If
I were
to write
every day
for one
hundred days,
would my soul
be purged of
this malaise;
is it a thing
to be dredged,
dragged up –
twisted
and tied
like tattered
bed sheets
knotted
together;
is there
a remedy
for this
scourge;
or is this
an inherent
restlessness,
a fiery blue
spark of eternal
angst igniting
passion – a call
to write?
(Originally posted February, 2017. Image my own)
It’s not like I didn’t know
that life is tenuous
and death a given
I chose to ignore the signs –
seems that which we avoid
has a way of catching up
I pin-balled my way
searching for something
undefinable
A break from responsibility?
a Saviour?
Condemned myself as failure
Sentenced to a lifetime
of love lacking
How does one traverse such margins?
Re-engage in the face of rejection?
I have pen,
and thoughts,
and maybe
if I bleed enough,
the path will be revealed.
(Image my own)
Words, like crickets, leap inside my head –
chirping pests whose trajectory eludes
my dulled reflexes, scuttles about
the periphery of awareness.
Harmless in the singular,
a cacophony of multitudes
threaten any semblance
of sanity.
I strive to intuit their rhythm
define the notes in workable phrases
capture the message before
it all disappears again.
(Art my own)
Sentences refuse to form –
words, however, bear pairing
Punch-packed phrases
delicate unnervings
Fear grasps the wrist
stunts sentences –
thoughts staccato
emotions gagging
Poetry loosens the grip
bundles the mayhem
spits it out –
births breakthrough.
Thank you so much to Navigating the Change for offering the opportunity. Warning, this article deals with end of life, medical assistance in dying (MAID)
Squatters fill the corners
of my unused mind,
a constant clatter
detracting from intention
Incensed by the implication –
how others have used me –
how boundaries have no effect
I demand they leave…
Futility at its best
Then I hear the child cry
a tug on my undernourished heart
certain of her need unattended
I will take her in my arms
seek out accountability
find only neglect
and manipulation
Flatter myself that I, alone
can save her –
let the intrusion be
more fodder, I concede
for the pen…
(Image my own)
Write to enlighten –
words are keys,
phrases fodder
We are conductors,
orchestrating ideas
penning odes to life.
(Poets first appeared January 20. Image my own)
Nose under throw rugs,
looking for what’s been swept aside;
or rustling about in back closets,
turning over the unused and out-of-date;
or straddling boards in the attic,
straining to ascertain new, if not precarious, angles –
the writer’s home of choice is seclusion.
(Image mine)
You may believe, Dear Reader,
that the words are mine to command
that I carefully contrive the message
form and structure succumbing
to my direction, syntax following suit
It has not been my intention to deceive
but, you see, I am mere slave to the whim
words hold the power, strangle my thoughts,
demand expression – they are haunting things,
rooted in urgency, and unwilling to bend
I would love to accept praise, pretend
a wisdom that is not mine, but words…
…well, they are born of some alien seed
growing within, nurtured I know not how,
and I am merely the vessel through which
their staccato voyage unravels
Stubborn as they are, silly things, really –
although I dare not say, for they can be vengeful
and vile, and I prefer the fluid passage
of expression than the painful, tearing,
slashing of words – monstrous as they can be
IÂ am rendered servant by their insistence
(Image my own)
Words, like crickets,
leap from my mind –
chirping pests
whose trajectory
eludes my dulled
reflexes, scuttling
around the periphery
of my awareness
Harmless, really,
in the singular,
a cacophony
in multitudes
threatening
to multiply further
and destroy any
semblance of sanity
I must intuit
their rhythm,
define the notes
in workable phrases,
capture the essence
of their meaning
and inscribe the message
before they disappear again.
(Pestilence of Words first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, October 2016. Edited for this edition. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 