Silently, I follow
novice heart absent
Who can maneuver
the breathless streams
attempt a spiritual viewpoint
while continuously overwhelmed?
Urgently in need of a breakthrough
I am done, outdated
Summer’s passage conceded
this soul requires triage
An experience of caring
that does not resemble a demand for more.
(Image my own)
Sloth-like she shuffles
each stride an argument
against unwilling muscles,
ignores spasms, lips pursed
in concentration, advances
Cockeyed he totters,
step…hop…step, poker-hot
stabs punctuating his effort
moves swiftly as if to out run
pain, face set in determination
They are out of sync, oddball
awkward sightseers, obstacles
for the fast-moving able-bodies
that whir past unable to fathom
motivation in crooked spines.
The race here is against time,
propelled by insatiable thirst,
they forage for snippets worthy
of hoarding, squirrels readying
for winter’s harsh call, days
when minds still alert will hunger
despite bodies inert, they will
dine on memory, boast about
the daring, reminisce fondly
over adventures hard won.
(A portrait of aging, first published in 2017. 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.
(Come Closer first appeared September, 2022. Image my own)
Was it neglect
that rendered us
so useless?
joints collapsing,
minds scattering
movement minimal…
That which we no longer tend to
loses lustre – less profit to reap
When we store our dreams in corners –
time usurping promises,
visions asleep –
the fallout is too steep
Cherishment is what is needed
for self, for hopes, for all life.
(Image my own)
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception,
once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred,
colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives
old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty
sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls
defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me
fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back
old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens
of my own making, distorted but secure.
(Image my own)
Gnarly, these withered limbs,
this vessel more rigidity than flow,
Winter upon me – a permanent clouding
Sunnier days passed –
oh how vivid the imagination
when blue skies met green grass,
no hindrances
Old dreams hover, tethered to fences –
defences to camouflage vulnerability,
offences to keep my paths cleared
Find balance in isolation –
an old tree, past her prime
Would cut loose this precarious hold
on all things fantastical, but
fear the act a harbinger
So, I bide my days
in this frigid limbo,
and hold on.
(Originally appeared January, 2019. Image my own)
Thank you so much to braveandrecklessblog.com for inspiring and featuring my poem: The Salt Grows Heavy. The challenge was to write a poem based on NPR’s Books We Love list.
Click here to read the poem.
Idleness fills his hours
as if time knows no limits
I devour moments, afraid
tomorrow will forget me
We see-saw between
treacherous righteousness
and fusty avoidance
Ignoring balance –
the sensible response.
(Written in 2019, I chuckle that little has changed. Image my own)
Time hinders
ability,
dictates new
cautions…
It doesn’t mean
we give up;
we just store
possibility
in tucked away
spaces –
as reminders
(Reminders first appeared here August 2018. Image my own)
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)
