creativity · poetry · writing

Nothing To Fear Here

Fragmented
as this soul may be
fear not this disarray –
I flow with a rhythm –
emphatic beats tuned
to love’s call.

(Image from personal collection)

disability · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

Sleeping Alone

Sleeping alone
with so much intrusion –

child born of good intentions
awash in a trail of barricades

I cope, cook up breezes, strike
wet ground – stuff myself to satiate

the onslaught, ground rapidly shifting –
Earth Mother exerting presence –

too stubborn, I turn away, look for
God but my cup keeps moving –

I am unreachable, charmed by
a broken tale, aimless, oppositional

overwhelmed – cry out but absence
holds no listeners – need adhesive

to fix this urgency – a peerless torrent –
if only I could simply these wounds

find a stopgap – emotion overflows,
exerts turmoil, sorrow replaying

sleep offers no repair, alone,
tormented by the issue at hand.

(Every so often, I revisit old poems and revise.  Sleeping Alone first appeared here in December of 2017, when I was still in the throes of severe illness.  I’ve come along way and it’s good to look back and see the progress. I am also linking this up to my weekly challenge, reaching.)

aging · life · poetry · recovery · writing

Unfair

Sporting crisply pressed regrets
and tight-assed judgments,
the past happened upon me,
caught me mid-mediocracy,
eye-balled me with a sneer,
and then strolled on by as if
I wasn’t even worth a ‘hello’.

Wait a minute, I cried out
trying to pull myself together,
noting too late, my lack of
grooming, how unfairly
I’d been caught off guard –
Wait!  I’ve been wanting
to tell you…I mean… I was
just too young…

All in vain, he’d vanished,
left me gaping and rattled –
damned he looked good –
foolishly pining after
righteousness, imagining
the past as something
tangible, curable….

blogging · creativity · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

Dis-abled Self

A wounded creature, I circle the pack;
A laggard seeking inroads, missing cues;
A social wanna be without the smack –
This fogged state a waning of my hues.

My path a heartless road through blinding snow,
And I without a map or coat, alone –
To ask for help, a degradation – No!
Tis arrogance and stubbornness I own.

I’ll bide my time on sidelines crying ill,
Bemoan this wretched fate and limp along;
Til self-indulgence wears thin, then I will
By humble act, declare I do belong.

And in the end no consequence is worse:
Than mulish woman bearing no self-worth.

(This modest attempt at iambic pentameter is brought to you by the promptings of Frank at dVerse.  Hope it wasn’t too painful.)

adversity · mental-health · poetry

Living With The Enemy

Thought I’d divorced myself from
indifference, recovered from abject
betrayal, but; here I am, co-habiting
with deceit again, occupying uneven
ground, reduced to questioning
motives and reactions.

I’ve been down this road before,
dragged through the shame of
behind my back whispers – need
to confront the perpetrator,
and any co-conspirators, stop
the home-wrecker before she
strikes again, convince them all

that this is not self-perpetuated,
but a sham, and a crime, and
that my heart is breaking here,
and damn it; I deserve better, but
as I said, I am living with the enemy
residing in this single story, one-body
hell, and I’m not sure if I can take any
more self-destructive examinations –
pretty sure one of us is about to
implode, and then what?