Superstitious

Initials carved
on a tree
in the sand

silent cries
begging
witness?

Mortal eyes
only offer
indifference

Signals then,
to a sentient being,
nature-sourced

an ancient longing,
indefinable,
unquenchable

Tides erase,
time distorts –
no telling

what response
will be achieved –
a superstitious quest.

(Written for 50 word Thursday.  Image compliments of Deb Whittam.)

 

Penance

The idealist is annoyed,
cannot forgive these flaws –

how delight can melt into forgetfulness,
exertion transform into immobility,

the insistence that I have no control –
choosing anger over depression,

either way, a loss – unacceptable
to the one who promotes perfection –

I wear the blame, like a hairshirt –
penance for intolerable truths.

Conspiracy Theory

The floorboards,
imagining themselves waves,
undulate,
throw my balance
off kilter…

The lemonade,
ignoring my thirst,
refuses to open –
holds fast to top
rendering me weak

Even the frying pan
fights my efforts,
twisting my wrist as if
arm wrestling,
rather than cooking,
is the game called for here.

Surrendering, I sit,
and with propped up legs
pull out the laptop,
certain that perusing
blog posts will meet
with less upheaval,

but the keyboard
is a trickster,
misreads my commands
and windows open and close
without reason, and
frustrated I push it aside.

This house is conspiring
turning a perfectly capable
human being, into a fumbling,
doddery old fool.

(Written for V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: personification)

Image from personal collection.

Poetry on Aging

Came across this post today, and felt the hand of synchronicity at play. Michele’s words reminded me that my experience is not unique. She speaks to the human condition of aging eloquently.

Michele Sharpe

“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Aging is the sort of inevitable, non-negotiable topic that fascinates poets. Birth, school, work, death, in the immortal lyrics of The Godfathers.

Some of us fight aging. Some of us embrace it. Whichever approach is yours, though, aging beats the alternative. In the immortal words of someone.

People in my family die young. Maybe that’s why I’ve always wanted to be old. Or maybe it’s because I’d hoped to be old and wise, to stop making the same foolish mistakes over and over again.

That hasn’t happened yet, but aging has made me lazier, meaning that I now have no energy at all to boss other people around about how to spend their days. It’s all I can do to manage my own days.

One of my…

View original post 200 more words

Boxed Revelation

Insignificant enough
to go missing –
a single box,
stored away,
one, maybe two,
moves ago –
the absence
of its contents
now called into question.
Seems that redundancy
is not permanent –
what was once inconsequential
now has purpose –
gives me renewed hope.

(Today’s quadrille prompt is box.  Visit dVerse to participate.  Our host this evening is De Jackson.)

Moss

The past clings,
like moss, nurtured
by tears unshed,
like sap untapped,
warps minds,
sense of self,
craves perceptional
shift –
a vernal appreciation
for the grandeur
of our contours,
brilliance of wisdom
garnered through strife –
the undeniable elegance
of lush green moss.

(Photo from personal collection: rainforest on Vancouver Island.)

Gratitude for dVerse

This current disconnect leaves me toe-tapping restless;
see, disease has commandeered my operating system,
and it’d be safe to say, if my body was an elevator
then it never really reaches any floor, and the state
of my alignment leaves me stumbling and ungrounded.
So staying put and writing is about the best I can do –
dVerse that makes me awfully appreciative of you!

(dVerse is celebrating 7 years with a call for a septet – a poem of 7 lines, or stanzas of 7 lines. Check them out!)

Midsummer Night’s Trap

I am no Titania,
whose mind poisoned
by Puck’s subterfuge,
finds your asinine
nature alluring.

You once slaughtered
all rational instincts,
beheaded my sensibility,
paraded my gored heart
like a trophy oozing blood

Thought to seduce me
anew, so confidant in
your primal charms,
my carnal libido, but no
flowery fog deludes me

you are not a guileless
Bottom, but an incubus
maliciously motivated,
a destroyer of souls,
conquest a side sport…

So willingly we entered
that midnight garden
of lust – me, innocent
as Helena, you a serpent
in the plot, more twisted

than Puck’s foiled plan;
I fear I have not removed
myself far enough from
that enchanted dystopia,
am grasping to reach

something stable, sane…
a solid security that defies
magical notions, grounds
me in respectability, a return
to a banality that precludes you.

(Midsummer Night’s Trap originally appeared here March, 2017.  I am reposting for Laura’s Manic Monday 3-way prompt: poison.)

Conned

Even as fingers – swift
and seductive – thieved,
she moaned invitation,
ignored the warnings

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

He didn’t need a weapon –
the flash of iced blue eyes
and a throaty whisper
rendered her compliant

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

He was pro, conscience
numbed by a list of victims –
so many wasted lives,
faceless towns left behind

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

She blamed it on the passion –
the sudden confusion, misplacing
things, money – her thoughts
blinders set on a glowing future

so eager to please,
so hungry for love

Blamed herself in the aftermath,
would rather he’d used a knife,
slashed her body – violence
less shameful than this

so eager to please,
so hungry for love.