Tattered Thought

Sinking lower in disguise,
Lost to simple navigation of life,
     unhurried absence
     from des soirées, grandes fêtes.

Excuses bound on escaping canary
Flying from clouds of doubt,
     torn wing, tattered thought
     away from billowing fantasies.

Mind's eye driven to ledge
As butterflies flitter inside,
I call them back,
     away, come back,
The future I must decide.


Quicksand

My feet are planted on quicksand,
Never to stay too long I’m told,
The changing tides, the roaming winds
Blast me to my knees.

I’ve never reached solid ground, 
Not known of a homestead my own,
The grasping of my arms
Jerks me back to a ledge.

Pulling up, seeking dry land,
I dream of a garden of light,
My children there, their babies too,
As my roots cling to the soil I’ve found.

My dear mother, let me grow,
Let me plant my tree right here,
I need the nourishment found,
I need my own spot on your earth.

Late Night Poetry

Writing sometimes hits me at odd times. I’m a night owl, so that doesn’t help my getting to sleep, or help with slowing my mind once I’ve decided it’s time to sleep. A couple of nights ago, that happened just after I turned out the lights. A thought, an itch, and I had to turn the lights back on and write this poem that is now a song of deliverance for my soul.

Flower Rising
She fought the tears,
drowned the pain under fires
as the bridges crumbled.

Freedom, she whispered.

Outgrown a lost soul,
held back, knocked down,
dark truths of flesh hidden.

Freedom, she cried.

Chains of passion broken,
mourning cruel love,
infinity does have an end.

Freedom, she implored.

A first flower rising through snow
as January marks the journey,
loving her own creation.

Freedom, she shouted.

Sound rises above,
as spirit is set free to fly,
her voice without quiver.

Freedom, she whispers.