For today’s prompt, write a life event poem. By life event poem, I mean a poem that takes place at or describes a life event, such as a wedding, birth, death, graduation, etc. There are so many possibilities.
Here’s my attempt:
“Birthday”
Every year, you come;
every year, I go
and do something stupid
to myself. Maybe I’ll
think twice before getting
out of bed when you come
visiting me this year.
*****
Life Begins Today!
No celebratory day
No candles, cake or gifts
Just another
Dull regular day
Same routine
Same life
Same people
But today
Like every other day
Life begins!
Yes life will begin again
Today
Vacation
Leave behind
everyday troubles
as ship sails.
fun begins
in Caribbean waters
I’m on vacation!
EVENT HORIZON
We flew too close
and now we’ll see
what is on the other side.
what is through the looking glass –
the black depths of space
will turn us inside out,
outside in and we will know then
what we can’t know now.
My Life Her Life
She came and grew
and before we knew
she flew so far away
We greet and tweet
and meet in the middle
I miss the hug of my bug
who’s flown farthest away
My Life Poem
You offered me a life ordinary
built up with brick and topped
with and ambition to stay put.
I offered you the shot-gun.
April 19, 2012
A “Life Event” Poem
Events of the Day
A Tuesday
The editor’s yes
A Saturday
The contract
A Friday
The galleys
A Sunday
The launch
A Wednesday
A signing
Maybe a Monday
A Pulitzer
A Thursday
A good day
To begin again.
waiting to breathe
when born I
couldn’t breathe
nurse carried
me over her
shoulder all night
morning she was
exhausted but happy
“she couldn’t breathe,”
she told my Mom
some babies don’t
learn to breathe
properly and only
breathe shallowly
the rest of their
lives
each meditation
begins with
the breath as
will my last
day and by
then maybe
I can take
a deep breath
My First Death
By
Arrvada
I see my life divided
Between births and deaths
Significant events
That reshape and redesign
The being I have been
And who I shall become
My first death I was seventeen
I was reborn
From pain and fear and sorrow
Killed and murdered
My innocence and faith destroyed
Those I trusted betrayed
Cut me through with lies
I died that day
Burned by them
And was reborn
With all new fears
All new terrors
Like any abandoned babe
Wanting to scream, to cry
Having no one to hold me
To comfort me
My mother killed me
Leaving me without a home
Making me see
The life I had lived
Was nothing but lies
My first life was over
And I started all over again
Morning
The best part of the day
before phone calls, demands,
appointments, gobble the hours.
Long after
Long after I put you
in the ground,
my brother, mother, father,
grand mother,
still I miss you
every day.
Wish I’d said goodbye better
or longer or clearer or
just not at all.
Long after I stayed on
to finish the lessons and
give you credit,
long after there’s days
I wish to join you for a bit
and kiss your lovely face.
Note to self
Today:
Write speech
Pick out dress and shoes to match
Make sure the gown is not wrinkled
Tomorrow:
Give speech
Shake hands many times
Do not trip walking across stage in high heels
Day after:
PAR-TAY!
Mental Illness: a Life Changing Event
Imagine for a while awaking in a room
not your own almost every day of your life
because at age sixteen you were diagnosed
with a mental illness.
Neither your parents nor you understood
that your year-long teen-unit stay could
not heal you and medications must now
control the illness.
Close to forty years after that life event
not a single “new” medications has been
able to cure you nor do much to mitigate
how MI effects you.
What’s there to salvage from those years
you’ve spent moving between hospitals
and nursing homes while meaningful life
still evades you?
Here and there you make a new friend
to share the boredom of repetitive group
therapies like how to maintain hygiene
when you don’t care.
But you can still flash your amazing grin
and the light in your eyes seems to come
from heaven and for a few moments your
life is worth living.
The bridge
Men in black crossed the bridge
Carrying a wrecked body in a shaky casket.
It is to be settled in a clearing beyond the ridge,
That it may decay in time that may fit
The calm river mirrored their doss;
A lone bird skimmed over the water beneath the bridge,
And circles of rhythm rippled the trifle loss.
Kids clustered scared behind the hedge,
Then romped playfully along the bridge.
A gull perched on a fence,
While an old man was staring into water,
Searching for juvenile life in the depth,
Under the surface that reflected his years of stress.
Two jittery lovers were obsessed about love myth,
Hugged, kissed, flattered, and laughed a little less.
The ostentatious steel form carried them all,
In rusty silence.
It coexisted with their conviviality and whinge;
It will witness their passage and tragic fall
Not a mere coincidence,
That brought to the scene the marvelous bridge.
Day 19 – a life event
Divorce
I wonder what that good nun thought
on being notified about the court
and how her marriage was almost
null and void.
I bet she was most uncharitably annoyed.
“Good Lord,” she would have started with
“I thought such separation was a myth.
Please recant this summons now
for I have never broken my vows.
And how, Dear Lord, can
cancellation be so easy
as to simply exist in a court’s
decree nisi?”
While I, all unknowing, awaited the letter
I knew would make me feel a lot better
this poor soul with exactly the same name
would have struggled to pray for a life
without blame.
So think before you untie that knot
whose copybook you might unwittingly blot.
And spare some concern for those same-name others
who may be God’s Sisters, or even Mothers!
“Her Bra”
She offered herself to me, but
I felt like a thief that night. Not quite
a professional heist, fumbling key
and setting off the alarm.
She left before my parents were due home,
leaving her bra as a memento. Evidence.
We didn’t speak at school the next day.
August 13, 2004 Waking
White satin matches the colour
your skin reflects, you in repose
against the pillow, hands
clasped over your diaphragm.
If your eyes would open, you’d see
flowers spread around the room,
friends and family gathered, each
small circle of conversation is
about you today.
We’re remembering you as
you were, hoping that each uttered
memory will erase the picture
we see now as you lie there still, eyes
closed, mouth hinting smile, you
not there, that twinkle lost
behind the closed eyelids
of death, your blue eyes gone
blank, your skin the colour
of white satin.
Carol A. Stephen
April 19, 2012
“A new world”
Tiny, like a shoe box
with a whole brand new world within.
Grey, days outside
with a rainbow to find out
Cold, the rain was chasing us
we hold a blanket to share.
That was our first apartment
six years so far
collecting memories since then
I’m not going to stop.
”When a Heart is Broken”
Meant to last a long lifetime,
hearts are made so strong and yet,
We never know just how much
pain and disappointment each can
bear. I knew a heart that was so big,
it loaded early with friends and laughter.
It treasured family and wanted more of
work and love and true, pure joy. That
heart learned early to trust in the Savior,
the One who delivered him from early pain,
and now has ushered him in to eternal joy
and peace. This Patrick wishes for all those
souls he ever knew or ever hoped to know.
“… Even Perfection Falls Apart”
Never imagined it would end like this
Love always seems to overcome
But this chasm much too deep
Affection still going strong
But this chapter of life was not
Meant to last past this
Even though the music still plays
Our ears have become deaf to it
Inebriated chases through days
No attention paid to the meaningful things
Eyes lock in silent embraces
Whilst on the periphery
Everything was falling
Epic failures recognized
So drunk on this that even those
Were missed
So not the two roads bonded
Forked forever and shatter
Is the dream
Walking away
Silent tears the only
Remembrance of this thing
Judges and lawyers become the definition
Of what will be
Playing catch-up, so… haikus!
(Will put out on my blog with pics.)
abandoned, empty
fledglings having spread their wings
taken to the sky
***
first blossom gifted
surpassingly beautiful
sweet innocent love
*****
Life Cycles
4/19/20
I cradle new life,
fresh scent,
unused fingers,
innocent face.
Pray for a full life
to be well lived.
From there,
I travel to nursing home;
tiptoe into patient’s room
reeking of death.
Gnarled hands cross
barely moving chest.
Pray for this one
who draws near
his last breath
on this side.
I witnessed their births
Life is such a miracle
Children are a gift
Having a birthday
After the age of fifty
Is such a blessing
The alarm clock buzzed
I wake to face a new day
Good to be alive
Birthday
Sacred day, I take off work to spend alone.
Everyone should get this holiday
to thank our mothers and celebrate.
Most years, alone, I have gone
to Chicago to write on the boardwalk
with Starbucks coffee and a book,
wind and sun. I’ve waited for someone
to come home. I have begged and cried;
gone to Amish Country to taste wines;
walked a long way from a bar
after my friends left me, cops giving a lift
the last mile or two; watched the frosting slide
from the cake and ice cream melt,
but I keep celebrating. This year,
I begged a friend to spend $100
to see Apassionata, a story with horses,
in Detroit. I pay my way, as usual.
Who takes care of me?
Who blesses my coming
THE CROWNED ONE
Sometimes the bough breaks.
The finger of God
reaching toward Adam
does not touch him.
The desert at sunset is dry.
The pool of water
does not take away the pain,
and the baby-girl does not turn inside.
We wait too long.
On the third day,
her mother is cut open
to bring forth her body.
But that is not enough for life.
She breathes muddy water
into her fragile lungs
and lies still.
She’s waiting to heal.
II.
A woman
breathes the breath of life
into the baby.
The newborn baby-girl awakens!
After two minutes,
once again her heart is beating
like a little bird’s.
For four days, she sleeps without a name.
Then, an angel-like-a-girl-child
comes down from heaven
into her mother’s dream.
Her name is Stefania.
Jane Beal
Beautiful!
Home Alone
Suddenly —
now —
I live alone
as of shortly after lunch today
though I didn’t know it then.
Another fall
and he’s back in hospital
after one night and a morning
here with me.
I was with him,
helped him collapse
gradually to the ground
and so, no injury
this time. (Nor the last.)
Twice in three days
is too much —
the buckling of legs
that just stop working.
No loss of consciousness, just
inability to stand.
Sudden. Total. What if
I had not been there?
And I can’t lift him.
All I could do
was put a pillow under his head
and call the ambulance
again.
While he was away
yesterday and the day before
I shifted furniture
to make the place safer:
things he could grab and hold,
strong enough to support him.
I guess it was just as well.
He used one to lean on
while I helped him down
slowly to the floor.
I put clean sheets on the bed.
His last night home
was comfortable.
I bought some more Zero Coke
because he likes it.
But he didn’t even have
one glass last night.
He was so tired,
and went to bed early.
‘So nice,’ he said this morning,
‘To be in my own bed
in my own home.’
But lately it’s been hard for him,
I know.
So much weakness,
so much pain.
So much more I wanted to do here
to make this place
beautiful, and kind to him.
Now, how empty
such improvements seem
for me alone.
Re-reading, I think I need to make it clearer. My 83-year-old husband will have to go into a care facility now.
So sorry, Rosemary. Praying for you all.
Ah Rosemary – that is sad news indeed ; wonderful that you were there for him but how hard for both of you, this latest transition … you’ll be in my thoughts as I send good wishes your way often
The Rest of the Story
You left me early one morning
Just the way you said you would
How did you know the ending
Of your own story beforehand
After a short and tempestuous trip
Together that seemed much longer
Than the eighteen years it was
You left just as I was getting started
You loved your five week old namesake
I know you did from your eyes
That watched him and me too
As we tried to breech our distance
Life has taken me farther
Than your forty year journey
And I try to write the script
As it may have turned out
In my version of our story
We grew closer and forgot
The bad stuff from back then
Happily ever after as father and daughter
SharieO, beautiful. Oh, what might have been!
TWENTY MINUTES AGO
Twenty minutes ago
The doctor said, “A son!”
How was I to know
Twenty minutes ago
How quickly you would grow,
How quickly you would crawl-walk-run?
Twenty minutes ago
The doctor said, “A son!”
Sometimes you feel like Rip vanWinkle, don’t you?
When I Do
Whenever I do
satin bells and delicate
butterfly wings will
dance in the soft ocean breeze,
carry vows on sunset hues.
Lost and Found
An independent nature keeps her feet
planted on the ground, but somwhere her mind
has wandered and untimely death she’ll meet,
not to make it home, but return in pine.
Unfortunately, this she couldn’t cheat.
A Memory
Wedding bells. Plans. Happiness.
Ultrasound and Doppler scans,
Why did she die?
Surprise party – eternity ring.
Glow, share, rejoice.
Why did she die?
Life, love and laughter.
Hopes, wishes, dreams.
Why did she die?
Pink booties, scented candles, musical mobile.
Heirloom eiderdown, lace curtains, nursery furniture.
Why did she die?
Drab days
Vacant stare
Empty cot
Meaningless existence
Endless days –
Infinite emptiness.
Why did she die
Never to be born?
Perhaps, one day,
reuniting on the other side.
Engagement
the moon
gem rises
from his hand
like a lily rooted
in his bended knee
refusing to bloom
under any light
other than her
starry eyes
yes
*sigh* So beautiful….
Please mommy
please!
Please mommy
can we?
Please please
please!
Awwwwww!
Isn’t it
cute?
Please mommy
please!
Please mommy
can we
please
keep the
kitten?
rites
(a fib)
we
run
and laugh
and swim, clad
only in moonlight
and long starry night promises.
