The sea is blue today.
Oh, I remember Blue,
those years of suffering through
what can diplomatically
be described as ill-advised
and dangerous liaisons,
from which I emerged
into the journey of the self.
Oh, I remember Blue,
those years of suffering through
what can diplomatically
be described as ill-advised
and dangerous liaisons,
from which I emerged
into the journey of the self.
What a pilgrimage it has been,
from suffering to the last quarter-century
of solitude and peace,
days rolling past
like the eternal waves:
beauty, benevolence and bliss
not even memory can alter.
I flick flashbacks away
like mosquitoes of no consequence,
mere stumbling blocks
encountered early
on the path.
from suffering to the last quarter-century
of solitude and peace,
days rolling past
like the eternal waves:
beauty, benevolence and bliss
not even memory can alter.
I flick flashbacks away
like mosquitoes of no consequence,
mere stumbling blocks
encountered early
on the path.
No more weird rendezvous,
since the last ridiculous farce
with a wannabe Sir Lancelot,
tilting his sword at all
the pretty ladies, then
I was done.
"We are the daughters
of the witches you did not burn,"
said someone somewhere,
and I resonate. Deep roots
in Mother Earth, eyes on blue sky,
sunny days and some kind and gentle folk
all healed me, made me whole.
Dangerous encounters
made later solitude so sweet:
peaceful days, restful nights,
no more suffering
at the hands of desperados
who passed through my life
like wrecking balls, then,
mercifully, were gone.
Well. I tap the keys and never know what will emerge. This is a sorry tale, from which I emerged with gratitude for the years that followed. My best life companion: a hilarious big black wolf, who showed me how love was supposed to be done.
It's why Frost called the encounters "alien," a different word than illicit, more estranged, even less desired. Human relationships are for nature's benefit; poetry is for discerning what is more eternal in our hearts. Maybe poetry helps us to forgive what was is nature's to forget. How clear the path on the other side of alien encounters.
ReplyDeleteThis poem is so full of healing ... the desperados disappear and nature calms and nourishes and heals and the mind learns to appreciate it all again.. makes me believe goodness is on its way.
ReplyDelete"I flick flashbacks away
ReplyDeletelike mosquitoes of no consequence"
Great line Sherry, we should all master that skill and I echo Rajani's comment, this poem is so full of healing. JIM
Desperados who passed through like wrecking balls... wow Sherry, that's perfect. I, too, am glad to be done with the whole charade.
ReplyDeleteI can relate to every line, Sherry--those vicious biting memories now just mosquitoes flicked away in a peace that long ago made them irrelevant, a life rebuilt from the wreckage that is stronger and so much more free.
ReplyDelete