I am posting this in response to the prompt of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales. Tess posts an interesting photo each week. Because I like to use my own art work (except the current header landscape by Jason Martin), I’ve redone the photo (more or less).
In this case, due to the chaotic conditions of this particular November day, I’m cheating a bit, in that my poem below does not completely fit with the photo, and is also a poem that I have posted before. (But what’s cheating in love and poetry? Ummm… not a great thing. Sorry.)
Still, it is an interesting poem, and although I think it belongs to the image of an older female–i.e. one about my own age–it does describe a certain twilit mental crossroads (one without clear signposts, and perhaps, several empty chairs.)
Villanelle to Wandering Brain
Sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way
and must make do with words that are in reach
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day,
when what it craves is crimson, noon in May,
the unscathed verb or complex forms of speech.
But sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way
and calls the egg a lightbulb, plan a tray,
and no matter how it search or how beseech
is pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.
I try to make a joke of my decay
or say that busy-ness acts as the leech
that makes my mind feel like it’s lost its way,
but whole years seem as spent as last month’s pay,
plundered in unmet dares to eat a peach—
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.
There is so much I think I still should say,
so press poor words like linens to heart’s breach,
but find my mind has somehow lost its way
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.
ManicDDaily 
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