Where do the words go
when they slip through the cracks
of my mental filing system?
And where is recognition
when words reappear,
no longer categorized
or referenced –
out of alphabetical order –
not even an inkling of recall
as if our acquaintance
is akin to discovery?
(Mental-pause first appeared here January, 2018. This version edited.
Image my own.)
If I measure progress
by “used-to’s”
illness and age win
I used to play tennis
speed and muscle
ease of ambition
This place, the nexus
of how life has changed,
teaches me appreciation
Frost in my veins
permanent, warmth
of memories aglow.
(Image my own.
Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson)
Big band galas
Seaside dancehalls
Swing dancing
Men in uniform
Memory-soaked
daydreams like
shots of adrenaline
arthritic fingers tap
to a distant tune.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
Not yet double digits when the sting
of rejection punctured my ego –
“We can’t play with you,” peers
gloated; “our mothers said.”
What did I know of reasons
or replies, just felt a part of me die.
Still trying to win approval,
heal my nine-year-old heart.
Cigarette butts
no longer linger
concrete, but
I swear the cloud
of smoke lingers,
the sweat of adolescent
anxiety – the suffocating
pressure to comply –
Names escape,
but I remember
smugness and
rivalry, and
the spine-crawling fear
of confrontation,
and indisputable
in my mind
are the scars
of being so alone.
(Written for Twenty Four’s 50 word Thursday prompt. Image supplied by Deb Whittam.)
Bottles and books
gathering possibilities
applications considered
optimistic intent
Potions and words
measuring and recording
experimental diaries
hopeful science –
Tinctures and incantations
ritualistic manipulations
desperate contriving
insanity lurking…
Glass and paper
mold and mildew
dust covered discards
a spider’s haven
Empty and well-perused
shelf-liners stacked
memorabilia cluttering
despair’s cupboard
(Photo provided by Deb Whittam, for 50 Word Thursday.)
We sail, determined,
and yet, the destination
is not of our choosing,
charted by memories
and the inadequacy
of words, language
faltering in foreign
depths.
We are islands,
formed out of
convenience
afraid to open
our foundational hatch,
face the illicit truth,
unwilling to examine
the precariousness
of our plot,
unable to pay
the price,
prefer the buoyant
arrogance
of pretence,
faith relying on
the ungrounded
swell of the ocean
to rebirth us.
(Inspired by a dream and written to conform to the daily prompts of Fandango: memory, Ragtag Community: open, and Daily Addictions: convenience. Thanks all for the fuel. Photo from personal collection.)
Where do the words go
when they slip through the cracks
of my mental filing cabinet?
And where is recognition
when they reappear
no longer categorized
or referenced –
out of alphabetical order –
not even an inkling of recall
as if our acquaintance is
akin to discovery?
(The Daily Prompt is inkling.)
hardwood…
it rolls off my tongue
stops in mid-air, mind halting
Is that a real word?
I stretch for familiarity,
find none – I apologize
quizzical expressions
indicate my mistake –
such a funny word,
I fumble for explanation
humiliation crowding
How do you spell resile?
my English teacher brain
searches, comes up empty
Do you mean reconcile?
No. So I google it
discover its validity
spell it out –
can’t say I ever knew the word
thicket, I type
and then back space –
need a term to describe
prickly shrubbery, off
the beaten path, but
it eludes me, the letters
line up but fail to evoke
recognition. why
is my mind turning,
blank spaces replacing
stored knowledge, as if
corruption has overtaken
memory’s files – thoughts
sputter, drop beginnings
and endings of words –
dragging me through muddy
fog, shutting me down…
(Note: for those that don’t know me,
I am challenged by ME/CFS, a disease
that affects cognitive functioning.
Writing is a way for me to battle
the deterioration – this poem
illustrates the frustration.
Image: pixelmuttz.blogspot.com)
One Woman's Quest 