the merely bourgeois, so-called collective Western world:
dysfunctional political economy, broken system w/ a
population neither able to solve the problem, nor willing to solve it.
amble
waddle
search
she strains at her walker
prowling the home's halls
shoe on one foot
bare on the other
in an other worldly time
her soft footed tracks
are marred with circumstance
"where is my shoe?" she wails
a quagmire to be free of
wanting to emerge
sure footed from this hobbit hole
I find her soft black loafer
near her bed
slip it on to her bare foot
like a snap of Cinderella
her discomfort subsides
a "thank you" chipped from rounded shoulders
sometimes a stranger can right hapless motion
when full sight is no longer stitched to an independent will
sometimes things are not exactly in the right place
not fitted with precision
when we can't see what lies ahead
like the end of something hanging over us
Quagmire of uncertainty, a murky blend,
Underfoot, the treacherous ground extends,
A labyrinth of challenges, where paths bend,
Gripping tightly, the struggles never end,
Mired in complexities, where shadows descend,
In the quagmire, resilience must transcend,
Reclaiming solid ground, on strength depend,
Endurance and fortitude, our guide and friend.
Marshy, muddy, like the alluvial soil after rains
Slippery, clutching, quaking, and giving way underfoot
Pulling the solitary wayfarers with vein-nerve strains
Pets and cattle, as though sailing on sinking boats, get hooked.
Is human kinship as smooth as rolling on fresh flowers?
Amidst love, laughter, and unbridled joy and fulfillment
Like seasons change from sunny summer to monsoon showers
Don't relationships bring in quagmires of self-concealment?
Under the seemingly muddy water of emotions
When headaches and heartaches dare to abide with happiness
Within opens notions of communication erosions.
Grass blades hiding the messy marshes lead to fussiness.
Ponder! Meditate! Contemplate! Walk in a Zen rhythm!
Quagmire says, Beware of the existential vacuum.
A quagmire is a soft, murky bog that shakes
or yields under the foot:
in other words, a swamp.
One that is imbued with sticky mud;
where progress is impeded
and souls get stuck.
A quagmire is also a synonym:
for an unpleasant, constrictive situation,
from which it is not easy to escape.
Look around you; we are stuck
in a swamp of rage and hate.
A quagmire of our own making.
Bigotry is a by-product of fear and greed,
and the blood of the innocent sullies our souls.
We are sinking into conformity;
stuck in the quicksand of complacency.
Change is strictly rationed to the masses,
and it is tightly controlled by a few.
We are born as a cog in a system
designed to extract our individualism
and replace it with compliance;
thereby keeping us stuck within the very gears
that keep grinding us down.
We need to drain that swamp,
but the alligators are always on patrol.
“I am my own worst enemy. This, more than any other trait, proves my fundamental humanity.” Dean Koontz
I know there is something bright above me
I can feel its brilliance
I want to rise above this earth to join it
I can lift a few inches, but something is holding me back
I try to break free
I realize
I am not just being held
I am being grasped, tied, and violently restrained to the point that
I am sinking into the dirt and the mud that surrounds me until all
I see is black
I feel my mouth and nostrils fill with muck
I threaten to suffocate
I desperately wish for light, for air and - there it is. Such Joy!
I am again rising to the light. Why would
I want anything else? But,
I can only lift a few inches. Something is holding me back.
Eternal rainfall spring gardens suffer
Alluring snowdrops drowned in sea of mud
Water deluge cascading down gutter
Daffodils suffer because of the flood.
There is sadness about springtime quagmire
With noses pressed against wet window pane
Waterfall moment nothing to admire
Birds do not sing mellifluous refrain.
Weather forecast grim there is no bright spot
Expectations of spring completely bleak
Wait, silently sleeping "Forget-me-Knot"
Pretty blue flower that is quite unique.
Emotional quagmire Spring Garden dire
Thoughts have moved forward will summer inspire?
If you walk on ice, you chance your life.Quote - Poet’s own
Was Christmas nineteen sixty three
When this story happened to me
Snow had fallen down thick and fast
So cold it was, weeks it did last.
Gone against parental advice
A friend and I skated on ice
It was on a local canal
Felt it was safe, me and my pal.
Wrapped cosy and snug we both were
Hat, gloves, scarf and boots lined with fur
Some lads were there, knew them from school
As boys do they acted the fool.
One came and snatched my friend's hat off
"Hand it back nasty boy" I scoffed
The boys then ran off with her hat
I chased them alike a wildcat.
To my horror the ice it cracked
I fell in, at the edge in fact
Clinging on, “save me” I did shout
The boys came and they pulled me out.
I slunk home wet, cold and hungry
Through the back door so none saw me
The parents would have exploded
If they knew what had unfolded.
It was a fright of a Quagmire
A warning to not play with fire
Never walk on frozen water
Sons, daughters do what you oughter.
“Fathomless faith gets divine blessings to rise from the entrapping evil marsh” – Quote by Poet
On squalid quicksand you walked obsessed and weary,
gripped by the demons of sin as vicious as they could be,
sank in the destined depth of abhorrent abyss of bane,
wrapped within the despicable layers of livid disdain.
