First off, click here to go to the Day 9 thread in the forum if the blog comments are too crazy for you.
Today’s prompt comes from Sally Jadlow.
Here’s Sally’s prompt: Use the phrase “When he’s gone…” for your poem. The phrase can be in the title. It can be the opening line–or the closing line. It can show up somewhere in between. Just use it…somewhere.
Robert’s attempt at a When He’s Gone… Poem:
“Man in Rocking Chair”
When he’s gone, he don’t want nobody
to visit him who didn’t visit him
when he was here. In other words,
he don’t want a funeral service
for people to wail and moan and
check their watches. He sits alone
most nights, because he’s bitter
about everything. Suits him fine
enough. When he’s gone, he thinks,
there won’t be no one to miss him.
*****
Thank you to Sally for the prompt! Click here to learn more about Sally Jadlow.
Also, most poets prefer to share comments directly to this post. However, if you’re having crazy issues, feel free to use the WD forum. Click here for the Day 9 thread.
*****
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*****
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Day 9
Prompt: Use phrase “When he’s gone” somewhere, anywhere in the poem.
Without Him
When he’s gone
who’ll make those tired trite jokes we’ve come to expect
rolling our eyes and laughing with indulgence?
When he’s gone
who’ll flip through channels seeking “Everybody Loves Raymond”
and scroll the guide for info on which episode he’s watching?
When he’s gone
who’ll watch Georgia replays and recall exactly what Larry Munson
said when Herschel or Lindsay made UGA history?
When he’s gone
who’ll worry about the leaves getting raked or stopping up
the gutters or making algae on the pool cover?
When he’s gone
who’ll tease us and make us feel endeared not ragged
tossing out the one-liners not at expense of hurt feelings?
When he’s gone,
who’ll eat cereal in bed with the TV and light on
when I’m trying to sleep, then snore beside me?
When he’s gone–
I don’t like to think of it.
I’d rather go first than be without him.
SHE’S NOT SURE WHAT TO DO
(c) 2012 – G. Smith
—————————————————–
She’s not sure what to do
When he’s gone.
Is it for good? Or just an hour or two?
She’s not sure what to do.
She knows she’s tired of feeling lonesome and blue,
And she’s not sure how long this can go on.
She’s not sure what to do,
When he’s gone.
after he’s gone…
morning fog
outside my window
When he is gone
My life is on hold
I wonder what I will do
Once he is gone
I won’t be chauffeur
Bottle washer, feeder
For now my life is on hold.
Family, absent now will gather
To bicker over money.
I wonder what I will do?
Fight back or
Turn away toward peace and pen.
Once he is gone.
Better late than…you know.
Gone
When he’s gone, she marks his absence by unfilled spaces,
his slot in the carport nothing but a spot of grease,
his chair sits cold, the indentations of his rump intact,
his pillow lies waiting, his water glass waits empty,
the silence throbs, and she thinks she hears the click
of toenails of a dog long buried in the back yard,
his ghost in the upstairs hall, pacing, wary. The moon
plays peeping tom, one eye on their window,
beams reaching across his side of the bed, lighting
her hand resting there, saving the place for him.
When she’s gone, he paces, rummages through the closet,
the dryer, stands and stares into the pantry, gives up,
calls and orders takeout. Every question justifies a call
just to check, to ask how to work the remote, the timer
on the oven, where she put the number he gave her to file.
He rearranges the chairs, stacks and unstacks the books
she keeps beside the bed, flipping through, reading
the last pages of a couple. When she gone, he forgets
to check the mail, leaves the papers piling up in the drive.
He waters her flowers just before she’s due back home.
When they’re home, they sometimes sit for hours, quiet,
comfortably aware of the other’s presence, within reach.
The silence is benevolent, asking for nothing from either
but cozy companionship as they move through their days,
like old dancers with the dance steps in their bones.
When they’re home, bathed in lamplight, engaged
in the call and response that is love’s language,
as the house embraces them, as night caresses,
they sometimes wonder why they ever left.
Nancy, loved this. Especially “like old dancers with the dance steps in their bones.” How true!
When He’s Gone
When he’s gone, I sit
staring after him, as
if something in me
wants him to come
walking back to me,
across the bridge,
like that ethereal,
heartbreaking, lovely
scene in Pride and
Prejudice when Mr.
