I dwell in mediocracy
where Larkspur takes a spotlight
and sunsets enforce sleep
A background figure, I hide
behind mundane assertions,
practice subtlety
Lies I tell myself, of course,
any reader knows – I decry
normality, as passion is my way.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
I am woman
questing…
a warrior
slashing bonds
of painful past
an aerialist
balancing strife
with fleeting bliss
a she-reptile
shedding distrust
in vulnerability, growing
I push through
the tangled maze
of personas, seek a truth
that frees my spirit
and roots my essence
into blessed being
For I am woman
with a quest…
striving on…
(Art my own. I call her The Mother Tree)
Body falters,
mind the same,
but spirit dances,
lithe as a flame.
Aim for the sublime –
defy mediocracy;
let passion hunger.
(For Ronovan Writes Haiku Challenge: hunger/strike; and Ragtag Community’s sublime)
This passion surfaces, rushes, boils inside me,
raging against the rocks of my conventionality,
demanding release, commanding my pen –
its voice a roar obstructing constraint –
insatiable creativity.
I should be back soon.
(Today’s prompt is to write a poetic prose in the form of a postcard.)
Seduced –
the virility of youth
irresistible even for an old
duck like me – so unexpected,
relentless, I ignore exhaustion
lean into the fantasy, allow
desire to embrace me,
cross a boundary,
surrender…
step up
to the stage,
bare-chested,
shameless, speak
into the mic, reveal
my words: those
childlike bits
of myself;
hope
my passion
does not offend,
the blatant sexuality
of my tongue, my voice,
raw desire, peaked arousal,
does not mar my reputation,
pathetic, really, that one so past
her prime should dare to grace the
boards – surely a younger woman’s game.
(Passion Exposed was penned in December of 2016 after attending my first poetry open mic. Having been a closet writer for most of my life, I still find it uncomfortable at times to share my words.)
No more out-on-the-town bustles –
the late afternoon light fading in
my corner – focus now turned to
higher issues; try to keep company
with mindfulness – a worthy educator,
facilitating release – but my inventory
is too spun. Achieving a semblance
of completion, something to reflect
my life’s toil, would be welcome, yet
I fear my story is cooked. Guidance
might suggest I’m not alone, but
without my professional footing
I’m at a loss for identity, prodding
to find answers – a woman without
substance, grasping at what is mine.
Seems silly to think that breathing
might offer consolation for this no-
return-on-investment outcome; have
hit a wall, would rage if not numb, so
many parts of self lost in passage…
Midnight approaches and I am tapped
out – a social passenger hitching a ride
on hopelessness – flat broke, empty
(tried to dial up creativity – wrong#)
Contemplate sorrow, luck, temporary
breakdown’s, orchestrated scenes,
a lifelong inability to keep quiet (sorry
kids), a callous bitch – could never get
her to work in my corner, channel that
energy into fitness or financial success –
she just likes to stir things up, doesn’t
believe in peace of mind, jolts me awake
out of my comfort zone. Maybe I need
her now – forgo relaxation and surrender –
to shake this inactivity, give a hand up
to those repressed, forgotten selves –
get her to lift me out this self-conscious
mire – she doesn’t care about feelings –
markets herself with confidence, breathes
assertiveness, knows her own business…
can you see me sitting up a little straighter,
composing myself in the light of this new
possibility, readying myself to relaunch –
reconsidering my stance on corners?
There’s remodelling to be done here –
and orienting to the new will take a bit,
given my age, but I’m willing to concede
that there is community to serve, and
that as long as human rights are being
violated there is a place for compassion,
and no town is immune to need, so I’d
better get my bustle on and start painting.
( Image: lokeshsomu.blogspot.com )
If transformation is my path,
then let me be in charge –
reverse this introspective
lull, cease this bystander’s
status, build new awareness,
embrace the fullness of spirit.
Give me legs that I may walk
amongst the gathering voices
brush shoulders with anti-hate
protestors, find my wings, wear
the cause to end racism, sexism,
fear as any spiritual crusader does.
There is need in the world –
extends beyond individual
agendas, compels us to play
a part, cut apathy in favour of
donning a coat of conviction,
deny ties of personal comfort
How can I help; drink from the
well of human connectedness
to quench this deep-seated
disparity; am confined to a
legacy of words, legs inert,
burdened with soul’s passion.
(Image: www.indianweekender.co.nz)
If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?
Crazy catches me –
semi-conscious/ zoned out –
body slams me,
hot mouth pressed on mine
suppressing objection
(as if I’d object)
working my juices
my mind overboard
passion flaming
I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow
Modesty intervenes
compelling flight –
flesh torn from flesh
prematurely –
this seduction,
taunting me in youth,
surprisingly vital still
I forget
who I am
where I am
yesterdays
tomorrow
Breathless,
heart palpitating
loins throbbing…
abandoned again.
It was only a ghost
a spectre from the past
mocking me –
false ecstasy.
(Linked to dVerse pub where desire and sexuality are on the board tonight.)
One Woman's Quest 