So simple and beautiful.
De, so few words, so much said!
LATE NIGHT LIMERICK
Some PA poets routinely post late,
Not many up to say, “Great”!
Choosing a.m. comments instead,
By our time gone to bed,
To all who are still up . . .
You! I celebrate!
Funny.. It’s true!
Since I didn’t stay up late I’ll say it this morning, well said!
NO MORE ROOM ON THE CAKE
Large family gathering,
Had an intense thrill in the air,
Celebrating all at once,
Highlighting so many in the group!
One niece had a local high school graduation,
Another niece graduating from college, nearby!
Male family member’s birthday on the exact day,
An engagement announcement along with,
Father’s Day!
Words on the cake were as small,
As could be,
To fit everyone in,
Happy occasion was held,
In the almost finished condo,
Giving it the first chance to feel like home,
It rapidly filled with guests, family,
Celebrants and all the relatives,
Who were dressed in their classy style!
An unexpected arrival,
No one saw coming,
Just the week before,
Showed up as some family members,
Were sailing on the bay,
On a lovely Saturday afternoon!
Watching the sky,
A burst of smoke rose quickly upward!
As all eyes surveyed the location,
With terror, they realized that,
The main family house,
Was dead center in high and wild flames!
Word went out to the family quickly,
Special items had to be removed,
Luckily people were able to join together,
Pulling paintings off the wall,
Finding the old silver,
Locating the antique jewelry,
House ended up a near miss of the fire,
Yet the smell of smoke was overpowering!
The aging matriarch,
Holder of the family’s history,
Experienced the most dreaded fear,
In her heart,
Just imagining,
How close she came to losing everything,
She treasured,
After years of keeping her precious items,
Close to her at all times.
Determined to have her memory remain
In the age old special family pieces,
Long after her life was over!
During the full celebrations,
She tired quickly and looked paler still,
Hardly a warm and welcoming smile,
Or acknowledgement,
She had been scared to death!
Clearly trying her best to be brave,
Celebrating all in one evening!
Three weeks later,
A day after another celebration,
The Fourth of July,
She died unexpectedly.
At the family lake house,
It came as a complete surprise!
As each family member expressed their sorrow,
Coming together for her service,
So grateful,
They had held the gathering and giant celebration,
Not a month before,
When she had been surrounded
By those who loved her,
Despite the earlier fire,
Valuing much more than her things!
Looking back, she had been the only one,
Not mentioned on the large served dessert,
Yet she had always been,
The one who always held them all together,
And the one who always,
Put that special icing on the cake . . .
Just being herself!!
Graduation
began with the heart swelling notes of
Sir Edward Elgar’s Pomp & Circumstance rising
from the depths of the orchestra pit
a single moment that had
cost
years of her life, nights of papers, all nighters
now blurred like the faces filling the auditorium
completely unaware of how uncertain she was
that these years, had adequately prepared her
so
while she moved across the stage confidently
every step softly swinging the gold tassel
against a satin smooth cherry cap
she hoped she had gained, enough, for it had all cost so
much
I could have sworn that I posted this this morning. Here goes again.
Shattered Glass and Mental Mirrors
Fractured images greeted me
With wide-open eyes that day,
Leaving behind panic, dismay,
Never thoughts of revelry.
Beyond doctors and onto life,
I built myself a future,
Complete plan to fight any strife,
To cut losses and suture
Together paths for new learning
Canes, dogs, all necessary
For work within limits churning
With needs that I not tarry.
Years passed, moving toward this place
I come to with verse’s words,
Telling tales of things done and faced
This group of kindest souls, this space.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Passages
We hold our births and our deaths (be
-ginning, end) sacred and we celebrate
the innate ability to last another year
with tiny fires. We blow candles and sing
songs and bestow gifts or we coo, and
ogle the new or we gather grief to say
goodbye. What of the middle? The quiet
sigh, the peaceful day when nothing
changes, the soft way the blue of the
sky rearranges my heart? What of the
now, this breath, these words spilled,
this moment willed into submission,
bowed. What of the graduation of no
-thing, the funeral of flower, the whil-
-ing of hour, the marriage of spirit and joy
and song? Do we miss these, all along?
This is just stunning, De. You’ve had a brilliant day.
Thank you so much, Jerry.
i opened my computer today to find this poem front and center waiting for me. After a tough weekend of mourning the loss of my sister, this was a beautiful reminder that there is more still here to celebrate. Thank you.
As if It Was Yesterday
I remember our first date
How we went to that Ann Margret movie
How I wasn’t over my last boyfriend
How my parents were so pleased
You were such a catch … in university
becoming an engineer
I wanted to talk myself out of you
So why did I tremble when you held my hand
You were so annoying, I recall thinking
But I don’t remember why I thought that
Probably because you weren’t
The boyfriend who treated me so badly
Left behind … isn’t that always the way
Still – I remember glancing at you
In the darkened theatre and thinking
Hmm – a Robert Redford profile …
I’ll be damned – and those eyes … lashes so long
They scratched your glasses …
It was hard not to fall into those eyes
By the end of the evening, I wrote in my journal
“I don’t like him much at all but he kisses great
and I just know I’ll end up marrying him …”
Here we are: married forty-two years, after
going out almost five years before that
You joke about robbing the cradle and I let you
Honestly? I can’t imagine my life without
You in it …
Even Now
I hear the chimes on the back porch sing
As I push the screen door open and I am
Enfolded
In your apple, sugar, flour, butter apron.
Eighteen hours through the turnpike night
I never crossed the threshold,
I paced outside the home,
Holding my heart inside hollowed ribs
With clenched hands, clenched arms, and closing throat
I stepped up to the handle.
Walked the longest yards with you.
Then walked away.
I hear the grumble of the motor
And the chain’s flat clink
From a calculated distance.
I couldn’t see you in a coffin.
I wont see you in a grave.
beautiful!
Loved the lines..
“Enfolded
In your apple, sugar, flour, butter apron.”
Agree. That is the strongest, most sensory part.
john john saluted
in his little coat and shoes
as the horses walked sedately
I had measles and watched
as black and white images
played over and over
my friend from school
cried all day
big brother drafted
never coming home
I watched the news
as images of kill ratio
played over and over
older and wiser
or at least so I thought
cried like a baby
when John Lennon shot
into the atmosphere
giving peace a chance
wasn’t someone’s cup of tea
and the radio played it
over and over
like the challenger later
headed for the stars
and made it to heaven
before our very eyes
in technicolor repeated
over and over
and all I could think was
how it would be to lose a
loved one over and over
until nine eleven
when the worst of the worst
the unthinkable
was thought by someone and
thought became deed
and we realized we
were not invulnerable
and even then in
our arrogance we fought
about what kind of tribute
to erect to the fallen
over and over
you would think we would
learn but the lessons keep coming
and the wheel keeps turning
but over and over
we grieve and
don’t change
Heist
We keep inching toward the double glass doors
right out in the open. We don’t even try
to hide. The security guy barely looks
and the attendant just smiles
and waves. Our get-away car idles
under the awning, so close. Now
we are between the doors, sure
they will stop us, but they don’t.
And we are out. We put you
in your car seat for the first time
and literally just drive away
like we know what we are doing.
But deep down, we cannot believe
our luck.
Linda Voit
This, a Life Event: or, When Cancer Invades a Child
This, the seashore:
scallop shells, soft
serves swirled high
in cake cones, sunburn,
swimming pool, your son
splashes, then wades out
shivering; his stomach
aches.
This, the sudden cry:
splits the night,
breaks the dream,
tomorrow’s scavenge
hunt of shells and sea
glass broken, tumbled
tears that contain
memory.
This, the hospital:
hushed murmurs,
latexed fingers prod,
prick, neat white coats,
white cells dry up,
tubes tether your son
to machines, to
life.
This, a life event:
an event that alters,
an event that mutates,
crushes and bends
futures. God is not
at the sea shore, not
at hospital; God plays in
details.
***
Not my child, but a friend’s. I cannot fathom. Peace, LindaS-W
With thanks to Meatloaf
Alters Shine
I felt the bone chilling emptiness, but like numbness,
Heaven can wait,
You had not come home and I knew,
And a band of angels wrapped up in my heart,
You were not coming home again.
Will take me through the lonely night
After much searching for you the sergeant said
Through the cold of the day
Whoever had been driving your car was a victim of a homicide,
And I know I know,
Heaven can wait,
And the sergeant in LA said, was he an athlete?
And all I got is time until the end of time,
And the sergeant in LA said, was his designed ring silver?
And the melody’s gonna make me fly
And the sergeant in La said, was he tan?
Without pain, without tears,
And the sergeant in LA said: well, maybe you better come down
And I know that I been released
And I went down to the LA morgue at USC medical center
But I don’t know to where
At the end of a long, white hall, maybe 60 feet, a silver gurney,
And nobody’s gonna tell me now
Someone was lying with a white sheet pulled shoulder height,
And I don’t really care
And I walked what seemed to be the last walk I would ever want to walk,
Oh no, no
Until I could see your handsome face, facing up without sight –
with a tiny trickle of blood someone had forgotten at the crevice of your lip
I got a ticket to paradise, never gonna let it slip away,
I walked forward the last five feet and saw a ball of white light from your
body hit my chest ,
I got a ticket to paradise, never gonna let it slip away
All anxiety left, all bewilderment, all tension and pain dissipated
I got a ticket to paradise, if I had it any sooner you know,
I wiped the trickle of blood from the left crevice of your lip
You know I never would have run away from my home,
I sensed the compassion of the medical people around me, standing back;
Heaven can wait,
Their kindness made me feel like a visiting angel that had completed something,
And all I got is time until the end of time,
And upstairs, I signed your official death certificate that said “gunshot wound
to the head,” and I accepted with love all that you could give, your final gift of light –
And I won’t look back, I won’t look back -
Let the alters shine,
Let the alters shine.
Goodbye, Graduation
The ceremony was dull,
With everyone distracted by
The heat, and some consumed with
The contents of the flasks they hid
Inside their tuxedo jackets.
No one cared too much about the
Accomplishments celebrated.
I never danced, because I don’t,
And the food was fine, but I would
Probably have rather stayed home
To eat comfortably in the kitchen,
Trading Cinderella’s shoes
(Which pinched) and restrictive gown
For my ratty jeans and bare feet.
I spent far too much on the dress
Considering I only
Wore it once, and now it hangs
Lifeless and sterile in the back
Of the closet, shunned by the clothes
Who know they are plainer but
More practical and better loved.
At least the whole affair is done,
And high school becomes a memory
That grows sweeter as I forget
The details, filling them in
With the optimistic colors
Of my imagination.
Good riddance, graduation.
So Very
There’ll be a time when things
become so very clear.
You realize how much
she is so very dear.
You get down on your knees.
Ask, “Will you marry me please?”
You want her for all time
so very near.
By Michael Grove
First Contact
A gaze and a smile
so simple
so complicated
Love this!
My Wedding Day
It started squashed into my
mother’s tiny room
alone dressing in the
short skirted jacketed
ivory wool lace dress
so perfect for the
toned down ceremony
in the rabbi’s study
me screaming due
to a run in my
special white lace
stockings with the
satin shoes and
no one paying attention
to the bride as each
rushed around readying
our house for the guests
afterward
then the ride to Brooklyn
not special in my parent’s
car and finally the ceremony
in front of family and friends
where the ancient Hebrew words
brought me to tears and more
worry about mascara running
those words binding me to you
for all these years like the strong
thread used for my dress which
hangs in my closet still.
Great details bring it to life.
Thank you, Linda! Glad you liked it!
NO THING.
carried my breakfast around with me
till half past one
nothing seeming right smelling right
tasting right
I find it keeps sinking in for me
this newness of you not here to talk to
I don’t know how to feel what to feel and so
I just don’t.
can’t find a reason to keep walking
even just smile
and it’s forty days and counting
since you’re gone.
This is amazing. Bravo. I can only admire your ability to write something this well at such a time. It just feels like I’m somehow reading grief — the details, the heavyness, the cadence. This is just a great poem.
DAY of PLAY at the BAY
( Childhood – what memories)
Remembered island of my youth,
with a small, salty bay,
rocks for jumping to and fro,
seaweed, shells, gulls souring.
castles at low tide building.
Small penincula appearing
as a mountain above the bay
crowned with stately pines,
cradling hidden nooks,
treaures buried in a brook.
A place to dream of castles,
pirate sailing ships,
rocketing to the moon
danceing like Peter Pan,
exploring a foreign land.
Gathering childhood memories
While dancing ring around the rosey,
Producing daisy crowns,
Racing toy cars and a truck
Getting dirty in the muck.
Turn point
It was the first day
of a series of crazy
other days. My life,
myself, would never again
be the same. I dared with you.
Life Interrupted
I had already named you
and picked out a delicate,
pink-ruffled dress
for your hospital photo.
I didn’t realize how
well it would match
the miniature pink coffin
that became your cradle.
I wanted my arms
to be your first cradle.
My blood was your blood.
