aging – Page 5 – One Woman's Quest

Even Ghosts Yearn

Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious, inviting.

Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr, not mythical
but yielding, mindful;
not worshipful nor boastful,
but comforting, warm

I am waning light,
the mistral wind wafting,
no longer a force of nature –
but smoke, spiralling,
vanishing into non-existence

And yet, even as shadows
spread, I yearn –
heart beating true,
not lost, not forgotten,
but withdrawn, humbled

passion mellowed
by toil of constructing walls –
grit and tar – scar’s long buried,
save the limping gait
of a ghost.

(Poem first appeared here July, 2018. I am resubmitting for Ragtag Community’s prompt: humble. Image from personal collection.)

Losing Touch

Sure-footed
she navigates
forest floor

leaps over
obstacles,
scales inclines

knows each
nook and cranny
every sound
a greeting

but seasons pass
and time erodes
landscapes
and senses
lose sharpness

the nuances
of the woods
fading memory

the wind’s whispers
elusive signals
inner nymph silenced.

(For Ragtag Community’s Daily Prompt: elusive. Image from personal collection.)

Grandmother Vase

Pot-bellied,
am I:
misshapen by age
and gravity – more
rot than plump ripe pear –
still, a vessel for love –
grandmotherly
vase.

(Image from personal collection)

Lingering Laughter

Grateful for the wilder times,
days when daring ruled –
amassed fodder for stories,
harmless antics eliciting
laughter – ever more sweet
as body fails, nothing left
but to reminisce.

(Twitter Tales. Visit me @Vjknutson.)

Love Matured

Words are leaves,
poignantly bold
when sprouted,
destined to wither
lose their hold –

thank goodness
our love is a trunk,
solidly rooted, steadfast –
no need for words.

Losing Ground

In corners, I scrounge –
resilience fading;
hope, it seems, is sleeping.

Living a quarter life,
even ascents depressed;
dubious that alternatives
are worthwhile.

Walls would suffice –
once dreamt of co-habitating
with abundance,
now housed with constraints.

Age losing preferences,
counting worries either way.

Sky-Suited

Do fiddle together, they say,
as if man lust were in want

when his smooth, cool music
fingers my girly drives
are I ugly – not gorgeous?

Some waxy, like rust,
saying one of thousand

not sad, but like rain
are sky-suited.

(Fridays are Magnetic Poetry day. Play online. Image from personal collection.)

Sexy Sailed

Born brilliant,
and good looking,
he had me dancing,
fevered –
red cat woman,
I am porcelain,
prisoner,
cup fishing,
long to explore
dark words –
do not ask though –
sexy sailed –
ate godless
byes.

(It’s Magnetic Poetry Friday.)

Do

Ancient song of Eden, our nature,
as above – light to watch for –

my summer, withering,
her insect breeze vined

would come there and have
harmony – beautifully fresh

in prairie lake,
air vivid.

(Fridays are for Magnetic Poetry. Play along online.)

Lighting Call

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
in tact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.

(Lillian is hosting dVerse poetics tonight with the prompt: shed. I am also linking up to Willow Poetry’s “What Do You See?” challenge: photo prompt; and Ragtag Community: angle; as well as Fandango’s: noble.)