Mirror, mirror

I can never expect to be seen if I remain invisible to myself.

My perception of who I am is changing.

The mirror is not my friend, but I must look at myself
to discover who I am becoming.

Who do I want to be?

I am only invisible
when I do not see myself
for who I really am.

----------

Photo by Paul Blenkhorn @SensoryArtHouse on Unsplash

Perception fluctuates--
fluid viscosity.

Thoughts stir anxiety
within layers of expectation
that freeze into bridges
that I burn
again and again.

Reality melts and bends
to fit my unclear focus.

I don't know
where I belong
anymore.

My vision is blurred
by too many colors
of a past no longer relevant
and a present displayed
through dirty, cracked lenses
I wear with obvious regret.

The river runs blind,
south, towards dreams
I thought I left behind
and the same old desert signs
haunt my tormented, lonely mind.

It is all just liquid--
energy puddling at my feet,
running back and forth
between here and there,
then and now.

And so, I haphazardly finger paint
with my unwanted emotions,
trying to see a pattern
in the madness,
in the swirling, whirling
nonsensical coincidences
that form the stepping stones
out

of the murky, vague, stagnant pond
that has become my day to day.

Realign.

Follow the water under the bridge
past the screaming demons
and back into the familiar chaos
of constant change.

The sun sets in fiery hues
as spirits call me back home
to a high desert landscape
that quenches my soul.

I am awakening.

© 1.12.2020 K. A. Bennett. All rights reserved.

Because She Can't Resist 11.17.19

A woman determined and possessed,
wielding power tools, no less,

left alone in an historic home
will undoubtedly fidget with history
to uncover hidden treasures
and solve the nagging mysteries.

A woman with a hammer
and a prybar in her hand
might be compelled to break and pull
at things that don’t belong,

with glorified ideas
of finding underneath the lies
some old Victorian charm.

She will attend deliberately
to painted wooden trim
with lofty goals to free the wood
and find history untouched within.

She will rip out dated carpet
in search of hardwood floors,
ponder uneven disgrace,
and wonder, what was there before?

She will file her chipped and ragged nails
shrug it off with mild chagrin,
promise herself and a neglected house
to find beauty once again.

A woman with tools and too much time
is a force for renovation,
she will demolish the unwanted
with little hesitation.

She will scratch to-do items off her list
renovate to heart’s content,
consider work and time well spent — 

an investment in herself
and a gift to the beloved house

who gives back in security,
in satisfaction, hope,
and fleeting moments of serenity.

© 2019 K. A. Bennett. All rights reserved.

This poem was originally published in Poetic Ramblings From the Spiritual Abyss on Medium.com.

My Heart Belongs to Sage 11.17.19

My Heart Belongs to Sage

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

eternal longing

for rays of healing and warm

desert sunshine days

I used to live in Taos, New Mexico, out near the Taos Gorge, in a sea of sagebrush. The adobe dirt was soft and supple. I still dream of building a clay house to hide in the high desert — a place uninterrupted by the trappings of mainstream society; a place to simply enjoy the sky and create art. For now, my memories remind me of the sun and the smell of sage after a rainstorm. It is enough. For now. 

© 2019 K. A. Bennett. All rights reserved.

This poem was originally published in Poetic Ramblings From the Spiritual Abyss on Medium.com.