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
Geese attempt
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)
Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending
too early for my taste
If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess
layers of this confinement
Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore
exuberance of noble youth?
Passion persists, intelligence
intact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.
(Lighting Call first appeared here January, 2019.
Linking up with Reena’s Xploration challenge: light. I
mage my own.)
Eventuality
of gravity
is bona fide
Flesh is not iron
Minds, however,
can strengthen, if
nurtured with
open compassion
Spirits plummet
and revive, buoyant
as the grace that
serves them.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
Call myself liberated
but this modern woman’s
shadow arches backwards
finds its reflection in legacies
How can I forgive my own failings
when their tale takes root in
oppression and abuses long passed?
Liberated a misnomer.
(Image my own.)
Movement abandons
I grasp for something…
concrete…
…air to breathe
… am fast becoming
…sedimentary
…an object
Need a verb –
transitive –
to drive me –
The wind lifted her
The sun inspired her
The day healed her…
(Image my own)
Big band galas
Seaside dancehalls
Swing dancing
Men in uniform
Memory-soaked
daydreams like
shots of adrenaline
arthritic fingers tap
to a distant tune.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Captivated by bridges
connection previously
assumed impossible
A grandchild’s love
the loyalty of a dog
the kinship of writers
I watch life pass by
flash on sorrow, till
bridges restore peace.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
We converse in actions
words inaccessible –
have not been schooled
in dialogues for two.
His clutter spreads
pronounce’s a kingly
presence, commands
attention, oppresses
I clean with insistence
shuffle papers, wipe up
crumbs, assert my right
to co-exist, belittle him.
Once we studied dance;
he learning to lead, I
to follow signals – the art
is lost on us now, our steps
more interference, blocking
an inconvenience, not a
strategy; we are rhythmless
tolerating avoidances
How did language fail us
experts now at skirting
delicate issues, retreating
into solo performances
Pray time will serve,
absolve the problem, but
distance grows in silent cracks
we only converse in actions.
(Marital Dance first appeared here in August, 2017.
I submit it here, edited, for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: dance.
Image my own.)
Way forward
but a foggy trail
Who coined these
the Golden years?
Light a candle
will you…better yet
one for each year…
that should illuminate
something…
(Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 