My breath was yours also –
until you didn’t need it anymore.
Baptism
When you decide
this is what
you want to be
not because
of what it means
in the next world,
but what it means
in this world,
then,
you’re ready.
One
I’m nearly sixty-eight,
and he wants an event?
One event?
I know, I know,
what would our friend Walt do?
He’d write and write and write,
and they’d all be great,
and they’d all be interesting,
and we’d all read them
and we’d all have ink envy…again.
I mean, I have lots of stories, so
that’s no problem, and
it’s too late now to worry about
too much exposure.
I could write about going through
A windshield…twice.
Not the same windshield, but still.
I could go on about the day my
mother died, or about when I met
her on the night I died, nine years later,
the day she sent me back.
I could ruminate on the choice to
move to a foreign country,
when we settled in California.
Then there’s the first real job that became
the only job, a career you’d say.
If homage was the goal,
it would have to be the creative writing class
in the desert.
Ultimately, there is no choice, not really.
Well, maybe a choice – between weddings -
the big, emotional first one at halftime of
the Packer game, in front of family,
in the family home, with Alice the Springer mix
as flower girl, or
the second one, fifteen years later, making her
a June Bride at last.
I think it has to be number two.
After all, we knew what we were getting,
after fourteen wonderful years of marriage.
(no, my math’s ok, and that’s a pretty good percentage)
Our wedding redux was due to
A very orthodox Orthodox priest,
who refused to acknowledge
our matrimony as legitimate, leaving us
in not good standing in the church.
Our monthly membership dues, however,
were always in good stead, all checks cashed.
So be it.
I won’t bore you with the details,
nor about the counseling sessions,
(after fifteen years!),
or about how he said we’d have a child
even though I was fixed, and then we did,
in an odd manner.
I’ll save that for another prompt.
Wow! Now you have a poem for the day and an entire mine for digging up even more! and a piece that will keep us looking for the next poems that might reveal what an “odd manner” is or more about a 1/2 time wedding or. . .
Impressive!
you are too sweet…but, I like it
What would Walt Do? He’d stand and give you a standing “O”.. You could write them all, and I’d be impressed by every word, Ely! Thanks.
An event to remember
You tell me that you’re working late on a
random Thursday in a typical, non-descript
week, and I’m supposed to have immediate recall.
You tell me to write on the calendar the
days that I’m working late, and I’ve barely
memorized my schedule for the next work week.
You tell me I need to make lists so that I can
actually accomplish things throughout the week.
Things like:
Let the dog out.
Don’t leave the laundry in the washing machine.
Bring milk home. Don’t forget the bananas.
Yet, every time someone asks when our anniversary
is, your eyes glaze and your head turns to me,
and I always respond, “April 26th”.
Oh, I can relate! Nice poem
CROWNING
and Alice’s daughter was three or four,
singing “Jack and Jill went up the hill.”
We were driving someplace, and Alice
at the wheel paused Lily’s song to say
“’Broke his crown’ means he broke his
head open.” I said, “Now why did you
need to clarify that?” Alice had to laugh,
abashed. She said she had no idea why;
and before I knew it, I had gone back
three or four years to when I saw Lily
for the first time, crown first, pushing
person from person into the dim, warm
strangeness of this world. How, how,
how?! I can’t imagine even now as she
rolls her eyes when Alice tells her “Be
home by six at the latest.” One person
comes out of another person, crown-
first into the mystery. I’d like to believe
leaving is the same, that I’ll push head-
first through some threshold that was
always there, though I never noticed—
pop—into a new sphere exponentially
beyond my ken just to gaze and gaze
around and around until I can connect
sensations with meanings and start to
sink into the pattern—but let me not
take it for granted, again. I said to Lily:
“You came in with nothing but eyes
and skin, and the first thing they did
was put a tiny knit hat on your crown.”
FangO
Beautiful.
Love it!
Good one, Daniel.
Longing
It has not happened yet
This moment that I am longing for
It may never come
But I hold on to hope
Even when it seems dim
To retire from the daily grind
And focus on other things instead
Like reading, writing, poetry
But I have not made my millions
Nor the lottery won
So each morning I rise
Long before the sun
To tend to others chores
In order to earn a dollar
For all the bills to be paid
Only to come home too tired
To have any fun
Except to rehash and remember
All the thoughts that ran through my mind
While my body was busy
And try to capture all that I can
In the written word
Before my battery dies
Blown
The candle that burns
strongest
still
in her mind
is the one pushed
into store-bought Hostess
cupcake, met alone with
closed eyes,
small
simple
imploring
wishes
and a whispered
Day 1.
Veinte
Orange blossoms and
Bougainvillea
Impossible sun
He
Pointed to his furry cheek
Handed me Lorca
With a rose
And growled
Un beso.
Twenty nearly threefold past
Rose dried dead
Book yellow. Tattered.
The kiss
Long gone.
Re-Stor(i)ed
It could have been a sadness
we both carried in our hearts,
a might-have-been love story
foiled by politics, ignorance,
international intrigue.
I, somewhere with a friend, might
tell of a man I once loved, whose
government held him fast, of
promises we would not make,
knowing better.
He might, an old man over tea,
tell his son to love as he once
loved me, the American who went
away, after we had found home
in one another.
“Once upon a cold war,” we might
have begun, the details eroding
over time, always ending with a wistfulness
born of hope carried too long in the pocket
of loss.
So when I saw his tired face, coming
through Customs, his eyes searching
for me, smiling, gladness flooded me,
knowing our story would be on-going,
rewritten every day, new.
i love this– especially “always ending with a wistfulness born of hope carried too long in the pocket of loss.” Just the whole story of it.
Thank you, Eljulia.
Two poems here. The first I just threw together since I’m pressed for time today. The second I wrote in the first 24 hours after my daughter was born.
The blue line
It appeared
The first time
Highly anticipated
we felt excited
frightened
and inspired
It appeared
The next time
Highly unexpected
we felt slighted
frightened
and tired
Averie’s Poem
As threads of golden sunlight weave through the window shade
I think about the love and care with which you were gently made
Knitted and constructed by a master craftsman, whose art adorns
The heavens, whose touch made the day you were born.
Your outline, a million times, His fingertips did trace
Now mine, for the first time, run along your face.
A dawn I’ll always remember, when my hands cradled you
Your delivery was miraculous as I guided you through.
Peaceful and perfect, you came into this world
I placed you on mommy’s chest. She loves her little girl
Keep on dreaming little one, in this dark room I see your glow
It’s in your mother’s eyes, and that spark will only grow
From flakes of the morning’s sunrise to flames of fiery love
Rivaled only by the creator of the stars that shine above
This hospital is heaven as I watch you sleep for hours
And your family comes to visit with love, hugs, and flowers
I’m so gracious for this precious soul with whom I am so blessed
It’s a feeling that only my soul’s secret language can express
Your pitter-patter heart is resting against mine,
It’s fragile as butterfly, it’s serenity defined
I know what angels smell like, as I breathe you in
I know what paradise feels like, as I stroke your skin
One thing I know for certain as I count your skinny toes
You are a unique person, your identity is your own
I’ve loved you from that first instant, and I always will
No matter what life throws at us, no matter what hills
We have to climb or valleys we’re forced to stride
Your Father never leaves, your daddy’s by your side
I can’t wait to watch you grow, to laugh, to run, to play,
But I don’t want to leave this room, I don’t want to end this day
your daughter will cherish this!
How true!
Celebrate
Birth,
death
and
everything
in between,
leads to
celebration
of life,
joy,
you,
me,
and our
sometimes
screwed up
family.
Synchronicity
When I was born, my mother’s heart
stopped. A speedy C-section saved me,
while doctors strove to bring her back.
Our destinies seemed linked in near
misses from the start, and we were
close, a seedling rooted into the parent
like a limb and not a separate tree.
Lucky, we thought.
We knew those symptoms. Why
had she kept them quiet for months,
blaming old age? I had the fix:
a mother-daughter healthcare day,
with lunch between, knowledge
always better than ignorance.
Within two hours of one another,
her colon cancer and my tumor
were scheduled for surgery.
Lunch was a solemn affair,
followed by shopping for stretchy
recovery clothes, neither of us
ready yet to ask if we had found
the door to the beginning, to say
we almost died together once
and here we are again, facing
an arrow we had dodged,
amazed that it has been
perpetually winging, waiting
for us to come full circle.
Jane, this is poignant, powerful and beautiful.
Thanks, De, high praise from one of my favorite poets.
Oh, Jane. Thank you so much. What a generous comment.
What a connection you have. I agree with Dee. Powerful.
Thanks, Linda. She’s been gone since 2003, and I still feel that connection like a rope tug.
Pre-marital counselling
Pastor, do you also do pre-divorce counselling?
We can’t afford a therapist, y’see?
We’re wondering how God-fearing people…
Y’said He was very understanding
Mr. Pastor. Last Sunday. I even figured
I should be praying for my enemies
Yes, my wife prayed for me as well
I was touched. Look, I understand
Ye’re busy chastisin’ those bent ones
What do you mean hypocrisy?
There’s forgivable mistakes and
Then there’s stuff that stains souls
I won’t stand for you calling me a sinner, Sir
We’re doing everything by the book here
We’re thinking of the kids, putting aside differences…
Well, of course I promised, but
We got tired of each other, it happens.
Don’t make me as bad as someone who-
Beam in my own eye? Point at myself?
I don’t hold with mystical riddles
Look, can you come over Thursday night?
Well, it’s not like they can get married in church
Y’telling them to love and trust each other before they
Sign a piece of only-just legal paper at the city hall?
Oh.
I like the lines:
“There’s forgivable mistakes and
Then there’s stuff that stains souls”
I have never heard it put that way before. It makes me think of venial and mortal sins.
Another Year
One birthday
after another,
a friend latched out,
hurt me,
unaware I was born,
years ago, that day.
In frustration,
I cried,
“Lord, please
make next
birthday much better,
with no bitter weeping.”
My step-son called.
They’d visit August 7th,
Surprised he chose
my special day.
God answered.
Best birthday gift, ever!
A Bullet Came A Calling
When I was young and went to war,
a bullet came a calling.
I don’t know why it sought us out,
there’s pain in this recalling.
It is the sweat that I can feel
long after all the faces disappeared.
It was the heat
and all the thousand shades of green.
It was the rain, the river, and the shore,
it was the jungle birds and blood,
it was that convoluted quest called war.
Pete had just had breakfast,
powdered eggs and ham,
heated by that stove too long
until the yellow turned to gray.
He was singing loudly,
the birds joined in it seemed.
It was the Rolling Stones he sang
from Aftermath that day
And then a crack of sound not loud,
but sharper than the jungle noise rang out.
His face exploded toward me,
smiling still and mouthing “Paint it black”.
The world went silent,
The jungle, hushed and dumb.
I grabbed him as he fell.
And then a second crack,
a whip within the wilderness was heard.
his neck blew out
and with it came a demon carved in lead,
made holy by the blood and bone it held.
I swear I saw it as it pierced my face,
as Pete became a part of me forever.
A bullet came a calling
and it found us both that day,
when I was young and went to war
and Peter went away.
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/140633.html
the softness
of my heart
after knowing
that you were
truly gone
the thorny rose bush
you once posed next to,
the way your nimble
limbs climbed over chairs
and couches as if
they were mountains
how you held me
in dreams–
my wings gathered
wisps of mountain clouds
I thought I’d never reach
will I ever see you again?
visiting your spirit
at the lake
the sky and water
the same endless bruised-gray
Here’s mine:
Preparation
I drank the last swallow of my coffee;
dark and strong with a hint of sugar,
mellowed with a splash of cream.
Glancing at the clock,
I set aside my book
and got dressed.
Dark slacks and a charcoal sweater.
No mascara to run and puddle.
Sunglasses to hide behind.
Standing in the park,
I listen to birds sing
and voices speak.
I take deep breaths and stare
at his mother.
How is she holding up?
I can’t see her eyes behind huge sunglasses.
Others address and welcome me.
I hear whispering – “his first wife” -
I want to leave;
to nurse my pain
alone.
The Funeral
My grandpa was made of wax,
but my eyes kept telling me
I saw his chest rise and fall.
His hair was parted on
the wrong side; my grandma
quietly fixed it for him.
The youth leader for their church
wanted to talk to me because
I was a youth then myself,
but I wanted to help my mom
(my dad wouldn’t hold her hand—why?)
and my grandma, who smiled, hosted,
asked if anyone else would like coffee.
It was all fine. I don’t remember
grieving that day. It was all so artificial,
Grandpa with spots of blush; I felt
the strangest desire to pare off a piece
of my fingernail, something of myself,
put it in there by his side, before
they closed the lid and we all went
home to live life without him.
The point of view is very effective, posmic. I liked the putting something of self there with him. Touching.
MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS
At home they told me all about you
before I read your book. It was
on the table,. by accident. Of course
my father was looking it over. How
could he know that I heard about it
at the Seminary. My teacher said something
from the book, as if you were
one of the sages, just a name
of a student of a venerable rabbi . . . I giggled
to myself. All the girls talked about him
a genius. Anyone who was matched to you
was fortunate. At the books, a scholar of standing . . .
you know that I always washed the dishes
when the boys came by. You were never there
the boys said you were going
over a troublesome passage. You didn’t have time
for fun and games. You know,
I took some of my father’s books to examine
things I didn’t understand, too, when
he wasn’t home. Other boys came
to pick up clothes, my father’s
alterations . . . He did that, too.
He taught me how to mend.
Were you surprised that I sewed
your wedding suit. My father gave me
your measurements. I was surprised that
you were that tall. Your mother said
it was a perfect fit, no need for adjustments . . .
later on, with the children you had
your point of view, sometimes, but
it always worked out. I couldn’t know
everything about you. All at once
I looked at you the day before. You were strong
carrying the sofa out of the house
to save it from the fire. My father was worried
I told him if that’s the man, now I know,
he’s a man. It was good
there was some material left, enough
for the trousers. That was just the beginning
where didn’t you go, where didn’t we, carrying
the burdens and mending the souls. Me, at home,
you listening to everybody’s troubles . . . then
the knocks at the door, If it was good enough for
the children, when they came to me,
I might spare you the aggravation. How many happy homes
of Israel bear my stamp of approval. You married their children
and their grandchildren. There are more
things I could tell you if there was time,
Make sure to find someone who knows
to listen, to be with you. If you would be so kind,
close my eyes, I have to go now.
Zev Davis
Betty
Carved from life
the lines on her face
so familiar, yet once
these cheeks were smooth
and young.
A young lady
smiling at her beau.
A young mother
holding her newborn babe
and then her daughter’s babies too.
How the years must have flown,
the summers and gardens
all blending into one another,
each year’s crop of apple-scented
roses on the gate
dropping their petals
in the heat.
I’ll miss you forever.
So beautiful! I am in love with the ending — “apple-scented roses… dropping their petals in the heat” “I’ll miss you forever.”
Thanks Andrea.
April 19, 2012 – Day 19
LIfe Event poem
Trauma In The Time Of Moving
Lure of new life reels
you in slowly, cautiously.
After all, you are no longer
a young adventurer
seeking thrills, knowing chills
will not interfere with the immortal
you, popping pills, motorcycle
roaring up steep hills, and down
dead-end roads.
A house grips you
in firm roots, your branches
only as strong as the trunk
which has sunk you into
a morass of mortgage
payments, and familiar
comforts of sameness,
a paralysis of mind
and movement, married
to fear of a new frontier.
You make a decision. Exultation
overcomes uncertainty, an incision
cuts through fibers of fixedness.
Boxes packed, your skin sings
of plans and plantings a new
home brings. Truck pulls away,
old house swept clean. You arrive
`cross country, and through lush
greenery, open the door
on the threshold of your new life.
Wonderful words — so full of sound and rhythm. And a beautiful new chapter of life poem!
Thanks, Andrea!
Love Deafness
I want love deafness,
to go back to simple popsicle
on hot pavement times,
making wild perfumes
out of easy flowers
where white gypsum rocks
were our sidewalk chalk.
I squint
and find this wasn’t a time,
but a one-time token
flipped in a grassless yard
where mud wasn’t for pies
but for hiding the dirt.
Flowerbeds uncovered
show broken stemmed ghosts
that made their way to
under-bed
homes
and attached themselves
to little ones
who grew into old ones
with large knuckles and
bulbous noses.
Through hopscotch frames,
I see it was the ghosts who made
these men demons, who taught
them their I’ll-always-love you wishes,
how to blow I-really-do-mean-it kisses
ghost-like moments that find you
firing guards,
full-grown.
Time ascends into a siren
and you find yourself aching
for love deafness.
the white room stuffed with plastic folding tables
the director at his laptop studying the stats
the four of us silent, only our hungry eyes growl
and the slamming of cold palms against the timers
clicking of plastic squares in those red velvet bags
searching for the best double letter triple word bingo
scribbling scores, crossing off hurried alphabet lists
my partner has his already typed
the steady veteran
I don’t know all the rules
my partner laughs that I think ap is legal
fighting back an eyeroll, he lectures me
“A-P-P” as he types it in the second laptop
with the verdict – I am wrong
withdraw my tiles
resume to quickly shuffling tiles in permutations
I’m no good at mental math
then the finish
stuffing our leftover tiles in the holes
somehow my “qi” won it
though he slipped by a fabricated word
as we confirm our tallies
he tries to smile
his face blushing as bright as his colorful tie
“You just beat the highest-rated player in Ohio”
he congratulates me
“Pretty impressive since your rating is 500
mine 1801″
he calculates the odds of a loser like me
beating him
I’m a bit stunned
the highlight of my two-tournament Scrabble career
now I might as well retire
I miss you dad
This old place that once was you’re home
is now so empty with you gone.
The routines i had become so familiar with
are no longer for me anymore.
Yet still i find myself in the night
getting up to check on you.
Only to find and empty bed
where once lay you.
Each morning i get up as i look on the porch,my heart sinks
when i see you’re favorite rocking chair empty.
And not you in it rocking back and forth.
I know by now though you should be about settled in you’re new home so i won’t keep you very long.
Since springtime is you’re favorite time of year, i started missing you more and wishing you were here.
You would be proud of your roses this year,if only you could see them yourself.
The colors are so bright and beautiful, and lovely fragrances
fills the air.
And your dog brownie sometimes still looks for you.
I know he misses you too.
I know you’re probally busy and i’ve took up a lot of you time so i won’t keep you.
But will you tell everyone i love and miss them and my dog biddy too. And dad,i love and miss you too.
Samantha Tinney
Breathe
Some days a single
breath is the miracle, the
great accomplishment.
Amen. Love this.
Thank you
Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo: In honor of that childhood favorite, “Opposites Day”, take an existing poem and write its opposite, so to speak. I used Auden’s well-known “Funeral Blues” as the poem to rework:
The Wicked Witch’s Funeral
Rewind the clocks, turn on the phone,
Make the dog bark by removing his bone,
Pound the pianos and bang on the drum,
Hang decorations, let the partyers come.
Let the jet planes scream and streak overhead,
Spreading the message, “Thank God she is dead.”
Put bright red bows round the necks of the doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear sparkly white gloves.
She was our cracked compass, our famines and wars,
Our workplace layoffs and our hard Sunday chores,
Our dark noon, bright midnight, dead silence and noise,
We’d hate her forever, but now sorrows are joys.
We want the stars back, put them up in the sky,
Unpack the moon and hang the sun high,
Refill the ocean and replant the wood,
Everything in the world now just looks so darned good.
You are being efficient! I am doing both things separately.
It’s been a fun, but tiring, month. I really like this one. The rhythm of it really works.
This is so darn good!
On and On Ad Nauseum
My bed, a refuge.
Here, the covers make of me a
second flesh,
protecting me from the harsh winds
and blistering suns.
For my life, as long as my breath can remember,
I have been a mole,
scrounging around my sheets,
abounding on the bed,
wallowing the darkness that darkness can allow.
Constant people, mirrors of people,
floating by my face,
checking the tubes, hollow veins of my body,
haunting my dreams, awake and asleep.
My nighttime terrors, confused by my daytime horrors,
convinced me it did not matter when my eyes were closed.
Today, my fingers feel out for my legs,
my shriveled excuses for legs.
I could be lucky to feel.
I could be lucky to feel anything,
a needle prick, a hint at cold, the flesh of a woman,
and respond with my flesh, controlling my fear and pain and private convulsion,
and controlling hers as well.
But, that,
that,
may never be again.
I sigh. My breath a rattling revulsion,
my brain asea without a propeller,
my fingers…
my legs…
She comes in now, her deft hands plowing through my vitals.
She nods and grabs on to my ankles and pulls my feet
hard to the floor.
She tells me it’s time to walk.
She is kind. Her eyes telling me she cares, though
I am revolting.
She leans in close, rose water and essence filling my once
useful nostrils.
She tells me not to be afraid.
Yet, I know not how.
My flesh stings, singeing stings, melting stings, a malificient
writhing.
She leans in again, whispering a triumphant fanfare, her shampoo
dousing me in sunlight.
What am I to do now?
What is my expectation?
Who am I do dissappoint such an angel?
My body, though it aches, screams louder to be upright.
My bed, once coddling, now appears to be little more than
a box of nails, the open maw of a beatial antagonist.
I have suffered enough.
I thrust my shoulders heavenward,
heaving my spoiled body toward this emissary of kindness.
Though my flesh is covered in the memory of flame,
her hands catch me in ash.
I am up, and the world spins for the first time in years.
I’m teaching a unit on death and dying in a medical ethics course and this is really a wonderful illustration of the sort of insight and empathy I’m hoping the students will develop. Just wonderful
I’m glad you enjoyed it. I think the best healers are the people who can see inside the minds and hearts of the people they are healing. Good luck to you and your students!
ECTOPIC
All sign pointed to the obvious.
A planned pregnancy taking
an unplanned detour. The look
on her face showed no trace of belief;
no relief was forthcoming from the bearer
of ridiculous news. In his view
the pregnancy was “ectopic”;
a term neither had heard until the word
cut a swatch out of our hearts.
No family starts with a tubal pregnancy.
Options were given, alternatives proposed
but both of our ears were closed
to the possibility. Recommendation
was easy for him to say. Terminate. Today!
We went off to think, (me, tempted to return
to drink and drown) but she knew.
Mothers always know. She had less faith
in first impressions then she had in second opinions.
No babies were aborted that day.
Trusting in a mother’s instict and the power
of clasped hands we took our stand.
Rash decisions make no provision for error.
The terror would have been in choosing
on the side of caution and not emotion.
Now, we can only smile. Next May,
we get to walk our “tubal pregnancy”
(AKA, our daughter Melissa) down the aisle.
WOW! I have goose-bumps!So glad ‘mother’ trusted her instincts! Melissa is a good name(our second daughter) I also had an ectopic pregnancy…the twin Matthew, our only son might have had, but the tube ruptured…ouch:)
Shotgun Wedding
The bride swooned, not from happiness
but the butterfly kicks of the embryo
inside her, the hormones that left her
sleepy then nauseous, then tearful
in shifts without warning.
The lump in the throat of the groom
arose not at the sight of his bride—
her white dress snug already—
but the vision of his future,
hurtling too fast toward him.
Her father’s face burned as he gripped
her arm, unnerved not by imaginings
of his only daughter on her honeymoon
but of that night, those nights before.
Her mother ‘s thoughts rushed ahead
to baby showers, tatted booties,
tiny pin-tucked Christening gowns
spun like Rapunzel’s gold from straw.
Her tears came from her secret:
her wishes, though too soon,
at last were coming true.
27 I DOS
For twenty-seven years it’s been confirmed,
every year we’ve yearned for the promise
each tomorrow offered, knowing
that any glowing recommendation
had been left off of our joint application.
But you’ve put up with me, and I, you
through twenty-six years of mutual
nuptials. Twenty-seven on the 27th.
Not all slices of Heaven to be sure,
no pure walk down a pristine runner;
it was a wonder we’ve lasted as long.
But, we’ve become stronger the longer
we’ve been together, whether by choice
or design. The Divine Plan for this
woman and man joined at the lip
for twenty-seven years of
I “most certainly” dos!
40 DAYS A.P. (AFTER PATTI)
and I’m memorizing you
now that I know you’re gone
your jewelry on the dresser
family photos in the hall
and I’m memorizing your smile
in all the things you loved
old memories in scrapbooks
rainbows on the wall
and I don’t know how I’ll take it
can’t be sure how I’ll survive
so I’m memorizing you
in what
you’ve left
behind
Don’t Listen
I don’t want to write this poem
I don’t want to say a thing
To hell with a life event
And an engagement ring
I don’t want to tell you
It wasn’t the first
And how one was shunned
For an unquenchable thirst
I don’t want you to know
It flew from finger to bush
When I crash-landed, yes
Hit the ground with a swoosh
I don’t want to bore you
Or rehash it again
The broken tooth
And stitched-up chin
I don’t want to forget
The small price paid
When God intervened-
The best mistake I ever made
The Day We Said Goodbye
Weeks lead up to the day.
Dad announced that we would be moving to California
He and mom began packing boxes
Naturally all the kitchen appliances
and my dad’s tools got packed.
All five of us, picked our favorite clothes
as if we were packing bags for a plane trip.
But what I remember was
what we left behind
and the journey.
I loved the wooden swing that Dad had built.
Four of us could sit in and swing
on those warm nights in Kansas.
But dad said, “there wasn’t room to take it”
I couldn’t understand how we could leave what he had made.
“Don’t worry, the swing isn’t important,
it is knowing how to make the swing.
I can make another.”
Edison was a kitten, dad reported had followed
him for 40 minutes walking to the stream
on a fishing trip. He had felt sorry for it and
stuck it in the pocket of his woodsman flannel shirt
carrying Edison with him all day.
Why can’t we take Edison to California?
