Heron’s wings span six-feet wide
great grey appendages in rhythmic flight
Dragonfly wings are camouflaged,
propel elongated bodies who hover in sight
Monarch’s wings are stained-glass delicate
with each flutter, sprinkle fantasies of delight
My wings, imaginary, give me faith and hope
mechanisms of spirituality, my soul’s fire ignite.
(Image mine)
If we could see the soul
comprehend the construct
outline each contour
sip the sacredness –
Would there then be peace?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
There is light in unknowns –
at least I project it there –
caught between the current
ashen landscape and the achings
of a solitary childhood…
I like to think faith guides me
but she is muted like the gardens
of my dreams, more ethereal
than palpable and I need concrete
have waited too long for that train
of certainty to carry me away…
course it never comes, there is no easy
just a slow, steady plodding: a pace
that age has settled on; so I turn
to inner landscapes, imagination
remembering colour…and yes, light.
(Image my own creation)
My to-do lists have grown appendages
are teaming up in a huddle
plotting their next play
Wait a minute, Guys! I plead
the afternoon sun has caught me
at just the right angle,
and my chair,
with a mind of its own,
is reclining…
Can’t we save the game day antics
for another time…
(Image my own)
The scenery outside my window
is passing by too fast, and
I’m facing backwards, waves
of nausea disrupting the view
I focus on emotion, animated,
try to discern its origin, realize
it is misplaced; I am disoriented
laugh at the enormity of my blunder.
Girls are lucky:
just need to find the right man –
looked after for life.
Advice from a teenaged brother.
Right! I yell back,
fifty years later.
It was all a vacation –
raising the children on my own
looking for God in the midst of chaos
partners with wandering eyes
or absent…always absent…
still waiting for that “looking after”
And how did you make out, Dear Brother?
Oh, that’s right…married…
woman with a good job
willing to let you putter in the background
Guess we were both misled.
(No Idea! first appeared here November 2020. Image my own.)
This body fortress
stories untold, locked in cells
I am brick by brick
self-made, deluded – haunted
by expectation’s ruins
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile
in our old photo album –
stares fixated on unseen lint –
distracted, we three sisters,
all reeling from the cold,
unwell, immobilized…
What is absent is the photographer
whose pointed directions critique
each decision – a derisive repetition
that eats at our souls, each girl
wrestling with self-nurture vs
self-annihilation, landing somewhere
in between – mannequin targets
for male abuse…
Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against
the dominance, the oppression, but
only succeeded in settling for disconnection,
while one sister turned tricks for attention,
the other retreated into full dependency,
her madness, out of date, nevertheless
relevant – despite our tormenter’s death,
the images are permanently recorded
in that old photo album.
Words, like crickets,
leap from my mind –
chirping pests
whose trajectory
eludes my dulled
reflexes, scuttling
around the periphery
of my awareness
Harmless, really,
in the singular,
a cacophony
in multitudes
threatening
to multiply further
and destroy any
semblance of sanity
I must intuit
their rhythm,
define the notes
in workable phrases,
capture the essence
of their meaning
and inscribe the message
before they disappear again.
(Pestilence of Words first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, October 2016. Edited for this edition. Image my own.)
The stare isn’t vacant;
it’s absorbed; attentive –
the being on high alert
I’ve seen cats like this before
crossed the road to avoid
their supernatural curse
But this creature is different,
dares me to make a move…
Why do I feel I’ve already lost?
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter. Image mine.)
One Woman's Quest 