Emotions don wheels,
tear about, burn rubber,
congest – psychic traffic jam.
Alone, there is no outlet,
no scapegoat for this tirade,
just a damned discomfort.
No worries – I will pace
from distraction to distraction,
until sanity makes a comeback.
(Thanks to all the prompters for providing the words to describe today’s state of mind: Ragtag Community (comeback), Fandango (traffic), Manic Mondays 3 Way (damned), and Daily Addictions (tirade).)
This tingling I feel –
my own – your body,
feather light and smooth,
is inert, rolls passively
in my palm, invites
intimacy – softness
of bristles, a reminder,
of the need for mindfulness
I inhale your woodsy scent,
a hint of last night’s liquid
spreading – poised
between my index
and middle fingers,
you remind me of another
addiction – less satisfying –
ours is a collusion of
pleasure – submission
performing on command –
from my mind to hand
to instrument – harmonious
orchestration… let’s paint.
(Written for dVerse Poetics, hosted tonight by Sarah Southwest)
Laid out, in a tapestry,
I suppose the overriding
message would be inconsistency –
a montage of seemingly unrelated
images, the blatant disconnection
offending to the eye, and yet…
closer inspection might reveal
a thread of commonality –
the presence of orange,
in its many incarnations,
woven into each tableau…
a hint of the woman whose
wanderlust has driven her
in so many directions
a passion, that like the sun
cannot contain its rays –
a willingness to embrace
the unknown, acceptant of
endings and beginnings.
I regard myself as inquisitor,
charged with assessing motivations
of crimes, turning over choices,
looking under rocks for disclosure
of weaknesses and fallacies,
questioning the what ifs and whys,
as if life could be rewritten –
the interrogator has no appreciation
for colour, does not allow credit
for tinges of orange, judges only
in terms of black and white…
lacks the empathy to behold wonder
in a life, that despite its incoherence,
depicts a tapestry of survival:
a testimony to the art
of a creative soul’s passage.
(Written originally as way of self-introduction for my writing circle, submitted here in response to Willow Poetry’s challenge: What do you See?)
Photo courtesy of Willow Poetry.
Bottles and books
gathering possibilities
applications considered
optimistic intent
Potions and words
measuring and recording
experimental diaries
hopeful science –
Tinctures and incantations
ritualistic manipulations
desperate contriving
insanity lurking…
Glass and paper
mold and mildew
dust covered discards
a spider’s haven
Empty and well-perused
shelf-liners stacked
memorabilia cluttering
despair’s cupboard
(Photo provided by Deb Whittam, for 50 Word Thursday.)
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.)
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.
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.
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.
“Old grandmother with gray hair and a wrinkled face closing her eyes in black and white.” by Cristian Newman on Unsplash
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
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.)
One Woman's Quest 