It’s like cycling uphill
in three lanes of traffic
in a snowstorm
trying to communicate with you
I keep peddling –
sending signals –
but you’re like the SUV
spraying slush in your wake
hindering  progress,
ignoring my needs…
Aren’t we soulmates –
in tune, hearts beating as one –
words superfluous between us?
Then why am I about to expire
and you’re just revving up?
No telepathy at work here.
Empathy lacking, too.
(Sammi Cox’s weekend challenge is telepathy in 72 words)
Was willing to settle
even before casting off
anchorless, with no compass
to guide me, no 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.
(Inspired by the image and Laura’s Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt: wrecked)
Sixties’ doctrine was all about love –
long-haired hippies espousing
anti-establishment, warriors sitting
for peace, getting their groove on.
Too young to grasp the concepts
of love not war, reduced to accomplice,
I eagerly followed along in borrowed
fringe, sporting obligatory peace signs.
Observed that hugs, and smiles, are free
and that mind-altering drugs are cool,
and guessed the establishment meant rules,
and that even in protest there was uniformity.
(Inspired by today’s daily prompts: Â Fandango, accomplice; Ragtag Community, groove; Â and Daily Addictions, doctrine. Photo from personal collection.)
I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.
You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood
Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me
you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…
So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted
than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach
something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.
(Midsummer Night’s Trap originally appeared here March, 2017. Â I am reposting for Laura’s Manic Monday 3-way prompt: poison.)
How delicate
these threads
that bind us –
frail filaments,
whispery darts
of affection –
How willfully
we ignore connection,
ignore ensuing pain…
individuality usurping
love’s needs –
a harsh lesson.
(Inspired by the featured image and written for the daily prompts:
Fandango: lesson; Ragtag Community: dart; Daily Addictions: frail.)
Even as fingers – swift
and seductive – thieved,
she moaned invitation,
ignored the warnings
so eager to please,
so hungry for love
He didn’t need a weapon –
the flash of iced blue eyes
and a throaty whisper
rendered her compliant
so eager to please,
so hungry for love
He was pro, conscience
numbed by a list of victims –
so many wasted lives,
faceless towns left behind
so eager to please,
so hungry for love
She blamed it on the passion –
the sudden confusion, misplacing
things, money – her thoughts
blinders set on a glowing future
so eager to please,
so hungry for love
Blamed herself in the aftermath,
would rather he’d used a knife,
slashed her body – violence
less shameful than this
so eager to please,
so hungry for love.
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming: plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
(This poem, inspired by a dream, was penned when I was still bed bound, two years ago. Â Hope it made you smile. Â If you found yourself on the hunt for love, what would you look for?
p.s. my husband fits the criteria still, lol.)
Every woman needs a man,
Mother told her, to be complete.
To submit, she realizes, too late
soul traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing
inner losses.
She eats to appease inner sorrow –
a second-rate childhood – afraid
of being a burden, loathe
to create a stir – conditioned
complacency:
appeasing,
pleasing,
follows plans,
avoids decisions…
never really knows where she is going.
Can she fault her man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male
taking ownership/charge?
His own lack, like a child,
feeding on impulses, craving
attention, overcompensating
for fears with bravado…
cannot understand her fear
of assertiveness – alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –
gut gnawing incessantly.
They stumble over each other, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss
repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues such as the fact
that they are both suffocating, near
jumping off the ledge of their high-
falutin’ existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them,
the noise of city living negating
their ability to listen, distractions
altering identities, until the distance
between
is too far
to bridge
in a single sigh            and she
no longer             submissive
has joined him
and checked out.
(This is a rewrite of a poem, by the same name, written in June 2016. Â Shared here for DVerse’s Open Link Night.)
How to receive a child
whose untimely arrival
serves only to punctuate
existing turmoil; whose
cries further entrap
a despondent mother…
How to love a child
who differs markedly
from gifted sons
from idyllic daughters
bears only resemblance
to the crime’s perpetrator
a child who lacks
the finesse so carefully
imbued in siblings –
fiery eyes and attitude,
preferring solitude of nature
to niceties of family life
How to guide this child,
this symbol of a past best left
behind, this burgeoning woman
defying all expectations –
this enigmatic burden?
(Follow up to this poem is: Â A Child Responds)
Who instigated the abandonment?
It’s an ugly question –
manifests pretensions –
both sides righteous,
blinded…
when the rage subsides
faith will intervene,
and acceptance –
a milestone,
will springboard
recovery, victims
voices gaining clarity,
intent amended,
launching into love
once again.
One Woman's Quest 