Teach me reverence
am losing ground
children adulting
mothering in a void
Teach me acceptance
disability’s waters flood
I’m in the margins
an afterthought
I concede life changes
release control – passion
begs an outlet; I am worn
but I am open. Teach me.
(Image mine)
Sip of brewed mugwort
and reality shatters
pixelated beads
like a murmuration
shapeshifting images
luring me skyward
I am skin-shedding
anti-gravitational
Alice in Wonderland
watch me grow.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Spring-loaded
the lever
that releases us
from reality
One minute
set on a path
the next, victim
course uncharted
Survivors
question –
existential
questers.
There is no promise
life passes, sometimes trickles
we survive or thrive
love as glue, spirit reigning
heart open – sacred witness.
(Image my own.)
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.
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.)
Pythagorus surmised
a theorem of patterns
defining life’s mysteries
Despite my abhorrence
for numbers, I concur that
there is order to the unknown
Guided by compassion
I walk that intrepid riddle
seek the enlightened path.
( Image my own.)
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.)
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.)
One Woman's Quest 