poem – Page 57 – One Woman's Quest

Lost Directions

Partnered once, with compassion –
believed in power of human touch,
dedicated self to caring, certain
I’d found my body of work

Time and circumstance intervened;
I drifted, lost in an eddy of confusion,
marital fray ending in separation –

Life moves in circular cycles, and
I revisit that work now, wonder if
parts are salvageable, viable –

fragments outdated, irrelevant –
compassion still holds merit,
what if I let it drive, put ego
in the passenger seat –

would she steer us down one-way
streets, against the flow to traffic,
rattle elusive confidence –

without trust in process, I lack
assurance of youth’s glory –
would not survive the scramble

Circular lines bypass, spiral;
we are not meant to go back;
must breathe and stop grasping.

(Lost Directions first appeared here in October 2017. I have edited it and resubmit for my weekly challenge: compassion.)

Perfectionist’s Bane

No matter how
I organize the littles –
set the unruly to task,
orchestrate harmony
from chaos –
critics dismantle
the efforts, find
the loose thread
and tug…
until all
is worthless effort.

Bleeding Edges

Wrap myself in verdant dreams –
creaseless envelope of hope –
have written my deepest desire,
sealed the vessel shut…

meanwhile, reality oozes red,
like puss from open wounds,
creeps into careful corners,
bleeds through edges…

nothing neat about dreaming –
life demands, cuts, prods,
does not bargain – hope is fine
unless control is the container.

(Inspired by the prompts of Ragtag Community: verdant; Fandango: meanwhile; and Reena’s Exploration Challenge: bleeding edge.)

Image from personal collection.

A Mother’s Heart

A mother’s heart is the sun –
the rays of her love,
the beams upon which
a child learns the skills
necessary to navigate
life’s tightrope walks.

****

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there.

Aged

Even in the waning times –
memories of youth fading –
there are traces of a personality,
hints of the contours
of a life well-sculpted,
having weathered all that
the years dared challenge.

Winter Walk

Do you stroll here
on the winter walk,
use rain as light,
follow every wild bough,
beautiful blue bird?

Climb, live, see
how happy this forest,
verdant rock moral,
sun on water, green.

(Another poem from Magnetic poetry.)

Guilt’s Games

Guilt’s a child –
nonsensical in actions –
attempts to hide,
shame-faced, lies –

Guilt is but a child
holds me hostage –
adult self, emotionally
captive, plays along.

(For Willow Poetry’s challenge: What Do You See – featured image)

On a Diet

I dined on your expectations,
enticed by the spice of your words –
insatiable this hunger for approval.

Mistook self-assuredness
for wisdom – how bitter
the aftertaste, how empty
the truth –

Learning to feed myself –
sustenance geared to fulfilling
personal dreams.

Needing a Sign

Restlessness accompanies me
on the sojourn today –
unfazed by ripe red
belly of robin,
or shimmering emerald
of breeding merganser’s crown.

My lens seeks out decay –
rotting wood, darkened cavities –
as if my soul craves reassurance
that life persists even where death
hovers – I need a sign.

Discontent, I move on –
drive the river road,
snail pace – praying for
something to shake
this malaise –
birds come and go,
trees radiate Spring green,
I pause, unmoved.

And then I spot it –
across the river, high up –
a massive hulk –
lens raises, adjusts, snaps –
the regal hunter turns towards me,
regards me with ferocious intensity,
does not falter on his perch –

All-seeing, fearless,
he is spirit-manifested,
a messenger, lifting me
from stagnation –
momentary redemption.

(Linking up with my weekly challenge: in-between.)

Discord

Does illness have a voice,
and if so; is it melancholy,
or dark and dank, divulging
deepest despair, or revealing
a vileness of nature?

Discord creeps along my veins,
disrupts muscles, systems failing
under the oppression –
“Stay strong,” friends counsel,
cannot hear the gathering storm,
feel the heaviness cloaking me.

I am not myself, but then;
who am I? Is disease a mutation
of the original sin – punishment
for fatal sins, or redemption
wrapped as trial – the whispers
gain clarity – I am faltering…

(Written for Reena’s Exploration challenge: featured image as prompt.)