Inside Out

We decry loss of innocence
whilst downplaying our sins

Not news.
Blame is a tricky game…

Better to practice accountability
than to capture the podium…

Changing the world
inside out.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)

Crusader’s Return

This exile –
self-imposed, I confess –
wears thin with age.

Too many winters
braving the cold –
heart’s frozen rebellion
against Father’s tireless raving,
Mother’s queenly submission.

So many moons
engaged in a crusade –
armed with but a hollow sword –
the chill of time lapsed,
irretrievable.

Castle lights are waning,
death lingers in the air,
and only now, on this fateful
periphery, do I wonder –
measure the rage against costs –
blame’s righteousness builds
only walls – faults corpses
rotting either side.

Empty-handed, I approach,
cowed by the enormity of task –
bearing no gifts, no legacy –
only a paltry offering
of forgiveness – pray
I am not too late.

(Image provided by Willow Poetry as her weekly challenge:  What Do You See?  Also linking up with Frank  at the dVerse pub, whose theme tonight is blame and forgiveness.  Ragtag Community’s prompt is fault.)

Disillusionment

Yesterday’s vibrancy
now faded markings
on boarded up facades

I stand on the edge
of loss, of ghostly
memories and ponder

what lies below –
perched as I am
on a precarious throne

have ignored the call
of the river, the beckoning
horizon, preferred comfort

over adventure, and now
in bitterness, blame those
distant shadows, certain

that the enemy lies
in foreign places,
never on home soil.

(Photo from personal collection was taken along the Rio Grande. Mexico sits across the way.  The town we stopped in had many abandoned buildings, reflective of the economy, my guess.)

Scorned Woman’s Rage

Before I jump into another man’s bed,
(especially one who has already cheated),
whisper my deepest yearnings to his
lusting heart, arch my hips to meet his
less than satisfactory thrust, I will make
sure that his compassion meets mine,
that he has the balls to prioritize, and
does not soften at crucial junctures.

I can look back at past follies, blame
hormonal rages, or beat myself over
shameless acts, but I am not the one
whose cojones, like deflated balloons,
lacked the wherewithal to differentiate
between brain and penis, and chose
to corrupt rather than protect the
sanctity of our children’s future.

Call it emasculation!  Call it female
wrath; accountability goes both ways,
and as long as we women are willing
to carry the burden of guilt, believe
messages shoved down our throats,
and submit to impossible ideation;
relationships will continue to crumble –
Stand up! Make a statement!  Be a man!