Passion for writing ignites my soul's momentum
This confined life –
carefully construed –
ingrains order,
commands discipline.
I can free myself
from urbanity,
declare adventure
as prerogative, but
how long before
I release the need
for control, unburden
internal restraints
let go, and open
to divine rhythms?
Doubt I possess
the trust required
to live with such
uncertainty.
(Submitted for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Photo is part of the prompt.)
Moving on – it’s top priority,
sorting through the collected,
the unused, the forgotten –
ready to let it all go, but…
there’s a snake in the drawer
and the temptation is real –
to do the irrational, flee
in a panic, shoot the beast,
or set the house on fire –
I’m overcome with anxiety
there’s a snake in the drawer
and it sure is getting to me.
Practicality says this isn’t helping,
hasn’t got time for the drama, says
let it go, re-prioritize, focus on
what’s important, making progress
there’ a snake in the drawer,
and if it got in, it can get out
I’m terrified now, my skin crawling
with the certainty of confrontation –
the cold-bloodedness of a reptile
immobilizes me, and I’m certain
there’s a snake in the drawer,
and it will be the end of me.
Common sense directs me back
to the task at hand, uses distraction
to dissuade panic, promises to deal
with it tomorrow, tucks me in, but
there’s a snake in the drawer,
and I won’t sleep a wink, only…
I do, and in the morning light
it’s clear the snake didn’t make it
a lifeless body, coiled in death
revealing a harmless garter –
there’s a snake in the drawer,
dead now by my own negligence
an unfortunate serpent, lost
and afraid, misinterpreted
by a woman desperately trying
to move on, apparently still afraid.
(Day six of NaPoWriMo focuses on line breaks. It’s not to late to join in
for National Poetry month.
One hand clutches expectations
while the other clings to walls,
desperately seeking purpose
I have prayed for direction,
a driving need for acceptance,
a longing to be acknowledged
look for openings to procure
success, willing to commit
to hard work, self-sacrifice
have dreamt of a doorway
backlit with brilliant promise,
radiance waiting for release
Am I on the right path, will
this stumbling hope lead me
forward, help me find the way
I could not bear another fall
hands too full to stop the hurt
I am burdened by this quest
Not paying attention to the ground
before me, hit a pot hole, lose my
footing, knees buckle, arms flail
hands release their coveted hold
reflexively reach out, I am down
forced to look up, shame burning
startled to witness a single ray –
a beacon of light in the darkness,
signalling a turn in the road ahead
I pick myself up, hands smarting,
feel the openness of heart and mind
renewed inspiration guiding me
(Image: jackeavesart.deviantart.com)
Depression desires a move –
maybe east, where the sun rises
and views are more picturesque
but espoused to Disability ensures
limitations – no multi-level dwelling
just a single story, easy access home
Surely, there is a place, where both
tales can co-exist, and Depression’s
suppressed flamboyance can soar
and Disability’s plentiful talent
can escape the darkened confines
of four dimly lit walls, be witnessed
She is actress and he is victim, and
a fresh start is required – ownership
that’s less costly – discovery a possibility
gorgeous, inebriating abundance –
a foundation of hope – no more
lowering themselves to circumstance
Yet, both are married to responsibility,
clutch it with terror, personal cravings
a menace – store their dreams in boxes
basement buried – the family home
a weighty treasure – ignore the niggling
call to downsize – prefer to embrace
their fateful fortunes with loyalty –
a wounded pair, reluctant to let go
fear an insurmountable barricade.
(Image: skydancingblog.com)
I carry my past
in a long, white sack –
canvas like a sailor’s –
as if my life depends on it…
or a laundress toting
bundles, tied with string,
promises of toil and
recompense to come.
My contents are not
sustainable, though,
only sorry tales,
entangled woes
mutated into plastic
figurines, more comical
than menacing,
torment born of
pretense and shame.
I am eager to set
this burden down,
loosen the binds,
but self-assurance
and management skills
are just out of reach
a level above me
preoccupied with
organizing
appearances,
disinterested
in healing
old hag’s haunts.
