My house is in order!
I shout to a cosmos
intent on ignoring my pleas
chthonic forces insist
on invading dreams
psychic locks ineffectual
no barriers to protect
when soul mocks
purported equilibrium
Order, spirit answers,
is a temporal concept;
continue to grow.
(For Ragtag Community’s prompt: temporal. Image from personal collection.)
Confronted with the confines
of your hate-centered speech,
I choke on disbelief,
mind sputters, stalls,
conversation moves on
and all I can manage
is an impotent withdrawal.
(Submitted for Ragtag Community’s prompt: sputter, and Fandango’s: manage. Inspired by the hate rhetoric passed about on social media, often initiated by those I otherwise respect. How do you respond?)
So bound are we
by customs,
and customary,
that seldom
do we recognize
absence –
sparks numbed
and motivation
dwindled –
what is awry
morphs into
projection,
deflection –
easier than
untethering
the leash,
the fear
accompanying
Spirit’s freedom –
the rearing up
of wildness,
or god forbid,
the moxy
to make
real change.
(Written for 50 Word Thursday, with added inspiration from Fandango (bound), Ragtag Community (absent), Daily Addictions (awry).)
Sensing foulness of mood
they slither out from dark places –
whirling wisps of putrid insinuation
Clever they are, and almost imperceptible
but I am clever also, have succumbed
one too many times to the deceit
will not be played by the mutterings
prodding me to find fault with others
to claim myself unjustly wronged.
With the force of a mountain
I stand fast, repel the daemons,
command uncompromising clarity.
Hissing with disappointment,
the spineless creatures retreat,
disappear to plot their next attack.
(Tonight’s prompt at dVerse comes from Jilly who challenges us to write about the unseen. I am also including this post in Ragtag Community’s challenge: play.)
Front porch –
a balcony view –
retirement’s play.
Novel – this place –
silence stretches,
pauses briefly –
a car creeps by,
or a dog barks –
my heart beats…
inside – commotion –
pounding hammers,
swoosh of legs in motion –
not mine – body bankrupt –
mind impoverished –
no – not that – just struggling.
empty boxes pile up,
others – contents lingering,
unresolved – call my name,
but the front porch
makes promises –
there is time…
(I am a day late for dVerse, but intrigued by the challenge, decided to join in anyway. Today’s prompts are: commotion (Fandango), novel (Ragtag Community), poverty (Daily Addictions). Photo is front porch view – our first sunset.)
Chance encounter,
a simple “hello”,
and I reel
backwards,
grasping…
blank
the mind a trickster,
memory inaccessible,
panic pulses
a response…
hovers
out of reach
expectancy
a deadline…
Am I smiling?
Or just an inert fool,
this brain fog
a cruel master.
(Ran into an old friend today. Could not remember her name, nor where I knew her from, only that we knew each other quite well. This is has been happening frequently – maybe as I get out more. Very disconcerting.
Prompts today are from Fandango: deadline; Ragtag Community: pulse; and Daily Addictions: access.)
Comfortable is the state
I aspire to today –
lounging pants,
a weathered tee,
and a pace to match.
Tomorrow, we prepare:
finish up packing,
load the vehicle,
await the signal –
the house is ours!
Small town living
is the setting of choice –
Stonetown – quaint
shops, cottages of lime,
a river running through it
We’ll settle in amongst
other seniors, register
for local activities, walk
along the trails, and
visit nearby theaters
take the grandchildren
swimming in the quarry,
blue as it is deep –
water trampolines
and kayaks ready for fun.
Yet another adventure,
in our life of many –
so today, I rest, make plans,
nap – save my energy
for busy tomorrows.
(Thanks to Fandango for the daily prompt: comfortable, and to the Ragtag community for quarry. The focus of my weekly challenge is home. Love it if you’d join me.)
Not much of a gardener,
but seems I’m adept
at growing dirty clothes –
the shirt I planted
Monday, having now
sprouted many offshoots,
the fruit heavy and pungent
overflowing the hamper,
begging to be picked.
Nothing golden
about this skill however,
more melancholy than
rewarding, the hours
dedicated to folding
and putting away
akin to self-castigation –
only temporarily satisfying.
Suppose I can’t complain;
a day’s toil has merit
and even if the harvest
reaps no foodstuffs
nor the fragrance
of fresh cut flowers,
I am at very least
assured to be presentable
should going out be an option.
(Inspired by this day’s chore and the daily prompts of Fandango: melancholy, Ragtag Community: gold, and Daily Addictions: dedicate. Thanks for dropping by.)
Whatever you do
give it 110%
Father’s words
whirl,
confuse,
belittle
ambiguous, at best,
attainment remote
I am not enough
Good, better, best,
never let them rest…
morning chant –
eggs and bacon,
(seldom acceptable)
served up
by an ever-inadequate
mother,
Father’s criticism
whipping,
cruel
I will never be enough
apologize before beginning
a wallflower
on the social scene
a plebe
in the working world
presence hesitant
accomplishment tentative
Winners never quit and
quitters never win
blood boils
silently
I scream
Till I cannot bear one more
extempore lecture
face my foe
square on
catch a glimpse
of what?…
self-doubt?
fear?
These tirades
are not personal
it is not my ineptitude
at stake
merely the railings
of a tortured soul
trying to find
solid footing
on unsteady ground
I am learning to be enough.
(V.J.’s weekly challenge is accomplishment. I’ve been pondering why it is so difficult to feel as if I’ve accomplished anything, when logically I know I have. The daily prompts helped me to put this in context. Thanks for Fandango for ambiguous, Ragtag Community for extempore, Daily Addictions for remote.)
We sail, determined,
and yet, the destination
is not of our choosing,
charted by memories
and the inadequacy
of words, language
faltering in foreign
depths.
We are islands,
formed out of
convenience
afraid to open
our foundational hatch,
face the illicit truth,
unwilling to examine
the precariousness
of our plot,
unable to pay
the price,
prefer the buoyant
arrogance
of pretence,
faith relying on
the ungrounded
swell of the ocean
to rebirth us.
(Inspired by a dream and written to conform to the daily prompts of Fandango: memory, Ragtag Community: open, and Daily Addictions: convenience. Thanks all for the fuel. Photo from personal collection.)
One Woman's Quest 