creativity · Family · Humour · poetry · relationships · writing

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.)

culture · poetry · spirituality · writing

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.)

aging · creativity · culture · poetry · writing

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.)

 

adversity · aging · creativity · disability · poetry · writing

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.)

change · creativity · life · poetry · writing

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.)

aging · Family · health · poetry · writing

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.)

Family · life · Love · poetry · relationships · writing

January’s Frost

As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis.  Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.

Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,

crave a touch of warmth.

(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight.  I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)