“Edison was a gift to us,
now we share the gift with the Meeks,
our neighbors. This is Edison’s home and
dragging him away would be selfish.
Sometimes, you have to move on
but you must make sure that everything
and everyone is taken care of”
The day came when we had our last swing time,
each petted and hugged Edison. I handed him
to Janet Meeks, my next door friend. I hugged her
her mother, dad and even her older brother.
We piled into the car,
Dad started the engine,
slowly pulled the trailer down the street,
the Meeks walked a bit down the street
then we were all waving and shouting
GOODBYE.
The five day trip was full of diary queen
and vegetable stand stops
motels, car games
the names of highways, towns, souvenirs
and magnificent scenery.
AND ONE BIG LESSON,
no matter what you leave behind,
there is another adventure down the road.
Life Event
Livy doesn’t consider the day a trifle.
I pull on the gauntlets, hunt up and down the rooms,
Find her cowering behind the bookcase, trying to
Evade, hide pretend that it will go away.
Eventually I detract her from my shelf of poetry, knocking away
Verlaine, Collins and other assorted volumes. She clings to
Elliott trying to claw back into poetry.
Nothing helps her of course as I pull stuff her into the carrier and
Take her to the vet.
Megan
I love the idea of clinging to Eliot and clawing her way back to poetry. Made me smile for both the image and for the cleverness that came up with it.
“Little shaver”
the razor is too sharp
the mirror too foggy
his hands are too shaky.
his fuzz is too cute
but Mom, they tease me,
he says, with his thirteen
year-old man voice.
LESSON PLANS
My first day as a teacher
I unlocked my room to find
two empty glass display cases
and a box of broken crayons.
Later I was told the cases
belonged to Miss Alley
who walked out after her
students had a cake fight.
She never came back.
I had nothing, no inspiring
posters of thoughtful kittens
or bracing slogans to cover
the off-white bricks, no clue
where to start the work.
I took a stub of Purple Heart,
sheets of derelict paper
and made a sign, one large
letter at a time: WHAT IS
A GOOD MAN BUT A
BAD MAN’S TEACHER?
WHAT IS A BAD MAN
BUT A GOOD MAN’S JOB?
I borrowed some tape
and stuck it up. Kids were
arriving in two days. What
was stored in those cases?
I sat at my desk and waited.
I took over a job like that… while I was still a student teacher (in the same grade). It was close to graduation in Dec (way too many years ago), so I was considered a full-time sub until January. It was very difficult to step right in.
“Moving Beyond Death”
5:00 PM. I left him, naked on a hospital potty chair, unaware; his mind paused. No need for modesty.
Nurse not bothering to pull the curtain, I resented her. His death; my death; his shame; my shame.
Not concerned with modesty, Death has his own problems shutting the body down. Persistent, he cares not for appearances. I have seen him and know this is true. As a cop, he already knew the dark angel well. He had seen him at work many times.
2:30 AM. the nurse calls: “He wants you to come.” Snow and tears. Tears and snow. The twisting country road turns dangerously close to a precipice; its winding, slick blackness puts me in a trance. It snakes and invites. Meeting Death here would be so easy.
“Just hold my hand; rub my back for a little while. That is all I really want or need.”
5:30 AM. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. You are excused.”
Father, forgive them for they know not…”excused”. Excused for sixty-three years of his company since
age 12? That is many years of forgiveness; of being ‘excused’. It is done. It is over. Excused, forgiven; exhausted…Now I must put one foot in front of the other…
On my way home, I stop at a roadside diner; new and white and shining in our little mountain town. Out of character for me, but something that cop of mine would love to do had I been the one dying.
I never met a cop that did not love an all-night diner. The interior is blinding, incandescent, cold and ugly like that of an interrogation room. I am scrutinized in the cafe’s lineup. I cringe and squint and shade my eyes with both hands, trying to see who, out there, is accusing me. I hear the charge: “Guilty!” I look guilty and forlorn. I must be guilty. I am sentenced to survival and the scrambled eggs turn to chalk and stick-in-my-throat.
Oh My! I had to read this twice to absorb the impact..Powerfully penned, Jackie. It will be with me for quite awile.
Oh, Jackie. I am so thankful I saw this just now. AMAZING. Every word is so carefully chosen, and perfect. This is just a powerful, poignant, painful piece. So well penned.
September
Had a belly full
of boy
and a brother
at the Pentagon
the day the towers
(skyhopeworld)
came
tum
bling
down.
We
were among those
who watched in
terrible technicolor
waiting
waiting
waiting
to see what
would happen next
gasping without breath
when the second one
crumbled
disappeared before our
very eyes
waiting
for the phone to ring
watching the screen
unable to move as
ash rained down over
these two
erased places
my son
will never
see.
Wow! Heart-wrenching images!
I had just had my middle child two weeks prior… I sat glued to the TV as I nursed for many days, rehashing the whole thing… extremely depressing it was for me.
I gather your brother was ok?
Yes, Laurie, thank you. He (special forces, Army) often worked at the Pentagon at the time, but not that day. We didn’t know for about 6 hours, though. Rough morning, to say the least.
I was nursing Victoria when I saw it come onto the news and I called my husband and said ‘ I think something REALLY awful is happening’…I will NEVER forget that day!
Just realized I forgot to do the silly html or whatever to make my parenthetical phrase italicized. It’s correct on my blog.
So moving and I love how the words themselves are a tower falling down — wonderful visual. “Had a belly full of boy…” is beautiful!
Thank you all, so much.
THE WILD GOOSE MATES FOR LIFE
From the grassy field, this early
morning, a honk-clattering of wild geese.
I count five long necks erect
above foxtails, on alert; five beaks
pointed south.
Two pairs, and the one lone goose.
The clattering grows louder,
and from the valley comes an answer,
two more geese on approach.
Another pair.
The count remains uneven. I’ve seen
the solitary goose standing
at the edge of pavement on a curve,
under spreading liveoaks.
Alone.
That clattering communal cry –
Are they gathering for the long flight?
Is the single bird still calling
for its mate? Who cares for goose-
grief, anyway?
Who cares? You care, and I do. You remind me of Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” Sad enjoyment, to be sure.
Love this, Taylor.
First Drive with Friends
License acquired
now in hand,
I take my friends
for a drive
in my mom’s Mustang.
With tight grip on the wheel
a day’s at hand
while I take us down
Division street.
Once familiar,
it looks like something new
since I am driving,
I am,
with a show of adulthood
taking my turn
to show my skills
to show my manhood,
this ritual,
to the taunts and teasing
(By now I should know they wouldn’t make it easy.),
and for the moment
when I am stuck at a stop sign,
engine revving
when they had put it neutral,
and I didn’t know.
It is vanity
when I dare not admit
that I am embarrassed.
The Road Frequently Walked
I rolled the Front Wheeled Walker out of the department.
turned a sharp left,
walked past ICU 2, pulling my FWW
to the employee elevator.
When the doors opened
David from Central Supply,
Cheryl from ultrasound,
Michael from Bio-Med exited
I greeted each with a “Good morning”
The basement Corridor was as empty as I felt.
I rolled the walker down to the mail room.
Moans of the engines, just to the right cried.
I dropped off the letters.
I stood in this familiar room
with the copy machine,
stacks of copy paper waiting their turn,
mail slots for all the departments,
the Metered Postage Machine
then the tears sprinkled my face
and I also moaned with the engines
because Nadine and her cart were missing.
I stood there for several minutes
flooded with video clips
from my first day at the hospital 18 years ago
when this pixie grandmother accidentally rolled
her cart filled with mail over my foot
and said, “you have to watch your feet, my eye sight
isn’t what it used to be” to last week at her desk
where she proudly introduced me to a couple of her
new wiggle head pens gifts for her collection from
Willow, her grand-daughter, who the previous month
had gone river rafting with Nadine for her 79th birthday.
I realized that I would never come into this room
without feeling her presence and seeing her impish smile.
As I pulled my walker down the corridor,
I could see her little American Flag pin and
feel her walking next to me,
me pulling my walker, her pulling her cart, “Spot”
Nadine was walking by my side
I remembered her laughter,
her teasing, her mischief,
her frequently calling colleagues, “Turkey”
which I’m sure was a term of endearment,
her black eye and the stories she told about it,
her presence every where in the hospital.
I could see Nadine’s Nook,
her desk holders full of flowers and decorative pens
those which were hip and cool with sunglasses
probably to protect their eyes from her sunshine
or the beam of mischief from her eyes,
those little animals and Disney creatures that
were tiny like Nadine, but never small.
As I was walked into the elevator,
I found myself singing the old song,
You’ll never walk alone.
DEAD
When my father died
the green and black fluids
drained from his body.
The smell of rotting lard.
I shook him to keep
him breathing, but they said
“let him go”.
He went cold as a doorknob
or the metal post of his bed.
I called him
on my cellphone,
no answer.
I went to his house
and put his clothes on.
The ashes came.
I put my arms
in them, up to my elbows,
feeling for bones.
There were none big enough
to satisfy my hunger.
Amazing craftmenship. Felt it. Especially your last line.
First Drive with Friends
License acquired
now in hand,
I take my friends
for a drive
in my mom’s Mustang.
With tight grip on the wheel
a day’s at hand
while I take us down
Division street.
Once familiar,
it looks like something new
since I am driving,
I am,
with a show of adulthood
taking my turn
to show my skills
to show my manhood,
this ritual,
to the taunts and teasing
(I should have known they wouldn’t make it easy.),
and for the moment
when I was stuck at a stop sign,
engine revving
when they had put it neutral,
and I didn’t know.
It was vanity
when I dared not admit
that I was embarrassed.
It was a simple dress,
but I had traced and snipped,
pinned, stitched, pressed a
complex Simplicity,
a putting together of the end,
the beginning
A pink-checked calico, trimmed,
just below the still-waiting
potential of bodice,
with a lacey chain of white daisies—
quite a statement for a
toothpick tomboy
And now I was ready to
celebrate the leaving,
announce the arrival,
accompanied by twelve-year-old
trepidation
My graduating class of seven, a
record-breaking number, walked
across the old schoolhouse stage,
letting gradeschool bump along
behind us, ready, almost, for
our next uncertain strides
I absolutely loved this… your first line lured me in and oh, so charming! This ‘quite a statement for a
toothpick tomboy’ made me smile:) Excellent!
Fierté
“Go ahead, accuse me of just singing about places
with scrappy boys’ faces, have general run of the town.”
- Rufus Wainwright
Sometimes you have to cross oceans to get there,
wherever the arms of shame cannot embrace you.
Shame is too comfortable,
and so is fear: of falling, of burning, of something
Un-Nameable. Sometimes you have to rely on
the curvature of the Earth to hide you
beneath its sloping horizon.
But when you arrive, you are
once more someone who nobody knows.
Walking the boulevards full of elegant gestures,
lining your eyes, letting your voice lift and plummet
with the gentleness of a summer monarch:
far from home, no one will pray for you or
wonder if it’s just a phase. Here, they’ve never seen
your silken caterpillar shape.
And when the parade comes along, all rainbow
serpent and musical chatter, be sure to be caught
by the undertow. Shake hands;
kiss cheeks; embrace. Bits of cocoon
cling to your back until you find the courage
to beat your wings: and courage comes easy
when no one you know is watching.
You can wave a prismatic flag and shout chants
in languages that aren’t yours,
dance in the streets without stepping on the toes
of those who pity you, those stung by this
metamorphosis which seemed so sudden.
Now you can say: your tribe came to the Bastille,
stormed its walls too, stripped off
cloaks of woven hesitations and walked with glory.
Defining a sin ought to be a sin:
and its antonym will be compassion. After that
first march, you will soar home to where you
crawled from. Keep this piece of yourself close:
not to hide it but to dare anyone
to excise it. Wear it like an outcoming jewel:
remember it as the last inch of fire.
gorgeous, the last inch of fire. been there in the foreign crowds. thanks for capturing.
Cousin’s Wedding
It is expected
to marry
right after high school
in a church
to the girl who lives down the road.
It is expected
to declare undying love
before a congregation
of friend and families,
hers
his
adjoined
before pastor and God,
as he readies himself
to take over the farm,
the exchange of rings
bound by a kiss.
At the reception,
the union is celebrated
with the ringing of glasses
and another kiss for show,
with the anticipation
of forever more,
leading to later conversations
and speculations
of children, yet to come.
Push!
Six times my body answered that command
Six times my body parted to let out
A red-faced squalling infant.
Wonder overcame
the exertions of my body
And to this day remains
Remembrance of miracles -
The sheer incredibility of it all
Life begetting life. What Hand
Touches and what Breath breathes
Invisible and unknown, how and when?
A mystery remains, but what we see
And touch is real – a whole new life begins
“Parents” is the word they call us now
and always will be , linked, in a sacred, unsaid vow.
Yes and YES! Thank-you for this excellent reminder of those moments as we became ‘parents’” I love the ending. This is beautiful.
I agree!
LIFE FLASHES
Minding your own;
owning all your distant thoughts.
Just a short drive to where
your comfort lies. Your eyes
open fully for the first time;
taking stock in sobriety,
not false piety in demeanor.
