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)
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up,
that adulthood, awash
with responsibility,
would also be lonely
And, no one told me
that the days and nights
of sweating over lessons
would likely not lead
to the life imagined
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies –
does not exist – the word itself
bearing more substance
than the act, fickle as it is
No one told me that
motherhood would change
my reality permanently,
colouring it with unfathomable
pain and joy – such juxtaposition
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for,
regardless of its justification,
is really a struggle with self –
inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age,
with seismic force,
would alter my perspective so –
leave me barren and yet enriched,
enthralled with the ordinary
and unfazed by the rest
And, in the end, as I watch
the vernal rains announce renewal,
in the quiet of my solitude, I am
amazed and grateful for all
that this crazy, driven life has become
and that no one ever told me.
(This is an edited version of a poem published in April, 2019. Art my own.)
In illness, I am passenger –
no matter how venturous
mind’s reach, the raw truth
is that limitations confine
This is not a sentence
for some perceived crime,
but a re-framing – attitude
shifting to acceptance
Choice becomes thoughtful –
time allows for that now –
and gratitude takes hold
in every corner of “I can”.
(Art my own)
This platform is shaky,
I must confess,
built of co-dependent aims
carnival life expectations.
Still a steady hand
and a weeping heart
good writing companions make
or, so I tell myself
You see, despite clever musings
I’m as guilty of denial as the next
and as far as clarity goes
I’ve been myopic forever
Guess, I’m trying to say
that without an audience
I’d be nothing – and so to you
this blogging community – gratitude.
(For Reena’s Exploration challenge: Writer’s platform/ reality; and Eugi’s Causerie Weekly Prompt: gratitude. Image my own.)
Be as trees, reaching
canopy of harmony,
gratitude implied.
(For RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Challenge: gratitude / harmony. Photo from personal collection.)
This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!
(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)
A letter came today –
an old-fashioned,
hand addressed,
post delivered,
greeting.
It’s the second
in two weeks –
simple messages
of encouragement,
heartfelt.
It’s from the same
angel that everyday
texts me a message –
a positive missive,
uplifting.
A letter came today,
and I felt ten years old,
special, remembered –
humbled by a simple act,
blessed.
A friend came by today,
had a rare day off –
thought of me –
offered her services,
selflessly.
Her confidence buoying,
we ventured out – pedi’s
then lunch – her quiet
offer of an elbow,
reassuring.
We talked about life –
grandchildren, husbands,
the state of the world,
and I felt normal,
alive.
A friend came by today –
and I was a kid again,
arm-in-arm with her bestie,
spontaneous and free,
cherished.
Friend, you guide
my brain-fogged,
somnambulist limbs –
like a mindless automaton;
I follow, barely registering
movement – grateful for
deliverance into the
fullness of day.
Once, I abhorred
your consistency,
your stifling repetition,
found your dependency
mind-numbing, soulless –
suffocated in your lack
of notoriety – called you
unremarkable.
Undaunted, you persist,
morally unbiased, life-
affirming, ignoring
lethargy’s blood-
sucking hold, lifting
me, comforting,
habitually reliable,
blessed routine.
I’ve been a grumpy lion,
lashing out in pain –
punctured shell smarting
by an objectionable barb.
I am a prideful feline,
with a formidable roar –
an offensive defense,
intended to intimidate.
Even so, you ventured near
and in a single act of good,
disarmed my furious outrage,
calmed this bellowing beast.
Like a mouse, you quietly,
with understated grace,
gestured with such kindness
I withdrew all complaint.
You restored my faith in beauty,
revived a nostalgic sense of bliss,
offered possibilities, sweet and
restorative; soothed my soul.
And not, I have noted, without
self-sacrifice on your part;
I am not so egocentric
to have missed the cross you bear.
Your gentle demeanour prevailing
over my abhorrent rant,
is a worth a million thank you’s
to a wounded-heart cat, like me.
My mother’s feet scream with the agony
of her miserable condition,
underlying the disease that eats at her.
My feet, uncallused paddles,
slightly bent and fallen,
carry on with forgiving kindness.
My husband’s knees are red-hot pokers
shooting knife-sharp volts
with every rickety step he takes.
Mine like knots in the spindly
trunks that bear them
graciously allot me flexibility.
My father’s back grew weak with time
faltering in the end – unreliable –
as if he’d borne the weight of the world.
My back, not without its moaning,
carries me proudly, erect –
like the spring sapling, winter endured.
My uncle’s heart beats erratically,
ceasing despite its mechanical support;
his life a testimony to modern science.
My heart flutters with expectancy,
aches with disappointment,
and soars with each new birdsong.
My sister’s tension rises,
the stiffness in her neck suffocating,
headaches blinding her vision.
My neck, slung now like a rooster,
puffs around my face like an old friend,
allowing me the comfort of perspective.
My brother’s mind has seized,
lost somewhere between today
and yesteryear – never certain of either.
Mine, a constant churning cog,
gathers information, spews ideas
and bends in the face of creativity.
My eyes have seen the suffering of others;
my hands throbbed with a desire to help;
yet each bears their cross stoically,
and so I watch with compassion and gratitude
for a life I might have lived,
had my own vessel not been so blessed.
One Woman's Quest 