Two decades before the fall
I dreamt of that white house with black shutters, entered the dimness and saw myself – withered, a straw body
Could I have altered the course
gathered that mummified self in my arms, breathed new passion into old bones, stopped the onslaught of night of cells freezing passionless
I walked in oblivion seduced by false trickery dim-witted in the fading light cold, aloof, unresponsive warnings be damned
Two decades later,
body inert, mind bereft of hope – I dreamt of a younger self so intent on life that she passed me by.
Rainbows and wishes
wings we give daughters
Little girl dreams destined
to hit walls – shortsighted
these laws of oppression –
for sweetness of youth does not equate with folly
Women are warriors,
our rage underestimated.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
As night falls, the sun
serenades my soul – Beauty wraps my heart in somnolent ecstacy paints my mood with shades of love
reality out of focus –
imagination floats, full sail into a dreamy mist, delightful course, a symphony of hues coaxing welcome slumber.
A simple shoebox, repurposed
with plastered images of dreams – paper affirmations of aspirations – shelved and forgotten, its contents
snapshots, faded and torn, remnants
of another time, a different future – captured when potential was prime and possibility untainted by illness
This one was retirement – a supposed
celebration – but note how the colour has drained the cracks obliterating pride of accomplishment; and notice
how this one crumbles to the touch –
the fragments dissipating even as my life has dissipated, the image lost before memory resurfaces, so much loss when circumstance dictates direction, overpowers will, and plans like snowflakes, vanish in the heat of reality – pain and insult burning
But wait…this one looks promising –
the edges only slightly torn, the image discernible – could it be that there is hope yet – a future author I might be?
That’s the thing about times to come,
we fill them with imaginings, and pray, our hope, like balloons set free in a sea of unforeseen challenges, and seldom
does the end result reflect projected
plotting, and yet, there is power in the dreaming, and so I’ll replace the old with new photographs to store away.
(This is a rerun of a rerun. Still resonates. Image my own)
What is this ocean,
Blue upon blue
tiny crisp white sails the only demarcation between sky and water
a lulling swell and I as witness
What is this ocean
that calls to me?
(Image my own)
While ego slumbers
we slip the confines of earthly limitation
abundance of ideas, souls reaching
with insatiable glee
no longer hindered by societal gaze
we bathe in otherness
naked and alive, till dawn shutters dreams.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. 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)
I chase dreams
never daring to rise beyond the water line
keeping to the reeds
and shoreline of familiarity afraid of being shot down
Afraid that dreams aren’t mine
to claim, that I am damned doubled cursed as woman and child of sin
I will fall often
drown in pools of stagnation till one days these wings
A mind of their own
will lift me up and catch those dreams.
(Afraid To Fly appeared here June 2019.
Art my own)
parallell linear mindset
Ego-less forays into
magical mysteries – answers secondary
Float in ecstatic
ethereal landscapes kaleidoscopic hues
a mad whirlwind of oneness convening in momentary flash
The portal’s open
step aboard – ensure your ticket is round trip.
(For Eugi’s Weekly prompt:
magic. This is a rewrite of a poem formerly titled: Meet You At The Station. Art my own.)
into the mythical entranced spurred by severity of current challenge
Call it fantasy
but attempting movement is destroying my passage
I am pulling,
shattering this barricade of a life; blue progressing: ocean bound.
was originally written in December of 2016, two years bedridden. Only in the dreamtime was I whole and capable of overcoming. Dreams are one thing I can talk about for thirty minutes without preparation: my Mermaid Dreams challenge this week. Image my own.)