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)
We’ll venture
into the city
Pretend our bones
are not dust
Ignore our fails
Hearts soft
Love nostalgic
Hold hands
like lovers
Location historic
(ours alone)
celebrate resilience.
(Today we celebrate our anniversary. Image my own)
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)
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)
Love evolves –
a consideration
we overlooked
those day when
passion drove us
to fanciful displays
Tried to align myself
to the certainty
of your dreams
but my compass
was set elsewhere
Memory, though
has tattooed us
on my heart;
the ink still bleeds.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image mine.)
Softly, his fingers
caress piano keys –
lost in a melody
Swan-like she drifts
across the dance floor,
enchantment in motion
Their love is like this –
wordlessly he manipulates,
gracefully she capitulates.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
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.)
In your absence
I paint the ceiling
midnight blue,
await the return
of stars, ride out
the gut wrench
of abandonment
I know your motive
is happiness, and
that I shall emerge
all the wiser,
but for now
I don the spatter
of indigo grief.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
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)
He fills the home
with sweetness –
serenades their love –
while she picks away
at every gesture,
imagining subterfuge
His floral words
only serve to poke
doubts – she reads
between the lines
of ornamental landmines
He lights candles
to set a mood,
but she is already
planning a funeral –
her wrung out heart
unwilling to fall.
One Woman's Quest 