We’ll buy a boat,
he promised,
spend our days adrift
on a sea of possibilities.
So, she waited,
tethered her hopes
with ropes of whimsy
to a future with sails.
But years passed and
time revealed that words
hold no water, and lies
are no vessel for love.
Now, she contemplates
oceans, photographs
sailboats, docked –
possibilities set aside.
We grow our world
under evening light,
all soul charm and dance –
he a gentle father,
nice guy, quiet…
I believed.
But when search neared,
touchy –Â see a former ruse,
one smile warmed and…
sod off!
(Friday, I visit Magnetic Poetry online – words not my own, but I take responsibility for the construction. Image from personal collection.)
Who ghosts desire?
I long for a kiss,
my glass belly ice
& concrete clouding
our porcelain peace.
A good woman lingers,
then after voices joy
I, marble angel,
let men like father,
with grass on their hand,
pat eternity,
the door sheer,
timely,
Life!
(Disclaimer: Â Fridays I play around online with Magnetic Poetry. Â The words are not mine, and therefore; I cannot be held responsible for the outcome…right?! Lol.)
Blamed Father for this strife,
how he twisted and spun our life,
seldom paused to give a thought
for the many wars that he fought –
how conflict made us victims all
veterans who from favour did fall.
(Tuesday is Twitter poetry day. Â Visit me @Vjknutson.)
Caught relaxing –
ignorant sleep,
treacherous faith
beneath security
salvation preyed upon,
skin-crawling danger
support ill-gotten
rescuer threatening
outcome beastly
misunderstood
I am off-work,
harassed
refuse light
failed legs
kicking back
enemy projects
feigns warmth
damage protected.
I’ll compromise
exert smiles
exit and breathe.
(Today we attend a memorial service for a friend. Â My former co-workers will be in attendance including one who tried to stir up trouble for me in my absence. Â Grant me strength. Â I’m linking this up to Reena’s Exploration Challenge which is compromise.)
How broken those with blue hearts
who embrace only poison breezes.
I dance rhythmless,
lingering on an almost stout word
men need cool from voices
baby, girly, cat, no eternity fare
I devour the salty note
bit life surrounding that din.
(Fridays are magnetic poetry)
Daughters ride
emotional escalators –
while sons prefer
a higher ground –
more attic than sound,
motivations vague
Parents observe,
bite tongues
wish they had a key
to disengage lethargy,
ignite reason –
and turn the volume
down on drama.
What’s her name?
Simple question
from mother to son –
recognizing the love-lifted
joy of his countenance.
I cannot tell, said he,
you’ll ask too many questions.
Do I know her?
No, Mom, she’s Somali.
And Muslim.
I felt my whiteness
and all its privilege
slap me, stumbled
Of course she is welcome,
of course it does not matter.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how heads
would turn, and vile strangers
attack, and his father shun them.
And how her own mother
would advise her to take his name
when the day of their nuptials came
so that finding work would be easier.
Had no sense of the depth
of my ignorance, how
everyday matters suffer
unfair scrutiny –
hold them in my heart
and pray, knowing my shield
of whiteness holds no sway
to protect them..
(Written for dVerse pub, where Anmol challenges us to address the topic of privilege.)
He recalls we were gorgeous,
pleased me like an egg – fast
Why lie to men about
what blow must skin cry?
We are black from mist above moan,
I bare my drive as pink,
sit through summer of aching,
show my gown sweet…
though never did sleep.
(Fridays are magnetic poetry. Â Find it online at magnetic poetry.com. Â Love it if you’d join me.)
Statuesque as a Great Blue Heron,
she wades silently, patiently,
her long-necked beauty,
and generous wingspan,
testament to a tender soul.
She dreams of a mate
who can unfold her,
carry her to new heights.
Rustling in a nearby bush,
she encounters a partridge –
shorter than her, and
rotund, his countenance grey.
She is drawn to the candour
of his misery, how vilely
he has been misplaced –
his wife and nest robbed by
another, more showy beast.
Pity masks itself as kinship
and as love does, she dons
blinders, ignores the fact that
he prefers ground dwelling,
tells herself she will adapt
to his packs, learn his ways
Once dreamt of a mate
who could unfold her,
carry her to new heights.
Her shoulders slump, and
she draws her neck in now,
wings forgetting how to soar –
she is diminishing in the
confines of a single field
while her Partridge mate,
remains a partridge –
only fatter.
(Written for dVerse pub, hosted by Björn tonight, who challenges us to use metaphor. I might have got carried away…oh, well, excuse me while I flock off.)
One Woman's Quest 