A life of servitude,
the guru said,
surely leads to Nirvana
No debate permitted –
we are but plebes
answer his every need
mere women, born
to serve, to nurture…
I flee the cult
Why? Because I can.
Servitude does not
negate free will.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Pythagorus surmised
a theorem of patterns
defining life’s mysteries
Despite my abhorrence
for numbers, I concur that
there is order to the unknown
Guided by compassion
I walk that intrepid riddle
seek the enlightened path.
( Image my own.)
Lust ignores warning signals
fancies itself a savvy consumer
commits minor infractions with
confidence, sidestepping anxiety.
Loneliness, nearsighted, shops
without discernment, fails to
recognize that all life is transient
and patience is the key to harmony.
Love – the main attraction – is not
a lone chauffeur, nor a self-serving
commander, feeding off helplessly
dis-abled hearts bordering insanity
nor is it initiated by determination
a product of drive – brokenness
barreling through hurt’s congestion
misinterpreting openings. The path
to intimacy requires compliance,
obeys service, calms egos, a slow
non-consumer-based passage –
no bargains in the commitment dept.
(Love in Aisle Nine first appeared here in December, 2017. Image is my own.)
Fancy myself pragmatic
but these cherubic faces
render me nostalgic
Not for the times –
for they were hard –
but for the ideal lost
Speculate on failings
shallow expectations,
pray I did enough.
(Found this old photograph of my two girls.)
Try to hide this longing
but am as obstreperous
as a Blue Jay proclaiming presence.
Please know, that behind
awkwardness is a heart true
purity of intent incognito.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own. As a child and into my dating years, I was called obnoxious. Now that connecting with others is limited, I am once again aware of how this over exuberant side of myself emerges from time to time.)
inkblots mutate to form pictures, alphabets, stories I did not create
***
decorated trees sway to songs emanating from masked lips imagining smiles that reach twinkling toes and luminous tips (Words are from Reena's Exploration challenge. Art my own.)
Even heroes lapse
life’s connections tenuous
I set my dial on pleasing
regret failures –
Wish I could shake
this empathetic impulse
Allow others just to be –
focus on accountability for me.
(Image mine)
Male mallard
once procuring
offspring, abandons
Female, charged with care
becomes a target, often
killed by next mate
I contemplate the orphans
the cruelty rendered
what purpose struggle serves.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own.)
Father’s grip
controlling crush
warned against
disobedience
First love
Grade one
holding hands
walking home
A sister’s hand –
frail flesh stretched
over aching bones –
clung to mine
until too hot to touch
I had to let go
while she surrendered
her last breath.
A lover’s hand
lacks stillness –
strokes and cajoles
sensuality evoking desire
Held my children’s hands
with my heart –
never wanting to let go
prideful possession
A granddaughter’s fist
still pink from birthing
wraps around my finger
gripping the unknown
with the ferocity of
one hungry for life
Husband’s hand
reaches for mine
conveys support –
strength to propel
me forward.
Hands convey
what the mind cannot –
a secret language
nuanced for life’s moments
leaving deep impressions.
(Hand Holding first appeared here August, 2018. I submit an edited edition here for Reena’s Exploration challenge: hands. Image from personal collection.)
And when the fatal breath expels
and all is quiet, will you remember me
Bright as an orange bloom
with my words locked inside
A poem inspiring eternity
or will my essence shrivel
Be lost – like dust particles
exposed in afternoon sunbeams?
(Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 