The lancet of immorality lacerated the ethical essence,
you had long tried in vain to protect within sane sense.
The grave for the soul slain by the stab of sordid sin,
you had dug contrite in the ground of anguish within.
As divine awareness ignited the candle of hope in you,
you perceived revived the conscience got kindled anew,
and lighted up the dark alley of introspection inherent,
you reached the self-illumined horizon of discernment.
With your being cleansed of the depraved turpitude slime
by the allusion of self-absorbed sense of sagacity prime,
at the lit fringe of life you see the shadow of the time still
when you were entrapped within the quagmire of evil.
quagmire of desire
cupids arrow did not miss
love, passion and pain
'Q' Words
Poetry Contest
Chosen Word: Quagmire
Sponsored
by:
Constance La France
31/03/2023
Pixabay clipart:Ikut
“An impulsive action done in haste and without forethought can cause trouble and there is no point in feeling repugnance” - By Poet
When did she have a quarrel with life,
That left her mind with resentment rife?
Her dreams are blurred by a diaphanous mist
And her life has taken an ugly twist
When she felt she was not treated well
She decided to leave the house, seeing it as hell.
Now she wonders if it was an excuse lame.
Knows quite well no one else but she is to blame
She feels her life, now in a slushy quagmire.
Anytime her rashness of action could backfire.
Now at life’s barred gate when she knocks in vain,
The ‘no entry’ sign drowns her in pain.
Far out, her mind wanders into deserts forlorn
She feels the bite of heat even in the morn
Sure, this life for her has become a quagmire.
She desperately needs repair as like a flat tire.
_____________________________
March. 31. 2023
~ Placed First~
Writing Challenge ‘Q’ Words Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
I walked the shape of a square
Inside of a circle.
I brought shrimp to a lobster fest.
This morning I woke up
With someone else's nose.
My niece is stuck in an elevator
With no shoes or sox.
The leaves need to be raked.
No one can find the rake.
My brother loves to talk on the phone
But he has strep throat.
I can't pick up the roll of paper towels,
I'm holding this baby.
I'm driving home
And there's not even ginger ale.
I can see the words but can't read them.
I can hear the sounds but can't put meaning to them.
I can feel the feelings but not know how to process them.
My toaster of a heart can't tell when the toast is burnt.
A roaring beach campfire
Waiting for reflective faces
That never show up.
The body as the asylum.
Choices that further enchain us.
You, please, you entertain us.
You will entertain us.
I will entertain us.
***
3/30/23
Writing Challenge "Q" Words Contest
Sponsor: Me, I'm sponsoring myself
Molten lava spews from my eyes
My mouth feels dry as the scorching desert
Fear, like an unyielding boulder lies on my chest
My heart chases after the wayward wind
A pit is forming in my stomach,
My head is riding upon a vortex
Conflicting thoughts swirling through my mind
forming a surrealistic whirlpool,
And I stand rooted to the ground
like the Ancient Oak.
A sense of emptiness mushrooms within me
like morning miasma obscuring visibility,
My past dusted off into oblivion
Every moment henceforth is
pregnant with novel challenges,
Tackling a new task overwhelms me
and despair pervades my soul undeterred—
Bond by fate
Tethered to faith,
Laden feet, I am getting
mired deep in a spiritual quagmire
unable to claw my way up to Mount Calvary.
~09/26/21
~Contest: "Q" (Quagmire)
~Sponsor: Constance La France.
The therapist asked the patient,
" What shall we talk about today?"
The client shrugged and answered,
" I don't know what to say! "
Quite awkwardly, they
Sit quiet for a while.
Then a sudden flash of thought!
A blink. A weary smile...
" I don't understand what's wrong.
I've no drive. I've no desire!
The best way to describe it?
It's like I'm stuck in my own quagmire!
I'm not one to drown
In a torrent of sorrow and pain.
I don't fling out all limbs
And splash around in vain!
At times, there is this numbness
And I question if I'm alive.
Could my quagmire be deep enough
To duck in or dive? "
" Um... ' The counsellor vocalises
As though in deep thought.
( They are trained to do this while
They draw on what they've been taught. )
' I like the way you've expressed yourself!
A perfect description of what feels dire!
You may sink a little, but you will not drown
In your said quagmire. "
" Well, that's a relief!
I hope one day that there will be a drought.
Because that will be, to me, a sign
That I've got things figured out! "
Written 27th September 2021
For the Q Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Not in any quagmire –
in a wonderful plain,
he raised as a tree
among depression.
In long thoughts,
with a sharp wit,
threw needles around
in the surroundings.
Stood there alone
far from his fellows.
From time to time
bent usually down
under the winds.
From a high crown
to the green grass
lay the landscape,
behind a swamp
there were the hills.
In misery there,
he looked farther,
the stature was higher.
Growth had nothing
to do with curiosity.
Rooted to that ground
needed new to be found,
besides his own side,
in faraway spots.
Tortures took root
in the stock.
Never seen,
never challenged:
all that was high,
all that was far.
He’d strive for a valley,
but grew in a broad
with no kith kin plain.
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