No more than fringe,
dangling in the aftermath,
waiting to unravel,
too numb to tighten bonds.
Despondent.
Will you take my hand,
offer compassion,
listen with me
to the discordant silence,
be my faith?
(Written for Sammi Cox Weekend Writing Prompt: fringe)
Loneliness –
abandoned and rejected,
grieves unrestrained,
then hesitantly,
willingly,
opens to possibility,
discovering hope,
connection,
in solitude –
not alone
in solitude
connection
discovers hope,
opens to possibility,
hesitantly,
then willingly,
grief releases,
abandons and rejects
loneliness.
(Frank Hubeny is the host tonight for the dVerse Pub, and he challenges to write a reverse poem. Â I found this one in my archives (2015) and with a little tweaking, I think it work.)
Yesterday’s vibrancy
now faded markings
on boarded up facades
I stand on the edge
of loss, of ghostly
memories and ponder
what lies below –
perched as I am
on a precarious throne
have ignored the call
of the river, the beckoning
horizon, preferred comfort
over adventure, and now
in bitterness, blame those
distant shadows, certain
that the enemy lies
in foreign places,
never on home soil.
(Photo from personal collection was taken along the Rio Grande. Mexico sits across the way. Â The town we stopped in had many abandoned buildings, reflective of the economy, my guess.)
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.
(Originally penned for National Poetry month, I am repurposing this poem here for Daily Addictions prompt: generate, Fandango’s: captured, and Ragtag Community’s: reduce.)
A dear soul slipped from life’s grasp this week, leaving a hole in many hearts. Diana’s words, here, say so much more than I could have, still raw with grief.
so frail now
your fingertips in mine
supported gently
parchment paper skin
venous rivers slow, tepid within
..
as the sand slowly sifts
i squeeze
i try to halt the final grains, yet
this maudlin hourglass only drains
to somber clock tick
sentry gated soldiered seconds fall
the war is over
all is lost
that is all
..
a last dawn
this last day
as curtains part
your light slips away
Have you seen her –
the child we lost,
the one who lost herself?
born to a sister
breasts not yet ripe
for motherhood’s call
a passenger
on a perilous ride,
sweetness eclipsed
by a cacophony
of raised voices
the wails of women
helplessly trapped
a smothering drama;
how easily she escaped
slipped from our clutches
found comfort in the streets
preferred coldness of strangers
to the raging fires at home;
lost her to the lure of parties,
an elixir for the empty places,
found her once amongst
the debris of discarded needles
and the haze of sexual reek
the golden halo of youth
now matted clumps of shame
her beauty sunken in shadows
we’d taught her well, it seems –
the art of submission, how to
betray the self, embrace defeat
tried to pick her up, create
a milieu of normalcy, establish
homelike roots, but shams
do not last and she ran again
the echo of her absence a hole
ringing in our hearts, we are
guilt-ridden, apologetic, fear
the power of our inadequacy;
try to forget, justify, cringe
for the child we lost,
the one that got away,
the one that lost herself.
(Image: alwayslonliness.blogspot.com)
A year ago, my husband was in hospital, having suffered a heart attack and awaiting bypass surgery. I wrote this in his absence. ( Image from http://www.meredithtowbin.com)
Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
(Note: I am revisiting old posts, trashing the unimpressive, and where possible, editing. This is an edited version of an earlier poem. Visit the original here.)
Pervasive fragility
blindsides – reduced
to stretched and torn
fibers – I teeter, mind
obsessed, overwhelmed
I am weeping…and not,
frustrated by impossibility
unwilling to face loss –
cannot let go – life passes
regards me with disgust/
indifference/ repulsion,
I am dispensable, invalid
raw, enraged, strength
obliterated, courage gone,
just a soul, stripped of life
craving meaningful existence.
Next door dwells perfection,
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
exuding confident pride.
My house, marked by overgrown
vines, chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows they’ll be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.
Life has schooled detachment,
lessons in loss counsel protection.
better to guard than invest; how
can they be so reckless, do they
not know that all is for naught?
(Image from Pinterest)
Pampered, socially supported
education would have been preferable
but I don’t belong to the elite,
and this malaise disrupts
any hope for success.
Learn best in the trenches,
dragged-out combat over hobnobbing
– can relate to the broken,
other-abled, survivors who thrive
despite challenges.
Know a man, who without
speech or behavioural norms,
moves others – inspires
(trapped as he is) love
and forgiveness.
Have loved others, projected
goodness into selfishness, been
betrayed, watched friendships grow
where mine was cut off –
bore the burden of blame,
still I will share myself –
adverse to saying no –
in restlessness, seeking others,
when I should be nurturing self –
Who’s really at fault here?
A mother, once faced with immeasurable
tribulations, never giving up –
is not to be found, cut down
by illness, misfortune having culled
her optimism, her enthusiasm –
What is there to do now?
I kick aside the ashes of former
identities, contemplate the meaning
of failure, the loss of ambition
this locked out alienation:
Is it hurt, I feel…
abandonment…guilt…shame?
Absence of former friends
echoes in the empty cliffs of
rejection…questioning
all that has been –
do they feel it too, or
is it merely personal mire?
What choice is there
but to embrace this solo journey?
miscalculated distances,
energy deficit, and yet,
I continue…until straight
and narrow meets clover leafs
and learning dawns –
paths cross over, crisscross;
life is about movement
and choices, and change
and endless possibilities –
there is no going back.
(Image: alone-alone-alone.blogspot.com)
One Woman's Quest 