Category: self awareness

She Detaches

Photo Courtesy of Alexander Dodds on Pexels.com
Detach,

Detach from it all,

All that held her down,

Sandbags of what others wanted,

Needed, expected her to be.



She detaches,

Cutting loose and through

Tentacles of veins and arteries,

Strangling ropes of memories.



The things she could never be-

Mary, The Mother, to wash you clean

Before placing you in your tomb;

A variant of some second coming

To cure you and cleanse you of sins;

The perpetual penitent 

To beg forgiveness from you:

All these she will not be.



From these things you wanted her to be,

She detaches, though she wears

The scars of the floggings given her

By those who accuse her, blame her

For not being enough—

The scars waxen now melt 

In the warmth of her detachment.



Though you call her cold, emotionless,

When she detaches from those who

Bleed her life away,

When she rises

From beneath the ton of stones 

You place upon her chest 

To stop her breath,

Freed from the stone,

She breathes.

When the Familiar Dies

Image courtesy of TheSpruce.com
wk 238 familiar
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/category/weekend-writing-prompt/

She walks to the end

of dark uncurling days

at the edge of the earth,

witnesses the new day

split open–

petals soft,

beautiful.

She’d give it to herself

could it be contained,

arranged within some vase,

held within her hands,

that cannot hold

such flowering strength.

She breathes in hope,

taking it deep into her lungs

where oxygen mingles

with blood and becomes one—

a seed took root in the moment

as all things familiar to her die.

 

Burn Away

Courtesy of free photo library 
Is this what you, indeed, wish?



The feel of some bold mystic chaos

Contained within the fire of kisses

Traveling along the boundaries 

Where lived an identity 

You lost long ago—

To feel that chaotic fire

Burn away the identity 

You wear today—

Feel passionate softness

Twist within and around

Leaving bruises unseen

And you undone

In twisting mystic 

Chaos of fire.

of stone and blossoms

Image is my own





I am unsure how this happened,
but the stone grew, encasing me,
protective and cold, a walking grave
of comfort for many years.

Now, having grown moss over
the passing of so many seasons and
used to the weight of stone I carry
into the calm of night,
blossoms burst forth from this tonnage
of comforting cold stone,
this grave of a home I have known.

I would like to twist,
turn away from
such blossoms,
yet find I cannot.
I cannot gather dust to me,
creating stone again.
Cannot piece shards together
for there are not enough left
in this remaining dust.

As I rest in this place,
I will tuck these blooms away--
Until they bear ripened fruit,
Readied for picking.

Fragrant blossoms
that they may only be
for now.




	


	
	






	
	

		
The Smoothness of Ink
	


	

		

Image Courtesy of The Irish Times









https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2021/06/26/weekend-writing-prompt-215-ink/


Its flow


From the tip of my fountain pen—


Not smooth enough–


Fails capturing anything


Within this labyrinth of senses


Now alive
	


	
	






	
	

		
The Embroideress
	


	

		

Image courtesy of picClick




 



 


 


Like some ancient voodoo priestess,


Fears sits and smiles from her rocking chair.


Tilting her gray head to her work at hand,


Fear embroiders in red thread


The narratives of my old scars.


She stitches in orange and green thread


The flowers of my poorly made cobwebbed choices.


She stitches in black thread


The vanquished vines of  all my loss and pain.


She stitches in yellow thread


Her flowers of caution at the edges,


All the while chanting an ancient spell,


Giving her stitched yellow flowers


Magic to steal any power in the air,


Paralyzing– daring the pulse.


 


Fear stitches away in red thread


On the last cloth of daring I’ve left,


And I, I am paralyzed by the stitching made.


 


 


 
	


	
	






	
	

		
The Itch
	


	

		

Image courtesy of Egypttoday.com





https://godoggocafe.com/2021/06/08/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-june-8-2021/





Today’s prompt: Write a poem that uses the words “weary”, “nails”, and “mind control”















I weary.





Weary of the white noise





Spitting out layers





Striated stone





Of itching mind control,





Of mica and gypsum





Rough, itchy flakes





Others carved out for me





To keep me in what they





Saw as my place.





My nails worn down, bloody raw





To relieve the itch from time to time





The itch that speaks the words





I know are not true





But still have the power





Of stone to crush the ribs





Of my soul with the weight





Of their damnable tonnage





That I am not enough of anything





Not smart enough





Not pretty enough





Not thin enough





Not good enough





For anything or anyone





Yes, I know—





None of it is true—





The stone skin





I’ve worn down





Over all these years,





The itch rarely there.





But sometimes—





Sometimes—





The itch returns—





Vicious, relentless





Until my nails,





Bloody and raw,





Leave me weary.





Yet still,





Still, I now create





My own place.

	


	
	






	
	

		
Scars of Hope
	


	

		

Image is my own










I gather hardened scars of loss and damage
Braided into keloid beauty
That are not blossoms of bitterness,
But fragrant beauties
That make me who I am.
Even the bars of your barren garden
Called love could not steal away
The essence of my hope.
Instead, the black, barrenness
within sugar syrup words
Of one never able to love
Contain no acid
To eat away
My skin of hope.

	


	
	






	
	

		
First Day of May
	


	

		

Image courtesy of Givingcompass.org











 




Winds and rains came today.





I tried to follow the trail





They made.





But on this first day of May,





I was not strong enough–





To let the wind take me,





To allow pelting rain to abrade away





All my accumulated grime.





No freedom could I find





Within this day of winds and rains.

	


	
	






	
	

		
The Work of Spring
	


	

		

image courtesy of anoregoncottage.com

















I clipped away dead branches





From the living shrubs today.





Not an easy thing,





But a thing that must be done.





Strange it is how dead things





Will cling so tightly to the living





As if to squeeze





The last remaining bits of life away





And thus, have company in death and dying.  





 





There is yet more to do





So only the living things are left





To flourish in the spring sun.