Senses are keener, more atuned.
Having given up drinking
for thinking with a clear head.
Bright lights highlight your focus,
avoidance is not forthcoming,
and a numbing sensation runs
rampant; nerve endings sending
signals faster than the brain can process.
The rest flashes before your eyes;
it was wise to wait for the second reel.
Walt,
for you and others…
I Carved something today…
For each of you
I’ve never met
Or held or touched
Face to face
But on deeper plains
Heart to heart
And soul to soul
I carve a place
For each of you
I’ve never cherished
Eye to eye
…but tear on tear
I carve a rare
And sacred place
Within my heart
To hold you near
Heart warming and much appreciated, Janet. It is a special place. Thank You.
February
Her son is dead
and there’s a
daughter
in my belly
just days
from being born.
We stand numb,
sentences stumble
in fragments, hands
flutter, don’t know
what to do but pat,
hold, clutch, cling.
We sit in rows,
drenched in salt
and grief and
silence.
We rise and
let him go,
hundreds
of yellow balloons
falling slowly
backwards
to the sky
soaring
and you,
my belly balloon
safe now
but
waiting
waiting
waiting
to do the
same.
Mum
On the day of her funeral
I wore something fitting…
a cardigan with one sleeve,
the last thing she was knitting.
Awww, Tracy. This is so sweet. What a touching, bittersweet, funny visual.
Thank you De.
PERMANENCE
Transient as ever
Permanence defies logic.
While first jobs seem so
Painstakingly magical
The world in which we live
Forces the hand of change
When many would rather establish a
Stranglehold on the passage of time.
Much in life embraces
Structure
Such as love
Devotion
Instinct
Passion.
Yet one
Two
Three
Four
Or more jobs later
Permanence begins to seem
For naught
And a carefree nature must begin
To take shape.
SISTERS
We four and no more,
A week down by the sea
Sisters building new memories.
Relaxing under a summer sky,
we four remembering
so many year,
places, things we shared.
Homes we lived in,
Games we played.
Schools attended.
Churches where we worshiped
Sitting by a fireplace,
we four remembering talking, laughing,
singing songs from way back when.
Cooking childhood recipies,
Sharing kitchen chores.
Walking the sandy beach,
we four remembering
Parents who have gone to rest,
Lessons they taught us,
Camping in the mountains
Guiggling in old green tents
Under star-lite sky.
Sharing a week down by the sea,
We four sisters
Remembering.
This reminds me of my three sisters whom I cherish and love.
I enjoyed the feel to this lovely poem.
The Diary Monologue
Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Friends for Life was trapped in
my head when I took the Howard train uptown today.
Despite humidity that stuck like skin on your Durango leather
seats during the summer summit, the car swarmed with perky
people. I rode on my feet, gripping the overhead bar. A bee
and a sunflower got on, paid the fare, and stopped in front
of me. The song flew away like a bird tired of idling
in an unchanged place.
The bee leaned in to kiss his sunflower on the cheek; her
blonde hair dangled on his shoulder. His wing whispered
across her chin. Theirs was lingua franca one could not learn
taking summer classes at the city college. I wanted to dab
my finger on the illusion their kiss left in its wake, gloss
memory with it. Later, on the porch swing, under the sky’s
claret flames, the song fluttered back in. Your absence
scattered burnt pictures across my heart.
so beautifully expressed.
Yolee, I love that last line. Beautiful poem.
The Cane
They say there’s a first time for everything. But must there be?
There is a first time to breathe, to walk, to eat, to slumber…
but what about a first time for NOT? If the body decides to rebel, what then?
I suppose that can be part of “everything.”
Seven years ago, I learned to use a cane. Just in case.
I folded the cane then carried it along. Just in case.
MS could rob me of balance, leave me grasping an empty space.
So I went along and brought my cane… you know, there’s a first time for everything.
After a first time comes a second and third, then too many to count.
I breathe, I eat, I slumber, but…
when I walk, I use a cane. And we bring along a wheelchair. Just in case.
They say there’s a first time for everything.
i really like this–it reminds me how one thing in our life can cause a change that flows through everything….
Angie, my mom has “just in cased” with MS for years as well– cane, wheelchair. My dad put a power lift chair on the stairs but she doesn’t use it– it’s just in case. Thank you for putting this to words. My thoughts are with you.
RIGHT ACTION TAKEN
It was a “damn the torpedoes…” snap
of the mind; a door-shutting surge of
decision. Wrong is wrong. Evil is
worse. Neither is acceptable. That
truth imbued this former coward, a
once quaking minion, to leap above
heads of superiors, shouting their
names and actions , to the gods and all
people below, of betrayed trust, lies,
stolen goods and holdings, even lives
of some, so they could furnish their own
extravagant existence at no
personal expense. The price of such
ignorance was paid, instead by those
who had trusted and believed in them.
The means were justified: lives were saved,
preserved; the guilty were found to be
so, and they paid, not ever dearly
enough, in disease; divorce; death at
the hand of systems they helped create,
then taint; at the hand of the dog they
kicked; in the prisons they had laughed at
and thought too good for their ilk; at the
base of their self-created altars
of greed and debauchery; at the
hand of a Power no person should
ever try to second-guess. Truth reigns.
nice Willy – justice – love the “once quaking minion” and “helped create and taint”
“I Do”
Dark rains stained that day
White lace gently veiled our truth
We both knew better
Nicely done.
Connie if you’re confused I don’t blame you:) Above comment was Intended for Marie’s story…But the hilariously ironic thing is that it worked here too:0
mine were ‘poked’ into being as well…and they still need the occasional ‘poke’! thank-you Connie, for the smiles and memories.
Daughter’s Birth
It was sixteen below in Craig, Colorado.
Three days after Christmas.
You made your entrance
and your dad and doctor
almost missed it.
One night in the hospital,
I stared into your deep, shiny eyes
and I knew we’d be friends.
We brought you home in a Christmas stocking.
Son’s Birth
It was eight days past your due date.
Three days after Easter.
We scheduled the task at midnight.
It was like knitting needle.
One poke and you came in a hurry.
You’ve been that way ever since—
hard to start and hard to stop.
It’s time for another poke,
to be birthed into the world.
My son had a knitting needle, too — you’re talking about the amnio hook, right? It was weird how simple that process was — like how you describe it. I also like the detail about the Christmas stocking.
THIS IS NOT POETRY, BUT IT IS COMICALLY POETIC!
Some of you have already seen this on my Facebook page. If you need a true-story chuckle and don’t mind that this is not a poem, read on …
4/17/12
Okay, so my Aunt Peg (my mom’s identical twin sister) is in the hospital.
Today, Mom went to visit Aunt Peg. As she was leaving, Aunt Peg’s nurse (Dave) saw who he thought was his patient (Aunt Peg) walking down the hall in a raincoat. He shouted at her, “Mrs. Powers!” and my mom turned around. He ran up to her and said, “You can’t leave. Come on. Let’s go back to your room.” Mom, being the obedient sweetheart she is, walked with him back to Aunt Peg’s room. Nurse Dave then saw Aunt Peg lying dutifully in her bed, and did a double take. After he apologized, he went about his business with other patients.
Meanwhile, Mom came out of the room, went up to the unit clerk and asked, “Where are the elevators?” The unit clerk, who had just seen Dave escort her back into the room, told her she couldn’t leave and had to go back to her room. This time, Mom argued that she was there to visit her sister, but the unit clerk didn’t buy it. She escorted Mom her back to “her” room, and, just like Nurse Dave, saw Aunt Peg lying in the bed.
My cousin commented that it’s a good thing Aunt Peg hadn’t been taken downstairs for some procedure! They might have hooked my poor Mom up to all sorts of stuff! Ah, those Dunn Twins! They’ve still got it!
Great story! Huge smiles
. Thanks Marie 
RAINBOW’S END
A day of soft spring rain.
I traveled the rainwet highway
bathed in sunlight.
watching a rainbow race in front of me.
It skipped along with me
as the highway wound
through hills and meadows green.
Chasing that rainbow
I mused about the rainbow’s end
and fantasied pots of gold.
Then, as if in answer to my thoughts,
the rain wet road reflected back to me
the rainbow’s glow -
It and I became as one,
I was at the rainbow’s end.
Soo lovely
Yhank You.
Marriage and After
After a “yes” and “no” rigmarole
My life out of control
It was meant to be, so
I got married
And across the seas got carried
The marriage rites in my hometown
I all smiles and some frowns
Stood on stage
Greeting friends and family
Each deserving a clichéd simile
The weather was hot, hot, very hot
I and my husband put on the spot
All personal plans on hold or gone
Clinging to threadbare hope
Life seemed like a TV soap
For honeymoon to my husband’s hometown we went
With his house there, there was no rent
Of course no privacy either
The whole neighborhood stared, curious
Were we really married, they were dubious
Finally, we flew to the USA
The land of opportunity they say
Have lived here for the past twenty years
Through joy and sorrow
Yet yearning a new tomorrow
So beautiful, complex and aching
Thanks PKP!
One a.m.
There was no embrace,
no final surge, no blessing,
no reason to cry.
The machine was still breathing,
but she had already left.
O–h! Andrew….
Simply stated, touching truth.
EXCELLENT.
SO MUCH SAID… SO MUCH FELT… Yes O-H! ANDREW
Wow… amazing, Andrew.
Middle School
My heart hurts
wrapped in barbed wire
and bleeding red tears
for the compassionate girl
who is teased, called names
and given no respect
by the kids on the bus
because she is beautifully unique,
in her style, her interest,
and she doesn’t
understand the meanness
of others as
her self-esteem plummets
and her tears cascade
down
and I wrap my arms
around her
and try to lift
her tears from the ground.
beautiful. your writing and the sentiment, i love the ending (“try to lift her tears from the ground”)
Oh my … tenderly, beautifully, touchingly penned. I agree with Lynne on the ending.
Tears are cascading down my cheeks…Michelle, this is so vivid!
Stunnnnnnnnng….. Yes “try to lift tears her tears from the ground”. Exquisite image and sentiment. B
Oh, Michelle, this is full of boundless love. Well done.
I wish we could protect them from that.
Echo…
We buried her today
Beneath skies dull and gray
But dirt can never seal away
The echo of her laughter
Dirt holds her lifeless shell
For she has bid farewell
But it can never quell
The echo of her laughter
Oft in the tears I weep
I smile in spite of grief
For I will ever keep
The echo of her laughter
© Janet Martin
Don’t you find that?
whether Time or life has stolen away a loved one…
isn’t that what lingers?
the echo of their laughter…
J~
Funny thing is this, Janet was her name and Martin was the road on which she lived. Kindred, I’d say!
Walt, my heart just did a big side-ways lurch… I hope you feel my big hug(())!
Oh, Beautiful Friend, this is so lovely. And yes, “the echo of their laughter” lingers and soothes, and brings smiles to the faces of those of us left to wait.
Your poetry always, always rings true with my spirit.
Marie, as does yours to me…always! Though I’m not a Nonna yet;) you are the kind I hope to be:)
Beautifully put.
Andrew, thank-you~
Reading the volley of love and compassion and so-called coincidence …who can doubt we are all connected
. Love to all….
Hear, hear!
Echo of laughter… I really like that, Janet. And it’s true, unless someone didn’t laugh much.
LIFE EVENT (a dodoitsu, inspired by Walt)
Some day our life-giving breath
will cease to be intimate
with these, our earthen vessels.
Today: live, breathe, love.
We are struck by like-thought today:) I LOVE this…and such a tender side-note:)
Indeed we were! Love yours as well … always, Janet!
She always told me, “Breathe. It’s the surest sign you’re alive!” Your last line are words by which to live. Live. Breathe. Love.
In my kitchen I have “Live life well, and love with a pure heart.” My little Sophie always points to it and says, “lalalalala?” She knows it has lots of “l” sounds, and wants me to read it to her. Again. (
)
Love the message and flow of it.
Gorgeous, Marie!
Philosophy
Dad says, “You don’t need a ‘Hallmark,’
or growth measured by a wall mark,
but rather, if you really care,
you’ll find a way to just be there.
“The milestones come but then they pass
from birth through graduation class,
and soon the kids’ rooms will be ‘spare,’
so find a way to just be there.
“A lifetime’s what we celebrate,
not some event-specific date
because ‘one day’ seems quite unfair…
so find a way to just be there.”
Although I love each special date,
he’s right: we should commemorate
the times together that we share,
so Dad, please know I’m always there.
###
Tears, Smiles, for a wise dad kindred spirit to my own…and the wonderful woman he created on you
Thank you for this wisdom penned
Of course the typo comment goes through on first try…
. If you do have a woman ” on” you I hope she gets off your back!
I meant the woman he created IN you…
Lovely and touching and I’m going all soggy now so I’ll go blow my nose….
Khara and Hannah:
Just want to say that I if there was an award for those who have grown the most poetically in the years I have participated in this challenge, it would be a tie for the two of you (IMHO). Even though I’ve always admired your work, you are blowing me away this year.
