Self Portrait In Colours

Found an old diary –
days when I painted myself white,
prayed to angels, believed God
cared about personal forever after –
painted myself pathetic.

Took me back –
days when I painted myself pink,
altruistic heart committed to indifference,
yearned for the unrequited, sacrificed –
painted myself foolish.

Read between the lines –
days when I painted myself yellow,
so desperately co-dependent,
projected sunshine, risked it all –
painted myself delusional.

Wonder that I’d survived –
painted myself broken,
found strength, moved on,
made better choices –
painted myself indigo.

(Self Portrait in Colours originally appeared here in August of 2016.  Edited.




Sleep is For Other

I toil in the dreamtime
like a night manager
in a hotel without walls,
catering to clientele –
whose needs, so diverse,
rattle the rows of beds –

settling disputes and
encouraging discretion
and succeeding only
in waking exhausted.

I am like a keeper in
a hostile hostel –
trying to find a key
when there are no
doors to unlock.

(Inspired by sleepless nights and erratic dreaming, and submitted for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt – unlock. ¬†Featured image is titled “Self-Portrait with Colours” although my son says it looks more like a LSD trip – I didn’t ask. Alternate title: ¬†“I am Slowly Going Crazy”, lol.)


Laid out, in a tapestry,
I suppose the overriding
message would be inconsistency –

a montage of seemingly unrelated
images, the blatant disconnection
offending to the eye, and yet…

closer inspection might reveal
a thread of commonality –
the presence of orange,
in its many incarnations,
woven into each tableau…

a hint of the woman whose
wanderlust has driven her
in so many directions

a passion, that like the sun
cannot contain its rays –
a willingness to embrace
the unknown, acceptant of
endings and beginnings.

I regard myself as inquisitor,
charged with assessing motivations
of crimes, turning over choices,
looking under rocks for disclosure
of weaknesses and fallacies,
questioning the what ifs and whys,
as if life could be rewritten –

the interrogator has no appreciation
for colour, does not allow credit
for tinges of orange, judges only
in terms of black and white…

lacks the empathy to behold wonder
in a life, that despite its incoherence,
depicts a tapestry of survival:

a testimony to the art
of a creative soul’s passage.

(Written originally as way of self-introduction for my writing circle, submitted here in response to Willow Poetry’s challenge:  What do you See?)

Photo courtesy of Willow Poetry.