Says the Bird

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)

Stolen Identity

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)

Martyr’s Lament

I wake before dawn,
drive through blinding snowstorms,
if lost, alter course – without faltering –
even set out on foot when driving
becomes impossible, navigating
treacherous snow and ice, for you

So you can get where you need to be
So you can succeed
I risk it all for you

I keep you by my side
so that you will be safe
so that I can ensure your arrival

But, I grow weary, and my body
won’t go on, and all I ask for
is that we rest awhile,
so that I can catch my breath

And in that instance, you are gone –
no hesitation in your step, no looking back –
and when you finally stop to wait for me
it is too late…

A barrier has grown between us:
like an eight-foot, chain-link fence
separating me from protecting you

And you look at me with that glare
of exasperation that says:
“I should have done it on my own.”

Wait! Wait, I say.
This wall may seem insurmountable
but I can do it. I can do it; give me time.
I’ll just climb to the top.
It’ll be easy; you’ll see!

Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance
to prove my love. I do it all for you.

(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014.
This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)

Survival of the Wittiest

Father demanded first slice of pie
doled out with high brow perfection
anything less unacceptable

Crumbly bits unleashed a tirade
the shame of incompetence
crushing the reluctant server

Oppressed as we were
we children plotted,
sought a suitable revenge

He got his just dessert
cherry with a subtle trace –
scent of satisfaction.

(Note: no parents were killed in the writing of this poem. Image my own.)

Religious Calling

Armed with righteous conformity
the zealots rang my bell

Came calling on a cleaning day,
in that remote country hell

Spotted me before I did them
my attention on wringing the mop

No choice but to answer
and before I could ask them to stop

Carefully scripted narrative
tumbled from pious lips

Bemused, I noted neither blink
as I, stark naked, stood hands on hips.

(Image my own)