Common sense says
let go, but I’m not sure
I can handle the repercussions,
fear there is more to suffer
for their release
can’t be sure I won’t be
feeding these frailties
to a bigger beast –
the stuff of nightmares –
once exposed will become
bait for a lascivious predator
who toys with ruffled emotion,
a vulture for vulnerability.
Is it not better to cast the
damned so far as to be
forgotten; to be free
for once and all, board
a bus on out of here
find comfort in masses
following a common drum?
My husband has license
to drive a bus, if I take
my chances, could we
prevail together?
How I wish I knew
the protocols of social
etiquette when involving
baggage, am so afraid of
igniting rage in anyone else
but me.
(Image: www.ebay.co.uk)
Victim, whose season is always Autumn,
bloodied tears like fallen leaves trailing;
and Martyr, for whom worship and self-
sacrifice is a dietary requirement; propose
to venture into retail ownership – recreating
a former failed attempt; believing that if
you build it (again) they will come, as Ego
has promised. “Well, it worked for that
Kevin guy,” Victim agrees; Martyr’s eyes
shine with adoration and eager anticipation.
Spirit says: Let it rest. Leave the past
where it belongs; there is a time for
everything and with patience your
future will reveal itself. No need to
grasp; learn from failure and move on.
But Victim is headstrong, has something
to prove, believes her finest moments
are in the past, is certain she can change
it all if given another a chance, and Martyr
well, she goes along willingly, has faith…
They’ll serve the public, create a niche
that no one can ignore, save the world
with each item they sell, market health
and cure-alls, and invite miracles to
grace their square footage and forget
about reality, and bills, and licenses –
refuse to let overheads dictate downfalls,
convinced they are divinely guided,see
evidence in the motley crowds drawn
to their recycled vision, scheme to find
a new location, mooch off the unsuspecting;
Victim swearing not to repeat old patterns,
Martyr offering up her life, her family, to save
the dream – It will be okay, Ego says; It will be
okay, Victim echoes; It will be okay, Martyr beams.
Spirit emits a silent sigh, has watched this
carousel ride for some time now, has a strong
inclination as to where this road will end, yet
knows that lessons can only be offered, and
perspective only gained through release.
Ushering the last of the condolences out,
she turns and slowly shuffles her way back
down the grayed barren, institutional halls –
a shock of white hair bent over metal legs.
She pauses at the doorway – hesitates, feels
weight descending – the finality of her loss –
recalling the years of companionship, how
they were the Ma and Pa for staff and alike.
Wondering who she is now, willing herself
to pass, once occupied, now stripped bed,
the abruptness of silence accosting frailty –
at 88 she’s survived three husbands. Alone.
Laboriously, disrobing, hangs her mourning
dress, unrolls stockings past swollen calves,
winces at the pain of bloated feet, stiffens –
wills past the stark emptiness once more.
Routine carries her through nightly rituals,
and numbed with weariness, she slumps –
a bed-for-one poor remedy for what ails –
she turns to the wall – shunning harshness.
Tomorrow, reassurances and guilt-ridden
faces will hover over the arrival of another,
erasing memories, eradicating familiarity –
Too soon! she cries to unheeding darkness.
Take me too, she pleas to her unseen God.
I’ve had enough! But like the dawn she’ll rise,
comply with changes, adapt to new tides –
find her compassion, forgo self-indulgence.
She is awe-inspiring, this mother of mine,
a tireless sentinel of peace, selfless crusader
for love – acceptance her chosen weapon –
having navigated unimaginable adversities.
The buoyancy of her steps, now subdued,
the flames that framed her face – symbiotic
with passion – now extinguished, age spots
disguising freckles – yet her smile remains.
Do not mourn my passing, she instructs,
know that I have lived fully. I do, I respond,
wishing her an effortless transition, silently
commanding courage, offering up a prayer:
May the angels that receive her wear red shoes,
and may they whisk her away in the flourish of
a big band chorus, inviting her to join the dance –
sprinkling the essence of her beauty as they go.
May she behold – clarity of ecstatic revelation –
the light that she has spread in this lifetime,
witnessing the masterpiece of her existence,
understanding for eternity, that she is love.