Darcy returns at last
for Elizabeth. This—
this kind of tortured
thinking—is why I
still see a therapist
over him, because
if I were thinking
clearly, I know that
I know that I would
never want him back,
not after what we
shared together, most
of which was heart-
breaking and unlovely.
When He’s Gone
I’ll wipe the computer free of porn,
burn his little black book
hidden under the seat of his truck,
and collapse his Face Book account.
When silent voices call
I’ll tell them he’s dead.
Tell them to find a new lover.
Wish them well
in a quick moment
before I hear a click.
Take flowers to his grave on Memorial Day
and remember to forget the past.
This poem is NOT autobiographical; just the observances of my job as a Chaplain. I am so impressed with the quality of poems to my prompt. Thank you everyone for your excellent sharing.
Sorry I didn’t respond sooner. I’ve been helping to host the Heart of America Christian Writers Conference here in Kansas City for the past three days.
WHEN HE’S GONE
Found out
Being left alone is no fun
As I waited to hear
The drag of his feet
His strong heart beat
Him opening, closing the refrigerator door;
His strong, masculine voice
As it traveled throughout the house
And I waited, longed
To reach down and hold his hand.
Found out, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be
When he’s gone…away from the house.
LaSteph
When He’s Gone
Guess what?
What?
He’s gone.
Great.
When he’s gone
we jump on
the cabinets.
Go places we’re
never allowed.
We scratch every
place with a solemn
aplomb. Then run
from the basement
upstairs.
When he returns
we’re fast asleep
in our kitty condo
with one eye
always slit to see
when he’s gone.
This was a great prompt… http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/11/09/365-creativity-project-day-305/
When he’s gone, I’ll have no friend in Rome.
Priscus, my friend, we shall see
which one of us will survive.
Whether it’s you or it’s me
only one will be left alive.
Which one of us will survive?
Titus has chosen our names.
Only one will be left alive .
We fight in the opening games.
Titus has chosen our names.
Verus, remember your brother?
We fight in the opening games
as we did in the quarry together.
Verus, remember your brother?
The gods are unhappy I’m told.
As we did in the quarry together
We must fight as only the bold.
The gods are unhappy I’m told:
It’s Titus they wish to blame.
We must fight as only the bold,
though gashes may make us lame.
It’s Titus they wish to blame.
Vespasian we cannot exhume.
Though gashes may make us lame,
Pompei is encased like a tomb.
Vespasian we cannot exhume.
The Emperor’s luck we must turn.
With Pompei is encased like a tomb,
Rome slowly heals from its burns.
The Emperor’s luck we must turn.
Neither one, by honor can yield.
Rome slowly heals from its burns.
We’ll fight even without a shield.
Neither one, by honor can yield.
Blades broken, then it’s hand to hand.
We’ll fight even without a shield.
We’ll spill out our blood in the sand.
Blades broken, then it’s hand to hand,
until Titus sends two swords of wood.
We’ll spill out our blood in the sand.
Rome will honor what we’ve withstood.
Until Titus sends two swords of wood,
Priscus, my friend, we shall see.
If Rome honors what we’ve withstood,
or whether it’s you or it’s me.
When He’s Gone
Tomorrow the sun will rise,
Just like every day.
Coffee will perk,
News heads will bobble,
Workers will be on their way.
Urchins will go to school,
The current Congress will rule,
Life for others will go on.
But tomorrow he’ll be gone.
It will be life alone.
It will be life for one.
When he’s gone
will he be okay?
Will he remember to sort lights from darks,
to thaw poultry in the fridge,
to floss his teeth?
When he’s gone,
will he decorate his place?
I wonder if it will be light or dark,
if he’ll hang photos or paintings,
if he will have a fireplace.
When he’s gone,
what will his work be?
Will he eat anything but cereal?
I hope he exercises.
I hope he will laugh a lot.
When he’s gone,
will he miss me?
Food Security
Never mind Whole Foods,
there’s nothing so comforting
as a stocked root cellar. He
goes down sometimes just
to count the harvest, to see
if it will take him through to
the hungry month. He checks
the rat traps, because food
is food, and they want it too.
Bins of potatoes line the cool
floor, boilers, bakers, mashers.
