Curiosity, it seems,
flows both ways –
as I adjust focus
so too, do you –
can’t help but wonder
if the takeaway joy
also flows both ways.
(In response to Paul Vincent Cannon’s poem: Â Her Gift Remains.
V.J.’s weekly challenge is response. Â Image is from personal collection.)
I throb,
belly a swill of green –
never smoked…
There is good air & trees,
and warming chards
Breathe out…and spit..
Only champagne cup
would wet and waken
Let up bug!
(Friday is Magnetic Poetry day for me. Â Coincidentally, I have been fighting a bacterial infection, so the words are fitting.)
The veil grows thin
past midnight, as
sensibility dares
to sleep – spirits,
restless, yearning,
drag me from dreams,
fill my thoughts –
messages from beyond –
I am but a simple
woman, hold no sway
in the physical realm,
send them back
to carry on
their haunt.
In corners, I scrounge –
resilience fading;
hope, it seems, is sleeping.
Living a quarter life,
even ascents depressed;
dubious that alternatives
are worthwhile.
Walls would suffice –
once dreamt of co-habitating
with abundance,
now housed with constraints.
Age losing preferences,
counting worries either way.
Mother is fearful,
time slipping through her fingers,
loneliness enveloping her.
I hold space for her in my thoughts,
my heart aching in beat with hers.
Guilt tosses me up and down –
inadequacy knows no bests.
No one told me,
in my haste to grow up,
that adulthood, awash
with responsibility,
would still be lonely.
And, no one told me
that the days and nights
of sweating over papers
would likely not lead
to the life imagined,
nor that commitment –
the kind portrayed in movies –
does not exist – the word, itself,
bearing more substance
than the act – a fickle sentiment.
No one told me that
motherhood – the act
of giving birth – would alter
my reality permanently,
colouring it with unfathomable
pain and joy – such juxtaposition.
And, no one told me that
every battle I ever arm myself for,
regardless of its justification,
is really a struggle with self –
inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age –
with seismic force,
would alter my perspective so –
leave me barren and yet enriched,
enthralled with the ordinary,
and unfazed by the rest.
And, in the end, as I watch
vernal rains announce a new season,
in the quiet of my solitude, I am
amazed and grateful for all
that this crazy, driven life has become,
and that no one ever told me.
The Canadian Shield,
where rugged pines stretch,
reach for endless skies,
taking root in rocky shores.
We set boulders
in our gardens – anchors
against untimely storms,
or reminders of endurance
when all else falls away.
Even the satisfying crunch
of stones along the path
fascinate – variance of colours
and forms, like art – promising
undiscovered treasures.
(Rocks first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, and was in response to a photo challenge. Â I have edited it here.)
Brightest, like frost,
a moister dawn…
Did I live in peace?
Feel ancient life,
forest sanctuary,
stone moss?
The that do like him
soon rising
& almost dark,
I, insect, fall.
(Another Friday, another Magnetic poetry session.)
Temporarily encamped
in enemy territory,
a confidante, observer,
practicing external camouflage –
a dangerous game.
Am witness to hatred –
the deep-seated, ‘us’ vs ‘them’
mentality that divides –
vulnerability on high –
I am clearly ‘other’ –
a tourist trapped,
powerless to affect change,
in need of escape.
Balanced sustenance –
a recipe I seek, but
my mate is needy,
treasures extremes,
pulls, tugs – despite
the resistance,
the doubt,
I will succeed.
Triangular,
this relationship –
I hold one corner,
a loyal staple, while
he runs on sentiment,
questions mechanics,
manipulates,
threatens to tear
us apart, but
our love –
the pinnacle –
keeps us in check.
(Do you ever write a poem, tuck it away, and then discover it later, with no remembrance of the words or process? Â Such is this poem for me. Â No idea what spurred it and yet, here it is. Â Thought I’d share it anyway. Â Thanks for reading. Image is from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 