We voice love,
look off at better times –
eye on neighbour, comparing
I dance between hated father,
nice brother, grow quiet,
need touch, but never say
Were my heart strong,
spirit like a river come,
thanking universe…
Have joy though,
feel throughout.
(Friday is magnetic poetry day. Â Play online. )
What’s her name?
Simple question
from mother to son –
recognizing the love-lifted
joy of his countenance.
I cannot tell, said he,
you’ll ask too many questions.
Do I know her?
No, Mom, she’s Somali.
And Muslim.
I felt my whiteness
and all its privilege
slap me, stumbled
Of course she is welcome,
of course it does not matter.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how heads
would turn, and vile strangers
attack, and his father shun them.
And how her own mother
would advise her to take his name
when the day of their nuptials came
so that finding work would be easier.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how
everyday matters suffer
unfair scrutiny –
hold them in my heart
and pray, knowing my shield
of whiteness holds no sway
to protect them..
(Written for dVerse pub, where Anmol challenges us to address the topic of privilege.)
Born brilliant,
and good looking,
he had me dancing,
fevered –
red cat woman,
I am porcelain,
prisoner,
cup fishing,
long to explore
dark words –
do not ask though –
sexy sailed –
ate godless
byes.
(It’s Magnetic Poetry Friday.)
Even lamplight cannot penetrate
the obliteration of blizzard white –
the icy absence between us.
Red was the colour of our passion,
now red is the colour of this box
words spoken in confinement
condensation blurring sensibility –
the muffled sound of ringing,
too cold, too frozen in disbelief
to hang up,
move on,
seek warmth.
(Inspired by the image supplied by Willow Poetry for her weekly challenge: What Do You See?)
Victorious love –
even in loss holds merit,
spurs the growth of wings.
(For Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge)
Statuesque as a Great Blue Heron,
she wades silently, patiently,
her long-necked beauty,
and generous wingspan,
testament to a tender soul.
She dreams of a mate
who can unfold her,
carry her to new heights.
Rustling in a nearby bush,
she encounters a partridge –
shorter than her, and
rotund, his countenance grey.
She is drawn to the candour
of his misery, how vilely
he has been misplaced –
his wife and nest robbed by
another, more showy beast.
Pity masks itself as kinship
and as love does, she dons
blinders, ignores the fact that
he prefers ground dwelling,
tells herself she will adapt
to his packs, learn his ways
Once dreamt of a mate
who could unfold her,
carry her to new heights.
Her shoulders slump, and
she draws her neck in now,
wings forgetting how to soar –
she is diminishing in the
confines of a single field
while her Partridge mate,
remains a partridge –
only fatter.
(Written for dVerse pub, hosted by Björn tonight, who challenges us to use metaphor. I might have got carried away…oh, well, excuse me while I flock off.)
She, deadly beautiful,
innocent as Ophelia
He, toxic ash –
turmoil and fury
Together, love soared,
then, like a tempest
Twisted out of control,
sanity sliding, fate
so cruel, as to be
legendary, epic
Like any other teenage
Shakespearean love story.
(Written for the generous prompts of Manic Mondays 3 Way, deadly; Ragtag Community’s slide; Fandago’s, toxic; and Daily Addictions, soar. Image provided by Laura at All the Shoes I Wear.)
Timid starts beget
longevity, peace – beware
infatuation,
whose coals, burning too brightly,
blind and scald its victims.
(Written for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: peace/love. Â I stretched it to a tanka.)
When love,
open-eyed
and uplifting
appeared
she shuddered,
withdrew,
Shame’s shadow
casting putrid
projections
fear and uncertainty
cloaked her, masked
desire as repulsion –
wore her tragedy
as identity – could not
make the leap –
would choose, instead,
a legacy of abuse –
reaffirming the guilt
and self-loathing
Never could forget
the time that love
showed up –
opened-eyed
and uplifting.
(VJ’s weekly Challenge is shadows)
Was it real,
or a dream?
Flash of brown eyes..
that smile –
just for him –
inviting…
Consumed was he
raced everyday
to that place
in the square
hoping…
to catch her…
to know her name…
something…
Tragic, really,
his inability to separate
dream from reality
How fantasy
kept him single.
(Every Thursday, Deb Whittam at Twenty Four offers a photo and quotation prompt for 50 Word Thursday. Â Drop by her site and join in.)
One Woman's Quest 