poetry, writing

Transformation

Her sight grew dim as she walked down the trail,

the light fading with the setting of the sun.

In the absence of vision her ears perked up,

listening for every whisper among the trees,

every twig that snapped under her feet.

The moon would rise soon, so she carried on,

not waiting for the beams to illuminate the way,

to that secret place she ventured toward,

the precipice of her journey.

In the distance, a clearing from the forest opened,

she drew closer to that point.

In her hand, she held a small flower.

The moon rose in the distance between the peaks,

the beams danced off her dark brown eyes,

making them shine like the evening stars.

She took a seat, holding the flower before her,

and let out a sigh. The trip was symbolic only,

today there would be no immediate change,

but change had to be made.

She looked out to the valley below,

the moon shimmering off the lake and river,

while the town’s streetlights still glowed.

A single tear fell from her eyes,

bounced on the petals, then rolled off.

She smiled with a pained grimace,

both relieved but also sad.

Slowly, she let go of that flower,

watching it float on the wind.

That night, the beautiful blossom changed

into a glorious butterfly with wings.

Transformation Audio
writing

Worry

Grey skies would not give way today,

the sun stayed hidden,

matching the mood of our home.

Sickness came to visit, two days passed,

no improvement and a night full of worry.

Checking every few hours, sheets soaked through,

insistence it was nothing more than food poisoning,

or the like. But his heart, I worry about his heart.

Cold sweats were the sign before, puts me on edge.

He pushed through the morning,

but finally he laid back down.

Then, his fever had broke when he woke.

Finally, signs of normalcy, hungry for dinner at least.

Hopefully, vacation will go on without another hitch.

writing

Days Away

She looped a stray curl behind her ear,

As she bit her bottom lip, concentrating.

It had been a busy few weeks, but

Finally, the end was in sight.

Her anticipation grew,

Soon they would board that plane

And fly far away. Away from here,

The constant demands from work,

They both had been through the ringer,

They have no more to give. So it was time,

Time to get away, to see the mountains

To travel out west. A well deserved break.

A time to recover from all this strain.

Uncategorized

Raw

Yes, I get angry, and I hurt.

I scream, I sulk, I slam things.

I cry.

I pour on the super sweet,

I am trying to keep the peace.

I work hard to let things go.

I retreat into my own world.

The de facto stance of me.

I woke him up this morning,

Not even upset with him,

Just tired of the same ol’ shit.

Dishes piled, left for two days.

He knows to rinse out the damn cups.

But it really wasn’t toward him.

I don’t know why things bother me.

I smile through the moment,

And then, in my solitude, I vent.

Dropping the glass jars into the trash,

Because this hellhole doesn’t recycle,

Rescuing the wood cutting board

Left soaking in water, slamming it down.

I could never hurt a fly,

But there are times my tongue is razor sharp.

After all, no one is perfect.

I try to keep it to just me,

Only those closest see through,

The fake smile, the anxiety,

to the real me.

poetry, writing

Chasm

The earth shifts and quakes.

I lose my balance once more.

Shifting, bucking up and down,

the chasm grows once more,

pebbles and rock scatter down.

The bridge sways and tightens

ropes straining under the pressure.

I hear the creaking in the ropes

as the peak on the far side rises,

trying to move out of reach again.

I stumble back and fall on my ass,

tears welling up in my eyes.

Do I chance out across that bridge,

slowly breaking until it is but a tight rope,

or hold back in this place of safety,

wondering if there will be a chance

in some future time, some future place?

Perhaps in a different lifetime the goal awaits.

writing

Curls

I sit here, playing with curls I haven’t had in years. The pandemic and a bad haircut from Mom midway through let me take a break from my typical pixie style. Truth be known, I started growing it out for you.

So it makes me sad as I know, nothing is as it was before. Thinned, grey and coal black hair even though I color it, can’t hide from age. My crown no longer flows with beautiful tresses, and this year’s stress has taken its toll.

I will enjoy my curls a few days more. Then mourn a little on Wednesday as they fall and bounce on the floor. It has to be done though; I look a mess. This Wonder Woman no longer can no longer carry a full head of locks. I guess the Ruby Rose look will have to do.

poetry, writing

Escape

Sand falls from an outstretched hand.

Vibrantly white, soft as talcum powder.

Toes dig in seeking shade from the sun

On a sweltering hot day under pale blue skies.

A bead of sweat rolls down her neck,

only to be cooled by a warm breeze.

Waves lap onto the shore,

Washing thoughts and stress away.

Now she’s ready to live another day.

poetry, writing

Night Rain

A crack of thunder makes me jump.

Lightning flashes through windows

illuminating the dark evening sky.

Rain hits the house, building to a low roar,

as the wind slaps the oak branches on the roof.

Finally, outside calms to a distant rumble.

I settle back in, adjusting my pillow,

while a steady rhythm of rain returns

lulling me to sleep.

I love rainy nights.

Night Rain
poetry, writing

Welcome to the Masquerade

Frozen smiles plastered on lips,

Masks and Sunglasses blocking bloodshot eyes.

Messed hair tucked up into wigs and hats.

Let the Masquerade begin.

Frivolity, spinning, around and around.

Lovely clothes hang from corpse-like bodies.

Make-up cakes their ashen skin.

Let the Masquerade begin.

Hiding behind their masks, never letting it be seen.

Their exhaustion, their age, their wanting to leave.

They push through wondering when.

Will this Masquerade ever end?

poetry, writing

To Be a Spoiled Kitty

Her little nose makes this sound,

Not a mew, but a wee little snore.

She curls against my leg,

Her fur warms my hip

As she dreams away.

She’s my little shadow

And sometimes she takes the lead,

Especially when she wants

water from the tap

Or a little fresh air

from an open window.

But tonight she is content,

licking the air as she sleeps,

off in her kitty dreamland.