Life is a bitch

I explored the contradiction between pain and resilience, effort and surrender. Surrender with the stubbornness of a smile. Even when life is harsh, we carry on.

Life is a Bitch

I called the one
without a name.
Opened wrong doors,
entered wrong rooms.
Found truth
a little too late.
I kept smiling.

I fed the skeleton
of broken dreams.
Stepped outside
to follow the stream.
The trees waved at me
I waved back.
I kept smiling.

I couldn’t stop
the water from being cold.
Life is a bitch.
But I am
a queen warrior.
I took a cold shower.
I kept smiling.
The water never asked me why.

Poetry is

Poetry is, is the prompt for What's going on 

Live the truth

 Seed is the prompt for What's going on

Live the truth

by gathering the adjectives
of your uniqueness.
Wipe clean the misted windows
Those drops of expectation
from the outside world
that blurs your vision.

Interlaced with truth
is the white satin of all that is good,
woven with honesty
that lingers like luminous lanterns
in the soul.
Also entwined is the silk of beauty
beauty that rises
from the deep wells of your heart
and flows outward
into the world,
onto the pink moon
bathed in a soft golden hue.

Let the moon shine.
Let the ocean heal.
Let courage be your weapon.
When fear arises,
return to yourself
again
and again
and again.

Meditate on life's truth
The seeds of empowerment
will sprout in still soil

A love letter to the past

 

A Love Letter to the Past

My fingers trace a face in a photograph,
a moment from when streets were lined with dwellings,
built on dreams as fragile as frail old ladies.

Light as feathers, we moved through life,
swaying like sunflowers in a summer breeze,
spilling wine, love, and strawberry kisses.

Love landed like a flock of birds,
spreading its wings in delight,
rising into the starry night
as we held hands,
setting it free
drifting toward eternity.

I dipped my fingers into honey
and whispered words onto paper.
They danced, a tender tango
on my tongue,
until sweetness lifted into the world,
my spirit softening into serenity.

We became finer versions of ourselves.
I carried that part into the future,
where secrets dwell in my mind.

Life is still built on dreams.
And I am opening up to it
as I did the first time I met you.

A Homemade Gift

 

Sumana's prompt for "What's Going On" is "A Homemade Gift." I love homemade gifts and have received a few while teaching people with injuries who needed to learn computer skills for a new job. One handcrafted item I adore is woven baskets. Last night, I watched an old movie, 'Out of Africa' and bits of all these found their way into my poem.

A Homemade Gift

I have woven you a basket,
formed in the shape of my heart,
To hold yours when it needs a safe place
on cold and dreary winter days.

I have woven you a basket with
willow picked from the wild,
from a place untamed and free,
a place you always liked to be.

I have woven you a basket,
filled with wisps of what once was,
full of redundant butterflies
to join you on your vagabond life.

When you wander through the world,
and memory fades into dusk,
you will still carry a bit of me,
as I have woven you a basket.

Searching

Rommy from Poets and storytellers United asked us to reflect on the phrase "low battery".
I did  feel a bit lost for a while although I didn't have a low battery as I charge it often by going on walks. I am priveleged as I am retired. That helps. I am still searching to find my way as I always have the feeling of not doing enough. For 2025 I try to let that go and enjoy the things I do.

 

Searching

I travel through old bends,
Around the corner, a view of the sea
waiting to be admired by me.
The wind rushes to meet me,
embracing me in a fierce grip,
squeezing out the grey
feelings of every day.

I recharge my low battery,
filling it with the shine of the scenery.
Soft stripes stretch across the skyline.
A green carpet spreads out,
withdrawing at the back.
I lock eyes with the ocean.
He winks knowingly.

A cabbage tree stands silently
beside me in brotherhood.
We share the breath of the earth
he, firmly rooted,
I, still wavering,
still searching for my place
in the scheme of things.