Unheralded,
an apparition
in white –
wings enveloping,
uplifting
soul cries,
voiceless,
powerless –
no pause
on perfection
she follows coastlines
while I travel roads,
fades from view
her shadow lingers,
wraps me in melancholy
one minute of rapture –
enough to make me mourn.
(Inspired by the sudden appearance of an egret while shooting this image. Submitted for Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt: roads, and Reena’s Exploration challenge: one minute.)
In dreamtime, he comes,
my eclectic animus –
sometimes raven,
often tree,
he seduces –
first in conversation
then in arousing flesh –
Spellbound, witless,
my edges soften, melt,
and just at the moment
of near surrender,
lucidity knocks,
yanks me from watery
depths – sets me back
on conscious soil –
Anchored anew,
I shake off the lingering
tingle, brain abuzz,
reconnect with aged
limbs, mundane ills
and skedaddle.
(Catching up with Reena’s Exploration challenge – image provided; and linking up with Manic Mondays 3 Way Challenge – anchored; and Ragtag Community’s – skedaddle; and Fandango’s – eclectic.)
Proficient at constructing frames,
I plaster over old mistakes,
convinced that survival equates
with marble – am I not a living
example of metamorphosis?
Yet, my doorways lack locks
and there are intruders in
the basement – confidence
dissipates as rage heightens –
optimism evanescent.
(Penned for the prompts of Ragtag Community – marble; Fandango – plaster; and Manic Mondays Three Way Prompt – evanescent.)
Money –
that vital ingredient –
threatens to rebuke us,
these haphazard habits
equating to negligence.
Investments –
retirement’s foundation –
falter, then plunge,
a mini crisis hitting
too close to home.
Change –
prodded by re-evaluation –
commands control,
scoffs at ideal’s naiveté,
imperfection highlighted.
(Written for dVerse’s quadrille night, hosted by Whimsygizmo, whose prompt is change. All submitting to Ragtag Community’s, vital; Fandago’s, rebuke; and Manic Mondays 3 Way prompt, imperfection.)
As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis. Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.
Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,
crave a touch of warmth.
(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight. I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)
“My children have come home to watch me die,”
she tells her doctor, repeats to me, #5, when I arrive.
“You leave the world the same you came in,” Doc said,
as if that makes sense, as if that offers comfort.
“We don’t want to see you suffer anymore,” I offer.
She agrees, tired of the pain. 92 and nothing but pain.
It’s not death that she fears – she’s ready –
it’s the dying – not knowing how it will happen.
“Will you be with me? When the time comes.”
I will. Just as I did with a sister, two cousins,
father, an aunt, and countless others.
“Angel of Death,” a nurse called me once.
I shrugged: “Would you want to die alone?”
Death, I do know, is like birth,
in that the timing is unpredictable.
So, together, we’ll wait –
biding our time, talking about the present,
reflecting on the past, wondering what lies ahead.
Not all transitions, I’ve learned, are alike.
(I’ve returned home to be at my mother’s side, although, as the poem indicates, she may survive the current setback. I’m linking this up to Manic Mondays 3 way prompt: reflection, and my own weekly challenge: transition.)
Naughty thrilled her –
lacked inhibitions toward elicit,
tantalized by promised ‘nice’
Imagined blood red petals
strewn atop steamy suds,
champagne flutes and
intoxicating entanglements.
Fantasies never ran to
infested walls crumbling
in barren captivity –
his version of naughty
turned her blood to ice
nothing about the scenario ‘nice’.
(Tonight is the last Open Link night at the dVerse pub for 2018, hosted by Grace. I am submitted this poem, inspired by the prompts of Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, and Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday. Image provided by Deb Whittam of Twenty Four.)
Past, present, future
time sequentially frozen –
logic holds no sway
when fear and emotions rear,
exist despite boundaries.
(A tanka for Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge – exist/today. Also linking up with Manic Mondays 3 Way Challenge – frozen.)
I alternate between vigorous activity and coma-like crash. It’s the nature of this disease. No middle ground, it seems. Or maybe that’s just the nature of this personality.
We celebrated Christmas early this year. A Saturday afternoon gathering, and I cooked. First time in four years. I felt a certain sense of pride till the last guests left and I turned to face the aftermath. Now, just two days later, I am packing up the household and preparing for a four-month excursion. I think I’ve defined a new breed of crazy: waiting for a spurt of energy and then frenetically doing until I hit the next wall.
Winter pelts windows,
stirs frenzied need to escape –
waiting for recharge.
(Imelda is hosting in the dVerse pub tonight with the prompt: waiting. Coincidentally, waiting is also the prompt for Manic Monday’s 3 way challenge. I have also received inspiration from Ragtag Community: vigorous, and Fandango: coma. Tomorrow is load up day and then we hit the road, so not sure how often I’ll be around until we get settled somewhere.)
One Woman's Quest 