This Is How It Happens

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course, he does
I am schooled in compassion
seldom flinch at raw pain

I attend to the wounds
listen; reassure
but I am weary

My own sorrow unattended
loss and betrayal an inner bleed
know I have only so much to give

But he is not alone,
there is another
a mere child…

Cherubic and reeking
grief’s pallor heavy
he comes to me

Of course he does
and I will sign on to stay…
schooled in the art of compassion.

(The stories that come to us in the dreamtime, often celebrate anniversaries. Years ago, I was in a cycle of abusive relationships, culminating with the one represented in the poem. We met on New Year’s Eve. My son, then early teens, remarked to me that I always chose relationships that asked a lot of me but seldom gave in return. While I laughed it off in the moment, his words remained with me, especially as this man also betrayed me with another. It was the turning point I needed to do some real soul-searching.)

Image my own.

Flee The Cult

A life of servitude,
the guru said,
surely leads to Nirvana

No debate permitted –
we are but plebes
answer his every need

mere women, born
to serve, to nurture…

I flee the cult

Why? Because I can.
Servitude does not
negate free will.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)

Time To Cruise Is Not Now

Is there an itinerary for this lockdown?
I watch as engagements line up

Adventure-seekers, eager to connect
willingly engage, purchase a ticket

How I would give my life to be a part
hop aboard a sailing ship, escape

Except disability has recalled my passport;
I am a vehicle without fuel, grounded

Disappointment and I watch as
familiar faces venture out –

a friend’s brother
an old crush
a high school acquaintance

While envy reminds me
I’m always an outsider
Sensibility wakes me up

This boat I’m missing out on
is no luxury cruise ship, but
a dalliance with death –

I surrender to isolation
count the casualties.

( Image my own.)

Love In Aisle Nine

Lust ignores warning signals
fancies itself a savvy consumer
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.

Loneliness, nearsighted, shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient
and patience is the key to harmony.

Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, nor a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
dis-abled hearts bordering insanity

nor is it initiated by determination
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion
misinterpreting openings. The path

to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer-based passage –
no bargains in the commitment dept.

(Love in Aisle Nine first appeared here in December, 2017. Image is my own.)

On The Anniversary of His Death

No amount of empathy
could help me understand
the storm inside my father

Even in his death, thoughts
cloud my writing, his presence
preserved in prose…

(Even though it’s been fifteen years, my father’s essence remains strong – sometimes taunting, sometimes inspiring, always mysterious.)

Obnoxious

Try to hide this longing
but am as obstreperous
as a Blue Jay proclaiming presence.

Please know, that behind
awkwardness is a heart true
purity of intent incognito.

(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own. As a child and into my dating years, I was called obnoxious. Now that connecting with others is limited, I am once again aware of how this over exuberant side of myself emerges from time to time.)