Come Closer

Disregard the obvious –
I know how time has marred me

Disregard the glare –
eyes clouded with cynicism

A fledgling heart beats
within this disheveled nest

Come closer and behold
a childlike yearning for love.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image my own)

Gambler

The gambler puts in fifty-cents
expects hundreds in return;

a simple flick of the wrist
and abundance will be his.

I feel like a slot machine:
paying dues for minimal input.

Tells himself there is more
to be had, if luck runs his way;

walks away from the richness
of family, joy of friendships –

Id’ be a slot machine for him
if love equated with money

Dreams of possibilities beyond
his daily reach, a fast track plan:

fortune is calling, palm itching
just one more roll of the die –

The die has been cast here;
no longer willing to gamble.

One more momentous win,
a promise to share the wealth;

what more could any woman want
from a man – half an empty dream?

Took a chance, myself once,
thought he was my windfall

guess, in the end, all gamblers lose.

(Originally penned Gambler in July, 2016. Image my own)

Washed Ashore

Was willing to settle
even before casting off

anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, nor oar to steer

left fate to the currents
a vessel adrift; naïve

trusted those with power
to rescue me, unaware

of the target vulnerability
made of me, that sharks

like to circle wayward
boats, certain of a catch

no wonder, when finally
I came ashore, wrecked

I had lost faith in love,
turned hope to cynicism

had failed to register
the dangers of sailing

into uncharted waters –
the necessity of navigational

resources, and a life jacket,
the knowledge to stay afloat

and safe, in a sea where
discernment saves hearts.

(Washed Ashore first appeared here July 2018. Image my own)

Lucky One

Tiger’s eye
reminds me of youth,
how you remarked:
“Save it for luck!”
before brushing aside
my unruly hair…
one last time.

Found you again
decades later,
sipping tea
in a corner café,
dropped the marble
in your saucer,
your smile
bridged the years.

(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson, this poem edited. Image my own)

(Hi all. This post was pre-scheduled. I have turned off comments. We are currently coming to terms with the loss of a close family member. Will visit when I can, but likely be off for a bit.)

Premonition

A mother wakes, moments
before her baby’s cry, or
reaches with loving arms
just as her toddler stumbles

Call it instinct, or premonition

A sister calls in timely fashion,
was feeling a little concerned,
or arrives with tea just when
a break is exactly what’s needed

Call it instinct, or premontion

A daughter rushes to
her mother’s side, senses
the unanswered calls
are more than busyness

Call it instinct, or premonition

Then, why, when he cheated –
flaunted his courtships
with self-righteous bravado –
did I miss all the signs?

Denial negates instinct,
negates premonition.

(Premonition first appeared here February, 2018. Image my own)