Strawberries ripen, their scarlet-red sweetness staining the cheeks of students whose bodies, unripened, rail against the conformity of stiff backed chairs and bolted down desks. Spring has dared to don the cloak of summer – green emboldened fields trampling over delicate beginnings; and we are splash pad, motorcycle revving, boom box crazy, ready to plunge into the swelter, restless.
Strawberries ripen
Spring’s sweet offerings foretell –
Summer games begin.
(Image my own)
Searching for the alchemy
to transform this chaos –
Do they understand depravity,
those who dwell in exurbs,
blinded by their own opulence?
Children are dying, pawns
in a political sham – I know
we’re tired, but now is not
the time to sleep.
(Art my own)
Stretchers and body bags
Men in fire suits
stepping over the debris
their load light, macabre
Images charred into my psyche –
four cousins dead
the eldest ten
It was 1968
Now, we stand at an adjacent grave
the children’s headstone an open book –
frozen in time – so many chapters unwritten-
the grief has not lessened
We’ve gathered to bury an uncle
youngest of ten –
only one remains –
the children’s father
At 95, he chokes on words
points to his children in the ground –
Those are my kids! he croaks
although we didn’t need the reminder
Tragedy lingers in the heart
in the mind
in the collective consciousness
I turn on the news –
tiny body bags
on stretchers
carefully removed
from the debris
Tragedy: a forever thread
in the tapestry of life.
(Image my own)
A nine-year-old skips
along the centre line
of an abandoned street
imagination empowered
by sunshine blue skies
Till the low rumble
of aircraft startles her
and she runs for cover
praying to an absent God
to take her now, young
heart too bruised to carry on.
A fifteen-year-old huddles
in a dank underground corner
already violated by a war
she did not ask for,
shamed by her body’s betrayal
praying for a death more forgiving
A mother holds her baby close
tremors such an indelible part of life now
grasps for a God she once believed in
sees the vacancy in adolescent eyes
the joylessness of her weeping child
prays for a way out of this hell.
Searching for the alchemy
to transform this chaos –
Do they understand depravity,
those who dwell in exurbs,
blinded by their own opulence?
Children are dying, pawns
in a political sham – I know
we’re tired, but now is not
the time to sleep.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image mine)
Every child bears the spark
of eternity’s promise…
Where’s the threat in that?
What mechanism of hate
equates slaughter
of innocents with justice?
This is society’s bane –
the unconscionable policies
of greed lacking accountability
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Child
delightful youth
my heart’s jewel
light-bearer
hope
antics haphazard
laughter contagious
spreading joy
sparking imagination
I pray that your spirit
remains vibrant, and
that reality dawns gently
(This poem first appeared in November 2018, as A Child Glows. I submit an edited and re-titled version here for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: jewels. Image my own.)
Teeth they are a-dropping
grins prideful
palms itching
Hope the Tooth Fairy
is on her game
purse full of toonies.
(for Eugi’s Causerie Weekly prompt: fairy . Photo from personal collection. Note: a toonie is a $2 coin in Canada.)
Sold my soul for union –
destruction built-in
Narcissism is a bastard
luxuriates in self-catering
Did not anticipate loss –
innocence slaughtered
Force to grow sensibility
don a tough shell –
Would not let betrayal
call me by name.
It was not meandering
that shredded my heart
but the loss of a child
caught in the crossfire
too young to discern
parental alienation.
(Image from personal collection.)
Lead the children to the waters’ edge,
let spirits that dwell there enchant,
sun glistening on star-filled eyes…..
teach the essence of dolphin breathing,
the presence of manna, how to question
roots and behold miracles of fish that fly
and colours that shimmer below the surface,
and sons that walk on water – there are stories
to be told by tides, whose rhythmic waves
follow a primal chant; the ocean’s whispers
reminders that survival is a game for the living
and that in death all return to its vast depths.
(Water Tales first appeared here in January 2017.  I am submitting it here for dVerse’s Open Link Night hosted by Grace.  I am also linking up with my weekly challenge: stillness.)
One Woman's Quest 