Compare every love to first
unrequited – a poetess
obsessed – regret, longing
No wonder I lack roots
goodbyes stack up
like cardboard mannequins
There is no presence in yearning
I am automaton, disengaged
heart chained to fantasy.
(Image my own.)
Tag: fantasy
Fantasy
If I appear to function,
it is testament to adaptability –
I am socially awkward,
with a side of dreamer –
wandering, spinning,
need someone to bring me back –
not adverse to fairytale kisses
or happily-ever-afters –
please, somebody beam me up,
set me down where life is
a festival – music, costumes,
the joyous sensation of belonging.
Breeding Paranoia
Manufacture fresh starts –
build bridges across the abyss,
stay afloat,
imagining –
mythical passages,
fantastical places,
magic of wizardry
just keep the foes submerged,
act carefully,
the house
is under surveillance,
observers
quietly learning.
When Fantasy Usurps Reality
Vacationing, she says, is vital –
wants her children to experience
game-packed adventure, excess
non-stop fun – anything to evade
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Dreams of the spotlight of celebrity,
wealth, she thinks, would be freeing,
they’d buy location, nest in opulence,
court sanity, breakthrough the pain
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Fame, temporary as the aurora borealis,
blinds her – cannot bear the inclusiveness
of normalcy, offspring bursting their halos,
unknowns tied to origin – escape is hope
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
She is tired of small talk, of exaggerated
tales of children’s exploits readily falling
off mothers’ tongues, women whose
vibrancy depends on husbands’ return
this place, this longing, this subterfuge
Considers herself a non-resident,
a temporary guest, consumed,
questioning – views the contest
as overly manipulated, is lost in
this place, this longing, this subterfuge.
(Image: findingjackie.com)
Love, Like Shoes
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
Hide(me)away
I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.
Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.
A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.
Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me – I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.
One Woman's Quest 