Take me to the desert
with mountains at our side;
walk with me in shadows
let nature be our guide.
We’ll stroll amongst the cacti
pay homage to the quails;
take me to the desert,
help me gather tales.
The seasons are passing,
we’re running out of time;
take me to the desert;
heal this heart of mine.
(Desert first appeared here in November 2018. As Winter blows in around us, I think longingly of our time spent in warmer climates. Image from personal collection.)
Soft, the day’s fading light,
hushed, the manic pace –
my heart’s rhythm lulled
beats a nostalgic melody –
love’s memories bittersweet.
(Tuesdays, I post a poem from Twitter. You can follow me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
Creativity lands in unfamiliar,
communicates with the unknown –
unformed connections invite themselves in
I am open
Religiosity emerges from the crypt –
impoverished, depraved, and hungry –
overwhelmed, I am embarrassed, enraged –
should not have let my guard down.
Grateful for the wilder times,
days when daring ruled –
amassed fodder for stories,
harmless antics eliciting
laughter – ever more sweet
as body fails, nothing left
but to reminisce.
(Twitter Tales. Visit me @Vjknutson.)
When you were Eden,
that longest prairie night,
warm with verdant moss
on trunk, no soft cover,
river shine vivid –
Me, a bee,
would eat from a tree berry,
seed this animal nature,
stroll a watery song –
Soon they come at dawn,
give peace.
(Another poem courtesy of online magnetic poetry.)
Slippery performed
and my eight-year-old
heart applauded
cheered when he escaped,
mourned the capture,
prayed for flight’s courage
but survival skills
eluded – was certain
I would starve, die
in a cave where
animals would gnaw
on my bones, and
family, unconcerned,
would sigh and say:
She’s just being Slippery.
(Slippery was the name of a sea lion who performed at a local’s children’s attraction in the 60’s. He escaped into the Thames River and was captured again. I can remember being torn between sorrow for him that he didn’t want to be there, and sorrow for us that he didn’t love us the way loved him.
It’s Open Link Night at dVerse, and I am also submitting this for 50 Word Thursday, Fandango’s: guess, and Ragtag Community’s prompt: slippery.)
“You’re an enigma”
mother would tsk,
ushering me out of the door,
brown bag lunch,
book bag dragging,
to catch a ride across town
a special classroom –
desks pushed together
formed quads, and
walls retracted,
created one large room,
the bustle of activity
a constant
no readers here,
or math sheets,
it was free learning,
cross-curricular,
learned about history
from novels,
math and science
through applications,
wrote poetry,
read Shakespeare,
enacted plays,
and while some went to shop
or home economics,
I tackled Mensa puzzles
we debated
current affairs,
grew a social conscience,
progressed individually
“Men don’t like smart women,”
was all my mother could say,
shaking her head with disgust
at this daughter, who spouted
politics with her father, and
whose career goals,
prepubescent,
aspired beyond the 3 k’s.
(Penned for dVerse, hosted tonight by Amaya Engleking. I’ve also snuck in Daily Addictions prompt: enigma.)
Summer of ‘67
the British had invaded
and Canada celebrated
100 years of confederation –
and Dad, at the top of his game,
came home with a brand new,
powder puff blue convertible
Eagerly, my sister and I
loaded into the back seat,
laughed at strands of our long hair
flying into open mouths, strains
of our uplifted voices competing
with the 8-track bellowing:
“Do you believe in magic?”
We were so alive then:
I, just barely nine, and my elder,
and idol, rocking sixteen –
she was hippie, go-go girl
and model all wrapped in one
and always humble, never mean.
We headed to the shoreline,
Sauble beach, where muscle cars
prowled, and tunes blared,
and all eyes lit on sister
and I wondered what the draw was,
still too naïve to understand the lure
of feminine wiles, my sandcastles real.
Barbequed steaks and mom’s
homemade apple pie, and
a trip to the ice cream store
if we were good, and Dad
shooed away the men who buzzed
about and lectured sister about “friends”.
I surfed the waves, and
avoided baby sister, her brash cries
and quick, chubby legs a distraction
for our mother, constantly in pursuit;
and observed the life, Neil Diamond
promised I was about to enter:
“Girl, you’ll be a woman soon.”
Ah to be nine, in the summertime,
when cares are few, and ideas
like popcorn, burst and pop,
filling my head with such fancy,
and then to forget it all, plunging
head first into the oncoming waves
still content to be a child.
(Thank you to Laura Bailey at All the Shoes I Wear
for the photo, song and word (summertime) that
inspired this memory.)
Snapdragons transport me
back to father’s gardens –
the pleasure of pinching
delicate flower mouths
forbidden as I was, tiny
feet banished from tiers
of ordered colours, how
he worshipped those rows
hours spent on knees,
as if in prayer, attention
lavished on nurturing
growth while I shrivelled
at the sidelines, longed
to dig beside him, sully
my hands and share
a passion, ignorant of
an inner drive to weed
out imperfections, felt
only walls of separation,
the coldness of perfection
and in my wilful way,
rebelled against taboos,
tiptoed through the soil
and pinched snapdragons.
This is pen is far too vociferous,
illuminates the disabled rage,
dismissing my concerns, as if
outgoing messages are company
for its dispassionate agenda.
No privacy for ailing, sleeping,
I would physically eject the offending
appendage, but cannot bear reopening
of wounds, recognizing the sins are
mine, no matter how unintentional.
Words can be a trap, take on a beat
of their own, history rearing on page,
leaving me raw-nerved, reeling, their
thoughtlessness a venomous refusal
to remain a victim – I am inflamed.
How to banish the thoughts smouldering
like a cigarette, daring me to inhale,
choke on my own toxicity; I must expunge
the intrusion, recall this maddening vow
to create; withdraw to the safety of illness
shuttered away from the crowd, a blue
silence warming this frozen heart –
maybe, I’ll write a note and leave it
on the dashboard, command the pen
and its itinerary to leave me alone.
(Image: hellenmasido.wordpress.com)
One Woman's Quest 