Cabbages are confounded
upside-down in bushel baskets,
wrapped in layers of scarcer
and scarcer newspaper – soup
in February, coleslaw for now.
The carrots sleep layered
in sand. Squashes huddle,
warmer on the high shelves.
Pumpkins and acorn squash
are sweet now, but go bland,
so he’ll eat those first. When
he’s gone through the pepos,
he’ll hit the buttercups, trying
for all they’re worth to be sweet
potatoes. The smooth, buff
butternuts will last well into
the summer.
Sorry so late; the posting gremlins were bedeviling me!
i can see him!
“When he’s gone…”
(Day 9)
Funny how each day dawns
through a mist of fog,
dies when daylight disappears.
Funny how each moment
drifts as if there is no tomorrow
just days full of nothingness.
Funny, how all the world
is void of love, yet I live on
in this empty space
waiting – when he’s gone.
Oops. Long day and I almost forgot to post my poem here.
+++++
When He’s Gone
When he’s gone, I’ll wonder
why he said that, but not the other,
the space inside my heart can’t endure
another hostage. He’ll pack me
in a suitcase, slip it under his arm, easy
as a sidecar, foot-steps owning
the ground they walk on, stepping
all over the diamonds
in my eyes. When he’s gone,
the madness inside will be
set free. If only he could be
gone without me.
Aftermath
When she’s gone
we will come outside again
and find our world thrashed and splintered.
When she’s gone
we will come down from higher ground
and find new lakes and rivers.
When she’s gone
we will live without conveniences
for days or weeks, millions unconnected.
When she’s gone
we will restring the wires
cut up the fallen trees.
When she’s gone
we will pump out the basements
collect whatever can be saved.
When she’s gone
we will hug and cry with our neighbors
sad for our losses, glad for our lives.
When she’s gone
we will retire her name
and we will recover.
NOM.
eating a bear claw
toe by toe
I’ll be sad
when he’s
gone
when he’s gone
the sun should blaze and flame
out
going incognito
like the repeated refrain
of a country
song
Great prompt, Sally…Thank you!!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/09/day-nine-when-hes-gonea-haiku/
Hannah, liked your short poem. Reminded me to water the plants in the basement!
Man v Machine
They will gather
When he’s gone,
No longer able to keep pace
With the away of things
They will gather
At a brief service
Held for those left behind
To discuss how to move on
They will gather to talk
About his past, about their future,
Trying to make the most
Of this opportunity to improve
They will gather,
But not to mourn his loss;
Rather that it did not happen
Sooner
WHEN HE’S GONE TOO
The house is empty
where once we thrived.
And when he was alive
the house held love.
The decline was gradual,
but it seemed to happen
in the blink of an eye.
I try to imagine that place
without our faces in it,
but the task is daunting,
he is haunting my nights.
So many reminders find
there way into my soul
and I start to relive that
life so distant, yet so close
to my heart. But he had
departed, the last bastion
of our home left standing.
Our anchor and beacon,
a man to be admired.
When he was gone we all
suffered from his absence.
He is truly missed.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 9
“When he’s gone”
Life Without Him?
How will I live
my life when Dad is gone?
Dwelled upon it; tried
to not think about it,
and, at one point
farther back in time,
I convinced myself
that he could never
be gone. And he never is.
Old Man Winter when He’s gone
When he’s gone
and the last flake
takes a final breath
slowly exhales that old man Winter
loosening his death grip
on a frozen mother earth
When he’s gone
all roots tingle and teem
for they’re all happy it seems
at another chance to dance
When he’s gone
and the weather is quite tamed
all the sleeping beauties
waken wiggle wash unashamed
winking wiping their blurry eyes
When he’s gone
all the flaming buds whistle
and all the living things chime in chorus
humming with great green synergy
displaying life’s hidden
gem of potential energy
announcing Spring’s illustrious
dazzling song
Yes, and only yes
when that old man
winter is gone
When He’s Gone
The house felt incomplete, the walls
Wept, the breakfast nook was querulous
But she knew he would be home soon
After all, it was only kindergarten
She mused over endless coffees
Trying to remain calm, wondering
At the foreboding that coloured her thoughts
Eventually, she learned to cope, if not well
At least in a way publicly passable
And privately in a way that did not alarm
Her boy – that was the hardest,
Raising him to be the wonder she knew
For which he had the potential while all the time
Living in terror at the thought of his leaving
Maybe it was their being alone that made her
So paranoid, so worried all the time
She refused to take it out and look at it
Too closely – afraid if ever she did, she might
See truths so untenable she would lock him up
And throw away the key, and then what?
