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.)
Eagle arrives
and I am at once
small, insignificant
Breath held
I am stillness
basking in majesty
Till ubiquitous crow
calls his cronies,
chases eagle off
Everything gains perspective.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Cast my shadow over white banks
assert presence: proud, defiant
Will find beauty in deserted places
and colour in the monochrome
Haunted by a Winter state of mind
resolved to stretch despite chill.
(Image my creation)
He fills the home
with sweetness –
serenades their love –
while she picks away
at every gesture,
imagining subterfuge
His floral words
only serve to poke
doubts – she reads
between the lines
of ornamental landmines
He lights candles
to set a mood,
but she is already
planning a funeral –
her wrung out heart
unwilling to fall.
The eight of cups –
an octopus balancing
multi-tasks; I juggle
fog, attempt
to calibrate logistics
but instincts
are dull-edged,
my tentacles lacking
suction – will slither
back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge,
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)
Too much black
Too much colour;
Fashion out of sync
Too many calories
Extra weight a turnoff
Comparisons cut deep
Stay close;
Stop being anti-social;
Friendliness invites abuse
Children need their mother
How do you plan to pay?
Better find a job.
Never enough
Beaten by criticism
A lonely marriage
Control suffocates
Narcissism cares not
Road is dead-end
Break free
Take the leap
True love begins with self.
(Image my own)
I am drizzle –
particles failing
manifestation
I am xyloid –
essence of being
stiffly carved
I am sun dog –
illusion of brilliance
floating by…
I exist…
barely
perceptible
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Child of mine,
what rage is this
that sets you against
a younger brother?
What discontent stirs
so deeply within that
you would lash out
at me, your mother?
Let us sit a moment,
and let me, with tenderness,
listen, for your anger masks
pain, and I am not so far
removed from childhood
to recognize that tone.
If I have wronged you,
speak; I need to hear it.
If peers are pressuring,
or bullying, or you feel
betrayed, lay it here
in my hands, and I will
comfort you, and offer
what wisdom I have.
Your well-being is sacred
to me; let me hold you –
you’re not too old – linger
here in my embrace until
the tears come, and the storm
passes; I will hear your fears,
frustrations, and disappointments,
and together we will figure it out.
Child of mine,
I am here for you,
no matter the reason;
your pain is my pain,
talk to me; I am listening.
(This poem first appeared Dec, 2019. Image my own)
Oh, to soar above the clouds
for just one day –
free-floating, empowered…
What perspective would flight reveal –
the illusion that is civilization?
the fragility of our walls?
Still, let us aspire to ascend…
without regard for the fall…
(Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 