Moody, these December skies
brooding chill interrupted by sun’s sudden emergence
To hibernate, or brace
the wind; stiffen protectively or inhale invigoration
Caution guides my steps
intimate with wintry passages acknowledging that I am December…
(Image my own)
There is light in unknowns –
at least I project it there – caught between the current ashen landscape and the achings of a solitary childhood…
I like to think faith guides me
but she is muted like the gardens of my dreams, more ethereal than palpable and I need concrete have waited too long for that train
of certainty to carry me away…
course it never comes, there is no easy just a slow, steady plodding: a pace that age has settled on; so I turn to inner landscapes, imagination remembering colour…and yes, light.
(Image my own creation)
What is it that a woman of maturity quests for?
Autonomy: to feel that her decisions/wants/needs
are not overshadowed by the dictates of another, or by a past that is forever looming.
Empowerment: to know, once and for all, that
the victim is laid to rest, so that she can embrace her authentic self.
Inner peace: to live without guilt or the need for
permission. To be able to forgive and self and other in order to be free. To trust, innately, her own inner resources, releasing fear’s hold.
Sacredness: to stand firmly upon the Earth,
breathe freely, and engage with life. To make a difference.
Celebration: to live with anticipation, surprise,
and ultimately joy.
Connection: to recognize in each living moment
that none of the above is obtained in a bubble. I quest for true connection. The bravest quest of all.
(Reading through old posts I came across one from
November, 2014 which inspired this write. Image my own.)
Disregard the obvious –
I know how time has marred me
Disregard the glare –
eyes clouded with cynicism
A fledgling heart beats
within this disheveled nest
Come closer and behold
a childlike yearning for love.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)
She is young,
this artist-self celebrating discovery
He chastises enthusiasm,
this intellect-self, favours logic over emotions
I use disability as an excuse
Accept intellect’s restraints Ignore encouragement Refrain from submitting Halter progress
Youth has ambition
her paint spattered hands grasp at opportunity – her tender heart emits a joyful tune..
having abandoned ambition, is hard of hearing. (Art mine)
into the city Pretend our bones are not dust Ignore our fails Hearts soft Love nostalgic Hold hands like lovers Location historic (ours alone) celebrate resilience.
(Today we celebrate our anniversary. Image my own)
not in circles but in spirals
continual movement marking progress
mocks such optimism regret unavoidable
none assuaging ambition incomplete inevitable
Can I stop this spinning
rescue the untidy threads weave an acceptable ending?
(Image my own)
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up, that adulthood, awash with responsibility, would also be lonely
And, no one told me
that the days and nights of sweating over lessons would likely not lead to the life imagined
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies – does not exist – the word itself bearing more substance than the act, fickle as it is
No one told me that
motherhood would change my reality permanently, colouring it with unfathomable pain and joy – such juxtaposition
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for, regardless of its justification, is really a struggle with self – inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age,
with seismic force, would alter my perspective so – leave me barren and yet enriched, enthralled with the ordinary and unfazed by the rest
And, in the end, as I watch
the vernal rains announce renewal, in the quiet of my solitude, I am amazed and grateful for all that this crazy, driven life has become and that no one ever told me.
(This is an edited version of a poem published in April, 2019. Art my own.)
I know that abyss –
swallowed up as I was punch-drunk on darkness
Bled as I emerged,
each reach a scrape – there was release too
Revived now, I honour
that passage, recognize the making of a woman.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknuton. Image my own.)
Sky gallery –
anything but banal – recalls innocence
an instinctual dance (few will actually migrate)
Cheers this aging mind,
also prone to redundant acts – sexagenarian fun.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)