Write on, ladies.
Well said Marie… Well said…
Marie!!! You make my heart soar with your encouraging words. Truly, you are such a blessing! Thank you, with warm humbled smiles~Hannah
Oh, Marie … So touched, and humbled, by these words. You are such an encouragement! Thank you, thank you–it’s an honor to be part of this community
Happiest Day
Today is the happiest day of my life
Church bells ringing
The most beautiful white dress
like that of an angel’s
Everyone I love will be there
to celebrate it with us
And the man I love will become mine
But the best part is what he and I will share alone….
our wedding night
IT’S A BOY!
Five times those words resonanted,
celebrated births of the newest
versions of you on earth. Five times
those words were heard,
but only four of them stuck;
one plucked away in the first
hours of life. No consoling can heal
the emprty feeling you must have felt,
leaving a welt on your heart that you carried
much longer than you were allowed to carry him.
Your first born; your beautiful boy.
Touching~
Oh my. (sniff)
Simply powerful.
“Those Terrible, Inevitable Words”
It had to happen sometime.
And maybe others don’t notice it.
But there comes a day,
After so many budding years
Of Daddy swinging you about in his arms,
Or playing in the mud in the garden out back
Or just narrating your heroic tales of make-believe…
And then one day Mommy or Daddy says
Those words, those terrible, inevitable words:
“Honey, you’re getting too old for that.”
That’s when you know
Innocence has decided to travel elsewhere.
Real life is clawing its way in at the edges,
And all of a sudden, the child is nowhere to be found.
Only the awkward prototype of an adult
Is left in its place.
Is left in its place.’ profound! I have one of those;)
oh my goodness – i love the imagery here!
I spent the morning with myself
no blurring music or babel
to distract
and it was not easy
until I found a rhythm
and comfort in the washing
of my feet,
the casual enlightenment
of inspection -
new hairs sprouting
yet again
in unexpected places,
the past and future
with me, as always,
of course,
but in their proper place -
the box of pictures taken down
from the shelf
needing to be organized,
the busy clamoring of children
outside the door
just about ready
to come
in.
Upon Death
Upon death’s barren shore when the hourglass of life’s stour battle
has stilled, may my spirits fervent quest triumph in ascension
please O’ frail body release me to plunge upward undistracted,
focused on the task at hand
let sights and thoughts breath events of new existence
vibrations rhythmically pull me forward
like the soft touch of a guiding angels hand
stepping into the light I am, become
the sun, the wind, the everlasting sky
footprints now invisible but essence prevails
I feel no pain as the sense of being alone dissipates
O’ to lose the permanence of touch and dance among the stars
O’ to cross the vast gulf, endless boundaries of time
I step into the grandest portal
only forward nothing left behind
the universal song beckons like the piper’s flute
the promise of life answered by death’s immortal soul
I ride destiny’s beam of spiritual quintessence enraptured
by cosmos sweet serenity and death’s enigmatical puissance
~ Randy Bell ~
This bestows fantastic chills from head to toe! Stunning~
DAYS OF INFAMY
Oklahoma City, Waco,
Columbine all come to mind,
when this day rolls around.
Memories abound for those families,
our country and the world.
Destructive death in the single breath
of lives well lived or hardly started.
We stand broken hearted for those
souls who seek their comfort
in our remembrances, Chances are
we will keep them all in touch
in as much as we cherish the victims.
The cowardly culprits ceased their own pain,
inflicting as much mutual destruction
on the innocent and unsuspecting.
On this day, in every way…
you remain our conscience. Rest well.
Bless you for remembering~
Born Again
When you slipped from this place you didn’t go the way you had promised
kicking and screaming, not wanting to leave, rather
you slid down a beam of light into the arms of those who waited
How I missed you! Instantly, the emptiness grew to overpowering
until the moment of her birth – small and feisty – screaming and kicking
she entered the here and now with such a rush of “Here I am world!”
Watching her grow, I am amazed at the similarities, even though age
has not touched her being – she laughs with that same wicked glint,
a spin of the head, a look and my heart stops – Momma, is that you?
Oh my goodness – “a beam of light” and the emptiness grew to overpowering” – gives voice to feelings often overlooked. Thank you, Linda for the insight and words I never found to express.
This is a very special poem, Linda. Beautifully crafted and told.
Lovely; thank you for putting this into words.
Insightful and amazing! I also love the lines Mich mentioned.
I had to get a little personal with this one. My parents have been remarried for 23 years now–together for a total of 49 years. We may have to have another celebration in a year of so:
Golden Anniversary
We noted but ignored their reluctance to celebrate
this milestone date—fifty years after their wedding,
two teenagers on her parents’ lawn, surrounded
by friends and family, the rain clouds kept away,
taken as a sign of portent. Not without storms,
though, the marriage foundered after years,
with us, their children, almost grown, unprepared
as our solid center listed starboard, then broke
apart before the silver candelabras tarnished.
Not content to wait, accept, resolved, like sprites
or imps we orchestrated family occasions
neither could avoid, calling on the wits or skills
that one possessed the other lacked—until,
beyond our wildest dreams or deepest hopes,
they chose to love again. We learned from them
forgiveness, acceptance, contentment, love—
those abstract terms demanding flesh and bone.
How could they then refuse to celebrate
at our insistence their golden anniversary,
the one that conjured us into existence, joined
by hosts of friends and kins, some who had stood
beside them all those years ago; others—like us—
believing after all that fairytales come true.
The sign we hung above the door: Fifty years
together—forty-two happy– Who can say more?
Those celebrations are cherished gifts, Nancy. My folk would have been married 61 on Saturday. It’s hard to imagine those numbers. Being on this earth that long boggles the mind. Being married that long, I couldn’t imagine. Good for your family and your folks.
Nancy, as always, your story is compelling, complete, each word chosen carefully, touching my heart.
Splendid story and wonderful poem, Nancy.
What an amazing piece, Nancy. This gives me hope for my sister.
Christmas Gift
I’d taken a nap in late afternoon
to escape
because you’d come in to cook your Christmas dinner.
I slept a few hours
deep dreamless sleep
When I woke I could smell chicken
cooked to long.
Not wanting to, I got out of bed
turned off the oven, looked at the clock.
Seven.
You must have fallen asleep, so dinner was put away
for whenever you would wake.
There was evening,
and there was morning,
the last day.
Morning, I got up and looked in the kitchen
You’d not been in.
You must not be feeling well. I sighed.
I’d better go out and check if you need anything.
Put on shoes, go out the back door, walk through
the beautiful snow to your apartment in back.
Amazing snow, so heavy, peaceful, it felt good.
I saw him sitting on the couch
diet coke in hand, remote on his lap,
absent eyes staring at nothing.
Back through the fresh snow
walking in my own footprints
up the back steps
into the house.
Kids 20 and 21 looking at me.
Dad’s dead.
Called 911.
Called one son staying over in the next city.
His reply,
“Well, it’s over.”
Yes, it’s over for us
and beginning for us.
What do we do with this new life handed us
this new beginning
this life without terror?
Looking through the phone book,
I chose a funeral home.
There was evening
and there was morning,
the first day.
Wow. This really hit me.
Thank you, Julia.
“Welcome to my World”
On the second of May
I will turn 193
since I count my time
in Mercurial Years
in my small protest
against
this idea
that the number of times
I’ve ridden this Earth
as it spins around the Sun
has anything to do
with who I am
happy almost your birthday, my man
Hah. Thanks. Just for the record, my Earth birthday is in November.
And if anyone else wants to check their birthday/age on another of our planets, here’s the site I used: http://www.exploratorium.edu/ronh/age/
No promises on the accuracy.
Great poem and great early birthday gift ! Going to find that site! Great fun! and a shared philsophy on these numbers ! THANKS
Exactly! Exactly and amen, Jerry!
Very many happy unbirthdays to you!
~encounters~
We were too young,
it was too planned,
there were too many
outside the door
l
i
s
t
e
n
i
n
g,
we were too young.
©H.G.@P.A. 4/19/12
I can hear them
))))
Ha ha!!
Where are my brain cells gone
I have been studying all year
Getting myself into gear
Trying to make sense of it all
But as much as I try
I ask myself why
And how will I remember
I do each assignment
The best that I can
Sometimes I wish I had powers of super woman
As time ticks on and the exams come so close
I feel like I am coming down with a dose
But sure it is only tiredness
That is kicking in
For Freud has done my poor head in
As has Piaget, Kohlberg and Vygotsky too
As has Margaret Donaldson and David alkind
And Harry Harlows experiment
Poor monkeys on my mind
Erikson social emotional development
Where is mine?
The social development is hung on the line
My psychology is suffering as is my mental health
I wonder will I remember
All these theorists and their life spent
Social studies is statistics and community based
Of other ways of living
Of other cultural based
Wonders and knowledge they fill my mind
If I look at these books any more
I think I will go blind
Cognitive, social emotional and language development
Psychology and the brain
And structures of the mind
Say a prayer I will remember
All of these combined
As I sit my exams tomorrow and next week
The out looks not good
My knees feel all weak
Ah no point in worrying
I might be fine
Sure I have someone to study
I have David alkind
Oooh Ber
Surely you will remember
That is what your rich
Libraried subconscious is for..
Waiting for you in large print
All you’ve read and studied
There….
Breathe…….
“Sometimes I wish I had powers of super woman”…this poem is one wonderful line and allusion after another.
Thanks ladies for your comments and support test was not to bad so fingers crossed now. As for a libraried subconcious i think it had frozen in time
Have not read.. ..Robert a truly stellar prompt….looking forward to returning soon … Write on….
Crescendo
We liked film
And music and
So
We always thought
It would be high drama
Waves crashing
Against jagged rocks
Power spraying salted
Crescendoed climax
Rising to tremble the
Walls
Instead – how strange
This quiet room – palm
On chest feeling for
Those final
Three beats
And then the stillness
Until familiarity
Flooded like sunshine
And I smiled
Knowing
How much you always
Enjoyed a unique
unexpected unpredictable
ending….
Great job…
Pearl, I love this! So, between work, writing, and life, when will you start teaching writing?
Dear Moosehead,
Damn! That was close and I thought
we had them. I’m sure your living in Queens
puts the hex on us. You’re a jinx, that’s what
you are. You and those crazy women! Tonight
will be different, you’ll see – for a start I’m gonna
gag you so you can’t shout no more stupid stuff!
The victory will be ours. Hey! I found the program
from my first ever game – I was nine years old
when my old man took me to the Cathedral for
the first time. Only good thing the drunken,
no good Sonofabitch ever did apart from leaving
me and Momma in peace! Yeah! It was against
the Sox and we won! 4 -2, I’ll never forget that day.
The day my life-long love of the Yankees began.
I remember the guy two rows back caught a
fly ball & gave to me! Still got it, along with all the
ones I’ve caught. 17 over the years. Well, better go,
I got something in my eye. Pick ya up at 6 – bring money
for dogs and beer, wear the right jersey and shut the *%$# up!
Yours reminiscing about way back when
Ringo the Howler
A Yankee fan! YAY
. Terrific 
Still a fan. Of yours, that is.
Thanks peeps
Bean Town this weekend – do not expect Mr R to be happy to be there!
On talk like a pirate day
Said Bill, my dear friends what I fear,
The boss will catch on and then hear
It’s not a stutter
It’s “wench” I mutter
The rest of the days of the year
Adorable
.
Unlike this site which is having me back arrow three and four times because I’m ” posting too fast” ARGGGGGHHHH.
Haha… my anniversary is on talk like a pirate day!
Ive never seen a poem about talk like a pirate day before – well done, me hearty!
Excellent, and so much fun!
Big Girl
Double digit day
at last ending for all time
the silly season
great haiku – very nice wording and sentiment
Thanks Steven! Nothing ever uneven about your work..consistently brilliant!
Simple and sweet,
Blue Paper
And so it comes to
This
Two signatures
On the bottom
Side by side
Stamp-sealed
Supreme Court
Final Judgment
Wrapped up in
Blue paper
around translucent
onion skinned
Details
Such specific detail with every word essential. And a sublime ending – “translucent” “details”. Loved it, PKP
Ooh thanks mich!
Snip-snap, as they say. A clever yet frugal use of words, Pearl.
Absolutely agree! Fine, Pearl. Just fine.
really enjoyed this delicate power punch poetry
Oh Dr. P, there is so much detail in onion skin.
You walked through the door
and our eyes met.
Our smiles locked in a sweet kiss across
the old wooden sanctuary
riddled with the maze of shiny pews
and shiny, smiling well-wishers.
Your father’s arm held you tight
yet offered you as a gift,
clinging to a possession he no longer owned.
I didn’t notice the people,
I don’t remember the name of the man in the grey suite
who talked a lot while we waited to embrace.
I don’t remember which of our friends did or didn’t show,
which ones paid homage,
or which ones drank too much the night before.
I don’t remember what our cake looked like,
where we sat in the hall,
who spoke or what we served for food.
I have forgotten most of
what I considered unimportant in my life,
but I do remember you.
