Childhood Home

The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…

Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes

Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection

What if I could go back
now that I can breathe

Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity
would I discover a sudden windfall

makeover conditioned motifs
reevaluate ceiling heights

with resources to remodel
heart open, connected

might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.

(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge: featured image.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Survivor Instinct

Buried alive
by illness’ onset
only hope for escape
tunnel whose guilt-lined
walls oozed mucous
of neglect, sorrow
so raw, shredded
faith – no light
just a dull
pulse
screaming –
I am alive.

(Chronic illness is a game changer.  No amount of ambition can turn the tide.  One is left to face the onslaught of that which has been oppressed or skipped over.  I wrote this poem early in my journey with ME.  Amazingly, no matter what, spirit still clings to life.  Image from personal collection.)

What We Really Need

We purchase boards
imagine roots –
dream bigger
ignore the dawning

The higher the fence,
we tell ourselves,
the better the privacy.
Work hard, earn big.

And the longing grows
it’s the heart that seeks roots
hungers for connection
love like sunshine

Would knock down walls
throw open the doors
bask in the expansiveness
of kindred moments shared.

(For Eugi’s Causerie Weekly prompt:  sunshine.  Image is my own – a common merganser basking in sunshine.)

Spotlights Burn

She amassed children while
he pursued accolades

Family photos display
northern shorelines
tanned faces, white-toothed grins
parents not represented

Lost her childhood
at the bottom of a ravine
laid beaten and shattered
no one came to rescue her.

Guess that’s what drew her
the his light; money, she hoped
would not abandon her.

But muck tracks the same
and children need feeding
and absent a co-parent
she sleeps most days.

Offspring learn independence
a product of adults’ disarray
outlasting the fickleness of fame.

(For Reena’s Exploration Challenge:  prompt is the last line of the poem.  Image my own.)

I’ll Sit This One Out

Death invites me to dance
extends crooked hand
for crooked hand
takes the gentlemen’s lead

I know his moves –
have watched a time or two
even partnered a few
long, slow waltzes

But I prefer to tango
like the spice and thrill
of life’s lively step
bid him, politely, to move on.

(For Reena’s Exploration challenge: Antidotes to Fear of Death.  Also linking up to Eugi’s Causerie Weekly prompt: dancing.  Image my own)