I lied.
The initial seed of disappointment has fermented,
and in the absence of confrontation, grown roots
written sorrowful chapters
conclusion: unworthiness
Why couldn’t I just have said:
I don’t understand
this makes me unhappy?
Where did I learn that prevarication protects
that I alone am responsible for emotions
that I do not matter?
Decades later
I still cannot uproot the weed
the lie remains.
(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)
Acts of vandalism
are not deserved
Grime of violation
does not wash off
If change is target
then create intrigue
Highlight inequity
demonstrate alternatives
Crash and burn
ineffective as hell.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
Pain circumvents our fears
squeezes relentlessly
Still we proceed
withholding complaint
for this is labour –
a trial that harnesses
depth of determination
unfathomable focus
Somewhere along the process
an instantaneous shift
there is wonder to behold
and indescribable bliss
Birth is happening
and they’ll be no going back.
(Art mine)
Morning melee
with coffee pot –
canister escaped grip
contents scattered
clean up ensued
sharp warnings
to dogs eager
to help –
second round
forgot to empty pot
hot liquid seeping
everywhere –
I’m a tea drinker.
Need I describe more?
Trapped inside
two-dimensional torus
backward spinning
Not even my pulse
emits an echo – would need
a third dimension for that
Am geometrically disfigured,
an illusion, I fear, for human
substance seldom adds up.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own,)
Flowers awaken
imagination – magic
paints the garden bed.
(Image my own)
Rings me every time
he’s in town –
Tumbleweed, I call him –
a man I love to hate
He tints my normalcy
with neon rushes,
flames of screaming lust –
I’m better of without him
wish he’d lose my number…
well…maybe after next time.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own. Piece is purely fiction, I promise)
Devil borrows
Twilight’s voice
tortures sensibility
Tangled bedclothes
grumble, inflexible
bedmates – unsupportive
Where is reason?
my mind wails
heart drumming discord
I access light,
perch on edge of bed
will myself to breathe
(My dear husband is in hospital again, his fifth surgery to reconstruct his knee. It’s been a long ordeal and my heart bleeds for him. Fear is an awful bedmate. I submit this poem in response to the promptings of Eugi’s Weekly prompt: twilight and Reena’s Xploration challenge: devil. Image my own.)
Natural light preferable
to artificial – not the harsh
fullness of noonday sun
but softly filtered rays –
luxurious…
inviting
Love too, should be subdued,
gentle as a zephyr –
not mythical, but yielding…
mindful
not worshipful nor boastful
but comforting…
warm
I am waning light
the mistral wind wafting
no longer a force of nature
but smoke, spiralling
vanishing into non-existence
And yet,
even as shadows spread
I yearn – heart
beating true
not lost,
not forgotten,
but withdrawn…
humbled
passion mellowed
by years of constructing walls –
grit and tar –
scar’s long buried
save the limping gait
of a ghost.
(Even Ghosts Yearn first appeared here in July, 2018. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 