Baiting her line with incantations
she casts her spell… imagines
an ocean of possibilities
ready to nibble at her bidding
As if words hold sway
and patience, power;
believes right intent is lure enough
to reel in destiny, determine fate.
(Rewrite of piece formerly entitled ‘Fishing’.
Image my own. Perhaps a silly goose?)
Words, like crickets
leap from my mind
chirping pests whose
trajectory eludes
dulled reflexes,
scuttling about
periphery of logic
Harmless, really,
in the singular –
cacophony of multitudes
threatening to multiply
take with them
semblance of sanity
Intuit a rhythm
I counsel self
to define the notes
in workable phrases
capture essence
and reason message
but the invaders
adverse to linearity
disappear beneath
the floorboards
of my conscious mind.
(Found this poem, languishing in my blog archives.
Edited, and with an updated title, thought it might
be worth a second look. Art my own.)
Shadows stalk our conversations,
hovering between lines spoken.
Mother fears death and I,
sidestep darkness…
It’s delusional to believe
we can think ourselves well
or avoid pain by seeking only light
I chew on my words
not wanting to inflict harm –
have done enough of that over the years
Pray for peace to guide her passage
the reassurance of forgiveness
love unconditional
Times like this, language
is sorely lacking, we stumble
build sentences, capture moments
Tell ourselves it will be enough.
It won’t be in the end.
It never is.
(A found poem, borrowed from a previous post, July 2019, on One Woman’s Quest II. Submitted for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: peace. Image my own)
Every child a dreamer
school the tribunal
where imagination
is sentenced to death
Adulthood is a canyon
where ambition shelters
the broader view, till age
resurrects the child.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own.)
Dawn breathes an invitation and Rumi’s words taunt me: Do not go back to sleep. I am loathe to greet the day – not that I despise its arrival, rather that waking has become laborious since the onset of chronic illness. Daughter of a military man, I am conditioned to rise before the sun, have a lifetime of such anecdotes to my credit, however; while the brain is still willing, the body groans, and aches wail with renewed emphasis as the numbing cocoon of sleep loosens. Hours dwindle from the first inkling of consciousness until muscles comply with movement, and I am lucky if I’m actually able to utter “Good Morning.”
Rays, like razors, slice,
invade sleep’s cocoon – absent
winged emergence.
(Good Afternoon first appeared here Sept 2018. Edited for this edition. The poetry form is haibun. I am pleased to report that waking has become easier, and most days I am able to greet the morning.)
Does the moon envy
sun’s glorified reign –
(gender inferred)
Sons were sun
in my family,
we women lunar
Father straddled
the two – a secret
we fought to suppress
Fluidity of pronouns
non-existant
in formative years.
(Image my own)
I feel deeply honoured to be part of September’s issue of Tangled Locks Journal. Thank you to Teresa Berkowitz for accepting my poem, “Feline”. Please visit me there, and take a moment to peruse all the writing: you won’t be disappointed.
Tangled Locks Journal is published quarterly. Information for how to get involved is available on the site.
Dock sitting
past midnight
parental drone
humming in distance
Two silhouettes
haloed in moonlight
I lean in, heart pounding
your lips brush my forehead
Nothing more…
Nevermind! I blurt
scrambling to leave
rejection a soul tattoo
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own. Care to join me and write about your first kiss?
Drop me a link so I don’t miss it.)
Armed with righteous conformity
the zealots rang my bell
Came calling on a cleaning day,
in that remote country hell
Spotted me before I did them
my attention on wringing the mop
No choice but to answer
and before I could ask them to stop
Carefully scripted narrative
tumbled from pious lips
Bemused, I noted neither blink
as I, stark naked, stood hands on hips.
(Image my own)
Plant me in the country
under city lights I melt
I need open skies
where nature thrives
I am tourmaline
un-mined
urban blight
danger beyond repair
plant me in the country
my soul is buried there.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson.
Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 