The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once-vital, now oppressed
miss, whose identification
was stolen by means of
unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective
that not only restores, but
aids in the teaching of other
shadow-selves, that to reassert
original nature is more than fair.
(I’ve stolen Stolen Identity from an earlier post. Art my own)
The pot simmering on the stove
really should be boiling, but
baby needs changing, and
He-who-is-charged-
with-watching-the-children
is asleep in his chair…
Where to lay the infant –
her soiled and sodden diaper
threatening its own release –
when her siblings
have dragged all the bedding –
fort-intended, now abandoned
under foot?
Turkey is in the oven
legs trussed, flesh
buttered and salted…
Baby’s skin is red
her squirming legs
noncompliant
Dog offers his presence
curious nose intervening…
I leave the wriggling bundle
to dispose of offending nappy –
images of dog mouthing contents
beyond current capacity
Children’s giggles signal
misadventure, as bath water
spills into the room,
husband stirring,
“Smells good!” says he
pushing buttons
on the TV remote
Ankle deep in water
contents of pot now burning,
awareness dawns –
the forgotten baby
is now missing…
madness achieved.
(Another dream inspired nonsensical poem. Image my own)
Mama says wear red shoes
Gives a woman power
But I wobble and stumble
six inches makes me tower
So I trade in my stilettos
for a crimson pair of docs
and much to Ma’s dismay
some days I don crocs
It’s not the shoes that determine might
I tell her, but the soul in the fight.
(Photo: Mom and red accessories – shoes no doubt match. She is posing with her baby brother.)
I am crow
perched high
observant
obscure
I am crow
loudly proclaiming
righteously incensed
a warning
I am crow
one-eyed, head-cocked
mystery, confronting
pompous pretense
I am crow
foolishly singular
ignorantly insulting
I eat myself.
(Image mine)
My to-do lists have grown appendages
are teaming up in a huddle
plotting their next play
Wait a minute, Guys! I plead
the afternoon sun has caught me
at just the right angle,
and my chair,
with a mind of its own,
is reclining…
Can’t we save the game day antics
for another time…
(Image my own)
Rear-ended
by proverbial truck
Unexpectedly, I claim
denying accountability
Sure, I took chances
crossed the line
Rebelliously ignored
limits, road signs
Driven by compassion
open-doored willingness
Saw the danger too late
swerving only mitigated damage
Humiliated by the impact
reckless ego smarting.
(image my own)
You misconceive the calling,
says bird in bush –
troubled times
call for comfort
not derailment
of humanity –
petty, bickering
without soul –
I may be bird-brained
but human sense
has the consistency
of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The eight of cups –
an octopus balancing
multi-tasks; I juggle
fog, attempt
to calibrate logistics
but instincts
are dull-edged,
my tentacles lacking
suction – will slither
back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Sky gallery –
anything but banal –
recalls innocence
Geese attempt
an instinctual dance
(few will actually migrate)
Cheers this aging mind,
also prone to redundant acts –
sexagenarian fun.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The woman currently abiding
within this costumed realm
is merely a lethargic version
of the once vital but oppressed
Miss, whose identification
was stolen by means of
unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting
is to invite a perspective
that not only restores, but
aids in the teaching of other
shadow-selves, that to reassert
original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge: a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
One Woman's Quest 