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)

Fight For Truth

Legends make
and legends break
and some are clouds
for truth…

We stalk fame
Wear blinders
Deny greed
Worship lust

Somber propositions
streaked with blood
outsmart watchful eyes

Run to save the children
those vulnerable ones
wounds still tender

No matter how guarded
no matter how impenetrable the walls
expose the beast, fight the devil

Let truth define the legend.

(Written for all those women, men, and children exploited by the famous and powerful.  Linking up with Eugi’s Causerie weekly prompt:  legend.)

Survival of an Artist

He had lost everything of value to him. There was an empty canvas on the easel, his colors and tools.  What would he paint?  *

Eyes reddened from tears
he bears his soul, like a wolf
howls into the emptiness

No response

Life shrinks at the sight of him
wounded creatures fearing
his motivations, advances

Entrapped

Escape alludes – walls
structures of his fear
he is his own obstacle

Alone

He will find his bearing
claw his way through faithlessness
Solitude, after all, an ally to his breed.

(For Reena’s Exploration challenge:  *quotation captioned.  Image my own.)

 

Life Warp

Perusing the hardware store
(shops are limited these days)
nothing to tantalize the imagination
still, I browse, searching for normalcy.

Death loiters in aisle 9
taunts me with visions of life
once vibrant, now stolen
leers at me and I bolt

Grocery store holds more allure
ingredients to stir the appetite
the phantom stalks here too
leaves fingerprints on tin cans

The coffee shop has drinks to go
but the spectre follows, leers
schoolboy smug – I’m not sure
whether to laugh or cry

Unamused by the implications
and yet somehow reassured –
the humour doesn’t escape me –
warped this new norm.

Birch Trees (with recording)

Strains of Tijuana Brass flood the yard
while father on bended knee tends
his garden, tiers of stone edged rows
encircling a trio of birch trees.

Father points out birches on Sunday
drives, as if the bark is sacred, leaves
whispering a secret I cannot hear –
stirs in me an indefinable longing.

My husband planted birch trees
there amongst the flower beds –
how the leaves shimmer in sunlight,
how my heart quickens, bittersweet.

Imagine Father seated there, mellow
as he was in old age, angst expended,
tyranny of parenting set aside – understand
love unexpressed dwells in birch trees.

(Watercolour image by yours truly)