Heavy Autumn sky cover
mirroring an internal gloom
I own this fight; this darkness
the trail is mine alone
Woodpecker’s drumming
fails to distract; I am submersed
Till sunlight pierces the veil
an unmistakeable allure
Gratitude, I am reminded,
always at the ready.
(Image my own)
Nestled in with childhood truths –
secondhand
perspective missing
Nursing a creeping creativity –
insignificant lucidity expanding
measurably hurried
Once social, now retreating
papered over failure
have fallen
frigid waves infiltrating
chronically pained
over and over
contemplating flight
freedom
Voiceless
expressionless
flat
even revelation muted
unmoving
protective boundaries
discussed
now crumbling
underestimated the struggle
the pervasiveness
Consider a militant approach
strident restrictions
nullifying passions
but I am a weaver
open to uncovering
blessings in failure,
compensated by soaring –
grounded yet questing
unsettled
disease is not a repellent for the mind
conjures movement in the sedentary
creatures born of defensiveness
I am motivated to find renewal
dank, moist, lacking flame
in this explosive personal nest.
(Written during my bedbound days, 2017. Edited for this edition. Image my own)
These hovering lows
how does one escape the pull?
Defensiveness a useless tool
I cannot read intentions
I self-animate
a contrived endeavour
Shine reduced
I am humbled
off colour
Grief, on repeat
I want to disappear
like Peter Pan
childlike, armed
with illustrious fantasies
Could this be metamorphosis –
A paralytic calm
a spell-binding ponder
cracking righteousness
till clarity fades the gray
Oh, how I pray it is
the light of love
chiseling a new path
(Inked sketch my own)
Situational –
term used to describe
this current state –
illness a thief
perpetuates the crime –
loss cavernous
depression real
and still,
Spirit roars.
Skies draw me –
the allure of wings
the inference of escape
Not afraid to dream –
imagination fully engaged
willingness set on go
Till darkness encroaches –
a black line blotting
periphery
Imperfection an ugly
critique – self flails
doubt becomes certainty
Wrench my perspective
away from the gloom
need to crop the image.
(Inspired by the promptings of Reena’s Exploration challenge:Â addiction or depression; and Bushboys: Last on card April 3.)
Pity is a feathered thing,
perches high above my bed,
feeds off flakes of moulting skin,
devouring the essence of me,
till bone rattling with distraught,
I scare it off.
(Poem from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Please let me preface with a confession –
I am not familiar with your work.
It is not oversight on my part, rather
a deliberate avoidance – you see,
I too have faced the brand of madness
that drove you to your death, have
feared that any intimacy we might share
would stir my own apprehensions.
Indeed, I understand all too well
the presence of walls,
have believed in the power of sky,
the promise of green, found faith in angels –
nature my solace – realized too young
that the sun’s brilliance, that my brilliance
cannot be sustained by the innocence of white –
bleeds at the fate of indifferent stars.
I understand how gray seeps in,
tears away at the illusions,
entraps us –
how the past stalks, spirals
threatens to suck us in, and how
having lost my own connection to birds and trees,
wonderment sours.
It is the fate of women
born into patriarchal times,
that the blood of our menses
should colour our fists –
our fury as potent as a paper bag –
how can we not feel terror
when we worship a God
whose religion disparages our gender?
I have faced the inevitability of black –
what once brought solace having lost
its definition, unidentifiable –
have faced mortality, the cold blank
stares of death still haunting –
I am the one who has passed you by –
afraid to linger too long in your words,
have woefully overlooked
the merit of a sympathetic read.
(Today’s prompt is to write a response to a poem by Sylvia Plath.)
Hope glitters
like rays of golden
sunlight piercing
the thick overgrowth
of my life.
Dare I respond
or is it just the
sharp deflection
of light on tinfoil
meant to keep
the scavengers away?
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
when the light of day has faded,
and the noise of life subsided,
and all the world is slumbering.
Then my heart beats with a single
lone drum, a heaviness weighing
on me, chest punctured with grief,
distractions losing their hold.
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
a deep-seated darkness, void of
hope, the deafening echo of unshed
tears, the brutality of solitude.
When all have surrendered to dreams,
my soul – tired of the daily effort to be
courageous, to smile when I want to
rage, to protect my beloveds – weeps.
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
the grief of knowing that this defective
existence is too much for others to
bear, whose hearts have glazed over,
who will me to wellness, shake
their heads, and spew frustration,
as if I am somehow an accomplice
in this state of vile stagnation,
There is sorrow in the nighttime,
when questions rob me of sleep,
and the passage of time fails to
ease the injustice of so much loss.
And while acceptance is the best
progress, and I know that faith
will sustain me, they are fickle
companions when the sun sets.
There is sorrow in the nighttime
a restless amalgamation of so
much emotional angst, with no
shelter for relief…
Downy blankets of white settle softly,
Nature gratefully submitting to slumber
as the Earth bids a seasonal adieu.
Inside, my body craving hibernation
curls into layered bedding, draws shades
against the snowy scene, wills respite.
My soul, a cat, lulled by the miracle
stretches wide paws, arches, ready
to discover some mystic wilderness.
She is primordial, a snow leopard,
camouflaged, elusive, a silent stalker
instinctively hungry for nourishment.
Weakened, I yield, certain she will prey
on this near lifeless flesh, leaving me
bloodless, hide-less:Â a mere carcass.
Then I shall lay down in the frigid warmth
of winter’s illusion and surrender rotting
self to the Earth’s core; pray for rebirth.
One Woman's Quest 