Not Thursday

Today is Thursday
I’m certain of it
Thursdays Mom calls
after her hair appointment

But she hasn’t called
and I can’t find that show
I watch on Thursday nights
Did they change the programming?

And then I remember
that garbage goes out
Thursday night
and so I scramble, but

everyone else has forgotten
how can this be?
Today is Thursday
and nothing is going right.

(For Reena’s Xploration Challenge: featured image is prompt. I suffer from inflammation on the brain, which at times affects my understanding of reality – especially when I’m overtired. During these times, my mind will lock on to what it believes to be true, even if I’m totally off base. Reena’s image reminded me of those days.)

Rainbows

Nostalgia casts rainbows
over stormy passages
Why is darkness so alluring?

I breathe passion into losses
soul revolting against the light
committed to seduction of perhaps

Where is the wisdom in this brooding?
Naïve rumination seldom begets the gold
best to look away when rainbows appear.

(For Eugi’s Weekly Challenge: rainbows. Image my own.)

Talk To Me of Horses

Talk to me of horses
the young man says
thin locks of blonde matted
on a sweaty brow, flashes of blue
that fade as eyes succumb
to weariness, the constant
whoosh, whoosh of respirator.

Talk to me of horses:
the world is losing its grip
and I care not about
the weather or car mechanics,
but I dream of horses
and I am feeling so emotional –
help me understand.

So, I come daily to his bedside
wait for moments of lucidity
ponder the implications
of his questions, wrestle with
my own inadequacies –
I am merely student here.

We discuss horses –
the power of their bodies
their beauty and grace
their role throughout history –
decide they are ferrymen
transporting souls across worlds –
an explanation that satisfies, then…

I am seeing things, he strains
embarrassed even in these final hours
to describe what seems inconceivable,
between sleep and awake, figures
grey and frightening hover over
my bed like body snatchers….

A chill runs over me, as if icy
fingers have caressed my skin
and I shudder despite myself
scramble to maintain calm
wonder aloud if it is not just fear
projecting grey into light
clouding his vision.

I missed his passing the next day
arriving to find his mother waiting
“He left you a message,” her eyes
quizzical, “says that you were right
about the visions; there was nothing to fear”

I smile through the grief –
ever the teacher that one
now dead at twenty-one

“Oh, and one more thing”, she adds “
“Could you talk to me of horses?”

(Talk to Me of Horses first appeared her in April 2018. This version has been edited slightly. Image my own.)

Routine

Depression monitors my movements
eyes me from across the road, waits

I struggle to define myself, here
at the margins of life, career lost

As teacher, days were outlined
bells, rubrics, and semesters

Now I must learn again, find
purpose in nothingness

Despair wants to move in, overwhelm
But I’m building my fences, regaining

routines – markers motivating
each day – a reason for being.

(This poem is a response to my weekly challenge: define but don’t reveal. Image my own.)

Self as Book

The pages of this life
bound by aging leather
gilded letters cracked
intended meaning
long forgotten

No images adorn
the weathered face
the colour faded
shade of auburn
like my hair
once upon a time

Spine still sturdy
threads fraying
corners curling –
indicators of
a life well read.

(Written for Reena’s Xploration challenge #176. Image my own.)