curled, twisted
broke and bent
pulled and pushed
torn and rent
pieces dropped
limbs lopped
all to shape
a perfect figment
of feminine
accomplishment
Conformity
Category: Poetry
The North Bird
Upon a hidden sea
Dreams fabled Halcyon
Lulled by gentle waves
Her nest fringed ’round in ice
She sings for Mid-Winter
Her frosted melody
Soothes the winter wind
Calling the sea to soft repose.
Another Day
Another day
Another ten rounds
Even when you can’t
You don’t want
To fight.
Any more.
No mas. No mas.
Those are the days
To fight the hardest.
We fight to live.
Counterpoint
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
~TS Eliot
(The Hollow Men)
That space between
A point
Of precarious balance
Where we exist
Both alive and not.
~ M.Stewart
(on complex-ptsd)
Divided
I cannot describe
how deep
the wound goes.
When I lost my
brother – he was
only seven and
I was only three.
After that
we shared
the same house.
We fought
and shunned
one another.
Neither one aware
of the poison
that forced us apart.
Quiet Grace
Grace walks a tip toe, and
is by nature a quiet soul, not
inclined to boastful words.
Grace speaks loudest
where no words are found,
in the embrace,
in comfort given,
in peace and even, yes,
in defense of the vulnerable.
Grace is gentle,
but never mistake
that for weakness.
Because it is only grace
that dares to walk the path
which can save us from ourselves.
A Brief Ode to 2020
The one thing certain
About all this uncertainty
Is that all our certainty
Is now certainly uncertain.
And that
The only thing certain
Is uncertainty.
That much is certainly certain.
Bone Deep
We were never meant to carry
The shame that goes bone-deep
for any reason,
for every reason,
for no reason.It is not ours to keep.
Raindrop
Heavy raindrops fall
Splashing on my glasses
Blinding me to all.
Michael takes away
The lenses that warp my sight
With a tender kiss.
Giving me shelter
From the chaos of my past
I cling to his strength
His oak to my ivy.
His sun to my rain.
Poetry Battle: Bliss
The prompt and the week that it is attached to sometimes are not in sync. This is the situation reflected in this entry to the poetry battle. The prompt was : Bliss.
The word repels me.
Turned its back on me.
So I turn away in turn.
Sore.
Ignored
And bruised.
It denies me its presence
So I deny its existence.
I will be
Barren stone
To being a fool
Waiting
Longer
Longing
For rain
To bloom.