Oh, the fluidity
Of childhood days
Splashing and skipping along
The path meandering, directionless
When does life acquire edges
Doors and hallways hindering?
Led by asphalt and time clocks
Obligations too numerous to count.
My own body has become a cell
Movement stiffened, mind rigid
It’s those childhood memories
Soul ingrained, keep me fluid. Â
(Image my own)
“Brazen’s a hussy!”
heard herself say,
as bullies circled on
playground that day
“You’re a sissy!”
the sass came back,
launched herself –
a full-on attack
Pinned the biggest
to gritty concrete floor
“You’re weird!” cried the cowards
who bothered her no more.
(Originally written for Twitter. Image my own)
Favourite colour?
Black, says she
without hesitation
I falter, stumble,
mind reaching –
who likes black?
Is that a colour?
It’s all colours!
She’s nonchalant
intent on task –
carefully keeping
within the lines
Of course it is...
ill equipped am I
to disagree, images
of dark somber
corners, sorrow
and death crows –
Why black? ask I,
composure forced –
had anticipated pink
equate childhood
with primary shades,
splotches of yellow
and rainbow skies,
candy red apples
on lollipop trees
But black? No –
black obliterates,
negates, destroys
It holds the colour
inside, she explains.
It’s the outline.
Not annihilation –
order; her mind
conceives of order
So much to learn
from innocence,
have long forgotten
the art of staying
within lines, finding
good in all things.
(Colouring Lessons first appeared here June, 2017. Image my own)
Snapdragons transport me
back to Father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate floral lips
Forbidden, was I
tiny feet banished from
tiers of ordered colours –
how he worshipped those rows
Hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer… attention
lavished on nurturing growth
while I shrivelled on sidelines
Longed to dig beside him,
sully my hands and share
his passion, ignorant of
an inner drive to weed
Felt only walls of separation
the coldness of perfection,
so in my wilful way,
I rebelled against taboos
On tiptoe, stepped between
the bobbing arrangements
marred the well-tended soil
and pinched the snapdragons.
(Snapdragons first appeared here in March, 2018. Edited for this edition. Art my own)
Anxiety burns
an acidic devouring
confidence impaled –
mind wanders to childhood dreams
uncovers fear’s origin.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. I came across this tanka written in May/21 that seemed to match with the image I recently posted on my other blog. I decided to pair them here.)
It wasn’t the knowledge of stability –
chaos had the upper hand back then.
It wasn’t even that love was expressed –
unconditional an unheard of concept
It was an unspoken presence
the reassurance of rocks
the irrepressible allure
of a freshwater stream
How a child’s heart
found encouragement
in the whispering wind
solace in the arbored shelter
Naturally the din of home life
overpowered this self-assured
passage, disrupted kinship
and shattered childish faith
But all that is behind now
and when I clear cluttering
thoughts, disperse static
emotions, quiet the heart
The rhythms are still there –
presence offering sustenance…
(Poem first appeared here, January, 2021. Image my own)
Physical distance
no remedy for dark past
those childhood bruises
etched on old bones – solid as
the house that bore them witness.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Too many bodies
encroach on peace;
I lack boundaries,
the self-worth
required to assert
needs – dwell
in basements,
mind cluttered,
external noise
obliterating me
Backdoor provides
escape, backyard,
back gate…
…freedom
I disappear
into the quiet
of the wild:
wooded sanctuary,
flowing water,
watchful eyes
of birds overhead
Here, I define self.
(Image my own)
Not programmed to comply –
cannot tolerate oppression:
a pressure cooker
ready to explode
Do-gooders sit up
straight and smile
encouragement:
I slouch defiance
Don’t ask me to respect
that which is disrespectful –
my fuse is short
of that I’m certain
Don’t slot me;
leave me –
creative inspiration
is not lacking here
I’m a free agent
a incorrigible scamp –
authority doesn’t scare me
’cause I’m beyond control.
(That Kid, first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, June 2017. Found poem here. Image my own)
The place remains in my dreams
like a movie set preserved…
Have assigned each room
a critique – disclosed the crimes
Yet, it remains, like a beacon
draws me to it, begs reflection
What if I could go back
now that I can breathe
Now that I’ve laid claim to maturity;
would I discover a sudden windfall?
Makeover conditioned motifs;
reevaluate ceiling heights?
With resources to remodel
heart open, connected
might I uncover abundance
like a personal embrace.
(Childhood Home first appeared May, 2020. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 