Tag: #dverse poets

Invisible Forces

What ideology is this –
the feminine clothed in conservatism,
carting creatures whose nature is wild –
are we to believe women, too, are tractable,
or that girls should aspire to control
their beastly selves, become pets
for mass consumerism?

Glances say it all –
the inability to face the authors
of this myth – subdued by shame,
powerlessness, or conditioned politeness –
do not be fooled; there is more to this story –
it may be invisible, we may all pretend
it does not exist, or downplay its significance –
but one day, rage will have its say.

(Written for the dVerse pub, hosted tonight by Merril, with the theme: invisible.  My poem is a reaction to the featured image, offered up as a prompt by Willow Poetry for her weekly challenge:  What Do You See?)

Rapture

It’s odd, this gift of solitude.  Perched beside the canal that runs behind our site, I affirm my connection to the earth, give thanks for this place and moment, and acknowledge that I am a part of all that surrounds me.   The late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way lighting up the mirror-still water with vibrant reflections.

Two winters ago, I was fighting to breathe as temperatures dropped below zero. Trapped inside my home by impassible walkways, I was desperately trying to stave off depression.  It’s hard to be hopeful when isolation is imposed.

“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now – how just when we think our sentence has been handed down and sealed, an opening appears.  I have been most fortunate.  I savour each moment this current state of solitude offers.

Heron’s watchful stride
invites reflection, respect –
winter’s solitude.

(Kim is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with solitude being the prompt for our haibun.)

Hungering

How can we speak of desire when needs, unmet
ravage our sense of survival – we’ll regret
this wanton display – flames subside but hunger
remains – the body’s priorities reset.

Perhaps it’s the soul that stirs when you are near –
Spirit longing to overcome mundane fear –
as if the intertwining of flesh equates
with mortal release – quick come to me, my dear.

(Written for dVerse poetics, where we are examining poetic forms.  This week, hosted by Frank, we are challenged to write a Rubaiyat.  To find out more, click on the link.)

Frost Bitten

Gnarly, these withered limbs,
this vessel more rigidity than flow,
winter upon me, a permanent clouding,
sunnier days passed – oh how vivid
the imagination when blue skies
met green grass, no hindrances

Old dreams hover, tethered to fences –
defences to camouflage vulnerability,
offences to keep my paths cleared

Find balance in isolation –
an old tree, past her prime –

Would cut loose this precarious
hold on all things fantastical,
but fear the act a harbinger –

So, I bide my days in this
frigid limbo, and hold on.

(Today’s poem is inspired by the image from Willow Poetry’s challenge:  What Do You See?  I am also linking up to dVerse’s pub night, where Sarah is hosting with the prompt: harbinger.  Ragtag Community provided balance, and Fandango’s word is tree.)

Role Models

When Scarsdale failed,
she resorted to corsets,
and girdles – trussed up
like a teabag –
sucked in her bits,
hair a touch too red,
nails forever chipping –
Dad’s disapproval a sour note –
watched as Mom steeped
in resentment, waited
for the boiling point.

(This quadrille is written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Mish, with the topic of steep.  I am also linking up to Ragtag Community – note; and Fandango’s – resort.)

Water Tales (2)

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.)

Lighting Call

Winter defines this stage,
this page, night descending
too early for my taste.

If I catch a falling star,
can I shed the excess
layers of this confinement

Follow animal impulses
to a sunnier clime, restore
exuberance of noble youth?

Passion persists, intelligence
in tact, just need a brighter
angle from which to reveal it.

(Lillian is hosting dVerse poetics tonight with the prompt: shed.  I am also linking up to Willow Poetry’s “What Do You See?” challenge: photo prompt; and Ragtag Community: angle; as well as Fandango’s: noble.)

 

Soul Stalker

Downy blankets of white softly settle,
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:  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.

(Soul Stalker first appeared here in January of 2016.  I am submitting it for dVerse’s prompt: Confessional poetry, hosted by HA.)

Darn Finances

Money –
that vital ingredient –
threatens to rebuke us,
these haphazard habits
equating to negligence.

Investments –
retirement’s foundation –
falter, then plunge,
a mini crisis hitting
too close to home.

Change –
prodded by re-evaluation –
commands control,
scoffs at ideal’s naiveté,
imperfection highlighted.

(Written for dVerse’s quadrille night, hosted by Whimsygizmo, whose prompt is change.  All submitting to Ragtag Community’s, vital; Fandago’s, rebuke; and Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt, imperfection.)

The Last Train (Sonnet)

We wait at the station, Mother and I,
one final stop for her – painless she prays;
I linger at bedside – prolonged goodbye –
memories and regrets filling our days.

“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims,
“Why must suffering linger till the end?”
I plea and bargain, call angelic names,
yet the will to survive refuses to bend.

The urgency builds as my time dwindles;
must I leave her in this compromised state?
She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles
dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.

Some destinations are clearly defined –
death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.

(Penned for dVerse’s poetry forms – the sonnet.)