Oooh sweet tears! This is love and lovely ….what an anniversary gift it would make !
Your someone is very lucky. A beautiful poem.
Coming of Age
For 46 years,
the struggle raged
inside and out,
the demons within
devoured all the goodness
and undermined all the hopes;
the critics, bullies and false friends outside
belittled the efforts
and degraded the dreams,
all amounting to a seemingly never ending battle
for some sense of self worth.
A spark had been nursed,
embers glowed deep in the dark,
once more returned to long abandoned art,
poetry came forth but no longer dark,
no longer full of pain and sorrow,
but still the demons lurked
and the critics knocked.
Then came the day, the glorious day,
when a sword was thrust through the black heart
of the Sad Monster that dwelt within,
the phobias and anguish of long years were cast aside
people looked on in awe, in wonder:
“Who are you?” they asked “What have you done?”
and the answer was simple,
a purpose had been found,
a cause, a vocation,
a farewell to long felt stress;
a re-birth that brought joy and fulfillment
and up went the cry
“I am not afraid anymore!”
Turning 47 and starting life as if for the first time,
is its own burden,
but laughter, joy and at long last,
true happiness, make the burden a pleasure to bear;
the time may be short, shorter than desired,
but the heart is light,
the mind is clear,
the soul is free,
the demons are gone, destroyed,
shyness cast aside, fear thrown to the four winds,
self-doubt replaced with self-esteem
and praise from without
at last for who, what and why
and it all started with a simple phrase:
I want to teach.
That was soon to be followed by a Jimmy Cagney-esque scream:
I’m on top of the world, ma!
Iain
Your words express in a way that others can identify with becoming someone new once personal demons are conquered. .Very powerful, Iain.
Thank you very much, mich
What a strong work, Iain! Yesss…you go, man!!
Thanks Willy
WOW.
WOW, WOW, WOW!
Thank you for this, Iain! We need more teachers in the world like you, and more poetry in the world like yours. Welcome back!
(And as an aside, my dad [an awesome, caring, strong teacher] lost his own dad when he was a little boy. Dad loves James Cagney movies, in part because he looks nearly exactly like the father he lost.)
Marie Elena, you are too kind
Your dad’s a great drummer btw!
Thanks Iain! And yes, he is!
Wow! Packing a wallop of a powerful punch here!
Powerful and STUNNING!
All I can say is “Yeah!”
Thank you sooo much everybody
Iain,
What a wonderful expression of found strength and resolution. I am working toward being in a place where I can say “All that was done to me, then changed me, is understood, dealt with, allowing me to be unafraid and ready for adventure.” Thank you for sharing the overcoming of this struggle, and for the wondrous last three lines. You may have given me a little of your courage.
I’m really happ you find my poem helpful – I know how hard it can be but I love being the new me
I’m sure you’ll get there.
Splendid poem, Iain.
Thanks Sara
Still Quietness
It’s almost been a month
since I’ve last seen you…
In a casket, coated with make up
Dressed in silence and your favorite
beige suit. I won’t lie, it was quite burdensome
to see death reigning over your mortal body
feigning a smile splayed across your face
For as long as my soul has known
You’ve always been a busy man
But here, you’re forever settled
laid silent, in still quietness
In this, Dad, rest in peace
Oh, Benjamin … what you’ve captured here stirs my own heart. Bless you.
Benjamin…you will touch the faces of all our fathers but here in your beautiful offering ….
He lives here through you…as he rests…smiling his own smile just for you… Thank you for a beautiful
poem…
Thank you for your kind words.
You remind me to go and visit my Dad! This is really touching.
It is burdensome. I like how you address your Dad throughout. “dressed in silence and your favorite beige suit” – excellent.
Born
I hold your whining
wailing head, and kiss
your new-born face. I
touch my fingers to your
face and touch your
sparsely coated head.
My hand shelters your
big bright eyes from the
new bright lights of the world.
Nothing gives me more
pleasure than you being
in this world.
Very sweet, and very loving.
Bonnee, there is nothing sweeter than a newborn. How I treasured them as babes, had fun with them as toddlers, laughed with them as teens, and as adults, more than just loving them, I like them.
This is touching. Well done.
The Last Time We Talked
It was an early balmy
Mother’s Day celebration—
I traveled to Pawtucket
not to take in the minor
leagues, but to spend lunch
with you. Warm for May,
we leave our jackets
we favor Chinese food,
take a table by a window
overlooking the empty
parking lot. In silence,
we sit, chew over options,
grunting our food orders,
to the waiting person.
There is little we need
to say so I read fortunes
from the placemat, gaze
up at the travel calendar
hanging over your head.
You align the chopsticks.
I understand the place, and it being warm in May, warm enough to take off jackets. Hello from a former Newporter.
As for the poem, wow, the ending sounds like my mother and I. Thank you, Margot.
A Life After Death
She was the last to leave the church. She watched the others depart
one by one, some were weeping, some consoling those fogged with grief,
but now she sat alone on a thin-legged wooden chair, her hands placed neatly
on her lap, her fingers clasps together like an intricate Chinese puzzle.
Patiently, sitting just as her mother had taught her in respect of a holy place
and God. No whispering, no fidgeting, no scratching, no wiggling and no giggling.
Quietly she waited, all alone except for a small wooden oblong box
with a framed school photo of herself that was encircled with sickly
scented lilies. She listened to the chirp of birds lingering as an echo
along the stone floor of the church, the sound of cars in the distance,
and she thought she heard children playing, too. Yet here she waited,
sitting, looking at the altar, the candles smothered and smouldering,
and she grew increasingly impatient, restless and annoyed that
the bright light hadn’t led her out of here yet. She kicked the chair
with her foot, and she grinned – loving the sound of that echoing thump.
Again a bit harder, the sound bounced a base beat through the church.
Again, and again, day after week after month and year, more and more again.
Oh, MiskMask…this is so filled with imagery and the ending gave me goosebumps!
Oooh, excellent! Success!
OH MY GOODNESS,!! CAN THIS BE WRITTEN IN THE CLOUDS? ACROSS A BLUE SKY? CARVED INTO A MOUNTAINSIDE? THIS IS THAT BRILLIANT! You have captured your title…. What can one say….?
ASTOUNDINGLY SENSATIONAL…. BRAVO WAS INVENTED FOR TIMES LIKE THIS,! CONGRATULATIONS
Oh my … goosebumps for sure. Misk, you are amazing.
Pearl and Marie, I’m slightly astounded by the reaction but nevertheless totally over the moon that you like it. As they say, some days you’re hot, and some days you’re not!
Misk…I’ve read and re-read…with goose-bumps, each stanza turning a page, the imagery vivid and startling!
Thank you, Janet. I’m very encouraged.
Sorry, but I couldn’t tag a reply on to your message for some reason.
More than wonderful. This is a story that could go on and on, as your ending alludes to. I love it!
Thanks, Emma.
“RED” SAILS IN THE SUNSET
An unfilled vacancy, left empty
longings are few and far between,
but memories will linger.
A finger pressed against silent lips,
brought to my own and returned;
the kiss of death. Your heart beats
within me, but no longer for you.
I hold you close, one last time
feeling your lifelessness against
my chest; Not feeling anything.
One last shared sensation.
Death becomes your final expression.
You’re gone.
Those who know and remember, today was the day three years ago during the 2009 PAD
that I lost a very important part of me from this life. She lives in my heart, my memory and my poetry. Robert, you picked a great prompt for this morning; very apropos.
And you’re in my thoughts and prayers today, Walt.
Blessings, Walt…beautiful poem.
FADE TO AUBURN (a dodoitsu)
Sometimes we are touched deeply
by those we don’t even know
but through powerful words of
one who deeply loved.
***
Walt, I’m so sorry that I let this date get by me this year. This month is flying by, but it is no excuse. Warm smiles to you, sweet friend.
You have much to celebrate this week. You didn’t forget, you continue to live which it the greatest homage we can offer. That one thought will keep her alive in spirit, and her smile will bless us all in its brilliance. Thank you my friend.
And to all my friends, it fills my heart knowing the depth of your compassion. It is very comforting and nurturing. Beautiful hearts, all!
<3
Yes, Walt, holding you close in thoughts and prayers.
Khara and Hannah:
Just want to say that I if there was an award for those who have grown the most poetically in the years I have participated in this challenge, it would be a tie for the two of you (IMHO). Even though I’ve always admired your work, you are blowing me away this year.
Write on, ladies.
Ugh … why did this land here? Sorry, Walt.
Hey, no problem.
There’s nothing I love more than a House full of Smiles!
So true, Marie Elena.
I always love Hannah’s wording. So beautiful.
And to think Khara went from the Joker to this work. All I can say is, “Holy Stanzas, Batman! They always give a “POW-BAM-WOW!” (And if I my memory tricks me and it wasn’t Khara who wrote the joker poems the first year then Holy time wharp, Batman! I’m too young for senior moments
Yep…brain failed me. It was K. Woody that wrote the Joker poems. So I had that part wrong, but I am right whenI say that your work rocks, Khara.
Walt, you had me at the title moved to tears…exquisite, searing, as always…love…
Yes, the prompt is bitter-sweetly synchronistic…..
Thank you and she for another wonderful poem…
Thanks Pearl. She always brings it out of me.
Walt, I did not know…you are in my thoughts and prayers~
JR, thanks for the thoughts and prayers. For reasons I explain below, the moment I saw your name show up at PA/PB I had a constant reminder and it helped ease a lot of the uneasiness of the situation. It told me it was more than OK to continue writing her poems. You didn’t know. But I like to think you helped from the onset.
I need a tissue…thank-you Walt<3
First Kiss
Apprehension and desire
a candle flickering just below my heart
My eyes met yours
and saw you felt the same way
This was more than a first kiss
Destiny fulfilled, a whole future
resting on whether sparks flew
Our lips touched
Gently caressed my soul
like a fleece blanket on a chilly night
And all the lights in the world went out
Except for the one light
Us melting together
Sharing one flame.
– Lyn Michaud
The end of this – “…one light/us melting together/sharing one flame” – just beautiful!
“destiny fulfilled” “melting” … Aw… so much here
“Pleased to meet you”
I know already someday
you will see me festooned in white lilies and that night
cradle me in your bones,
touch me gently with your teeth
and taste that I am become flesh of your flesh–that in time
we will grow old and fade into rot
–but a beautiful rot–
passed down through generations, glittering in a daughter’s daughter
and when new souls murmur
she look
like one of them greats just spat her out they will mean you
and your sycamore limbs
that wrap me finger and flesh
into you. But today I will only shake your hand
and smile.
Again, such beauty. I love your gift to write, and I love that we can read–your gift to us.
Khara – this is beautiful on multiple levels. I love the ending!
Khara, this one took my breath away.
It’s your birthday
and I slide open
the door
of your single purple poof
hiding that redhot
red skin
birthday suit
in the too too hot shower
my lit candle sparking
in the spray
of turning
ski sloping shoulders
slaloming hips
the fresh powdered oh
of steaming wet lips
pausing,
pursing -
your long lingering wish
almost as surprising
as my trick candle sputtering
back to life again
Wrote this a couple weeks ago as an alternative to a hallmark card. As before, no fudging have to write a fresh one today that’s the challenge….
May have been written before the prompt, but so happy you shared it with us…great poem!
Agree with Linda! Thanks for sharing
Woohoo!
Fun poem! Not sure I understand “fresh powdered oh/of steaming wet lips”. Also, the ski image doesn’t really go with hot and steamy.
Pomp and Happenstance
==================
One week of
soft nights in June
decades ago
still resonate
between my ears
deep in my soul
across my heart.
Thank you
curse you
forget you
– if only I could.
Nice write Anders I appreciated the line “One week of soft nights”.
Oooh from title on through … oooooh
wow! much, much said in the unsaid…
Excellent. Few words that speak volumes.
So sweetly painful. Beautiful!
How haunting, Anders. Beautiful poem.
Laying you to rest
I bet you
pictured us
cradling you
in potting soil,
nestled deep
in the vining
breast
of a butterfly
or pussy willow
bush. But
instead we
grind you
to dust
and don’t
know where
to put you
but in
some foreign
ground–
bits of you
scattered
like breath.
And we
know you
would, perhaps,
be happy
to know
in the end
you are still
everywhere.
beautiful imagery Khara – and such a perfect ending “still everywhere”
Yes, beautiful imagery indeed.
I love how you have said so much with so few words. What beauty in those words, reverence.
“bits of you
scattered
like breath.” and
“in the end
you are still
everywhere.” Both so beautiful.
Wonderful! “nestled deep in the vining breast…” Just beautiful.
Khara… Have watched you blossoming here…this is truly, absolutely beautiful…
Excellent work, Professor!
I’m touched by this one, deeply. My mother still has my dad’s ashes in an urn on the bookcase. I wish she’d let him go like you did for all our sakes.
Very nice!
this breaks my heart a little.
Oh, Khara. This is gorgeous. It breaks my heart, knowing it’s probably about your mama.
Khara, this is beautiful and bittersweet. The ending—perfect.