atonement
to radiate a knowing, holy calm
Don’t speak to me of books
or passages, or a brother
with the voice of God
The home I seek is
an inner sanctum
a whisper, a cry
a longing answered
only in moments of pure
simplicity, in stillness
this noise we create
this distancing, is only fear
and forgetting: products
of original separation
a projection of abandonment
remembering, experiencing
the numinous, the sacred other
brings me back home
and I am no longer lost.
(Finding Home was first published here in February of 2017. I resubmit an edited version for Reena’s Xploration challenge: sacred space. Image my own.)
To compensate
for the obnoxious
exuberance
of my flame
I attempt
to oversimplify
Oh dear!
Seems I’ve failed
again…
(As a young woman, obnoxious was the word beaus used when breaking up with me. The poem says the rest. Art my own.)
It’s Monday again –
days passing through
my hands like sand,
no receptacle in which
to catch the granules –
why this sense of urgency?
In high school, I played hooky
wiped away the hours in empty
places, sought answers for
questions I could not articulate,
chased dust while other formulated
dreams – how is this any different?
Am I not just recreating the pattern,
painting over efforts with adult hues,
donning the pretence of self-importance
while occupied with vapid tasks – time
continues to slip by, and what have I
to show for it other than incessant panic?
(Wasted Time was first published February, 2017. I resubmit here for my weekly challenge: the chase. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 