She couldn’t bear going anywhere near that …
By the time he was ready for university
She had herself almost under control – truly -
Was finally seeing someone about her issues
Was even contemplating the idea of him going
Away during the week to school as long
As he came home on the weekend
It looked like it was going to work out after all
Oh but then came that fateful Tuesday morning
A week before his classes were to start
When those damned towers came down
And before she knew quite what had happened
Her boy came home dressed in a soldier’s uniform
Deferring school, he said, until he’d done his duty
In shock, she couldn’t tell him not to go
She could barely tell him anything but that she loved
Him so, so much – and then, he was gone
Just like that – on a tour of duty to Iraq
Or Iran or someplace in the middle east
That had to do with the towers coming down
Now, she sits alone in her darkened house
A thick flag folded on her lap, heavy with irony
Remembers that when he’s gone
The house feel incomplete
The walls are weeping again, but in the tangle of thoughts
Seeping like poisonous sludge through her mind
She senses, he won’t be coming home this time
Knows the finality of not caring will take her this time
Knows that when he’s gone …
OH. What a story…well told!
(i can only hope it’s not true for you or yours…)
Thanks so much Julie … and no, made of whole cloth as they say, thank heavens.
PHEW!
When he’s gone… (is not in my vocabulary)
He dies at 90 and me at 81…
…that’s how it’s got to be.
I cannot live without my man!
He dies at 90 and me at 81…
…and when our time is done,
we’ll die spectacularly.
He dies at 90 and me at 81…
…that’s how it’s got to be.
WHEN HE’S GONE
When he’s gone,
you’ll miss the smell of
cologne he used
too much of;
the mess of his room
and the socks
on the floor.
You’ll wonder if he’s eating
or studying enough;
if he’s using
a condom or smoking too
much cheap weed.
When he’s gone,
you’ll be glad he’s off
exploring the world
as young men
eventually must, but wish he
would call home
once in awhile.
When He’s Gone
When
(everything runs like clockwork,
days wax productive, progress
persists, efficiency endures
spawning more action,
less distraction,
fewer inter-
ruptions,
but
time
migrates
more slowly,
hours looming longer,
singular smiles mooring
nights filled with emptiness,
music masking silence, then it must be)
he’s gone.
There’s so much i like about this!
“When He’s Gone” (a Tritina poem)
Amid the sweetness of the early days, I worried I’d be too much
An anxiousness followed each weekly exit
When he was gone, beyond the clutch, fear he wouldn’t return
Now, even in the midst of our chaos, I believe in his daily return
Though often, yes, I still worry I’m too much
When he goes, a contented peace seals each exit
Someday, one of us will first make this life’s exit
In faith and due time, the other will return
Side-by-side again, we’ll be so much
When he’s gone, I’ll reap the returns as much as treasure, promising to meet where exits don’t exist.
Second try today:
When He’s Gone
When he’s gone, I think,
I’ll be able to get that dog
I always wanted.
When he’s gone, I think,
The kids and I can just go out
to McDonalds if we want.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t need to go to sleep alone,
wondering why he isn’t home yet.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t have to put his dinner down the
garbage disposal because he never came home at all.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t be quailing in the living room
while he rages in the hall, and is heading my way.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t have to do terrifying (communications),
(interventions), confrontations, when he disciplines the toddlers by
holding them against the wall and screaming at them.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t have to wonder where
that long, blonde hair in the shower came from.
When he’s gone, I think,
I won’t have to make excuses for him
at church, to my family, to my practically non-existent friends.
And then one day,
I got tired of thinking about him
and I thought,
I’m gone.
And I left.
Diana Terrill Clark
This says so much beneath the words too. (i want to hunt him down if he’s real and beat him, but i really like the poem!)
He is real, but no longer an issue. Thank you for your kindness, Julie! Life is much better now.
i’m so glad, Diana!
“Filling in”
When he’s gone in a transport of pounding,
my heart leaves the duties of his station
to a substitute entity. He’s found
several who can sustain circulation
for a dozen pulses, or there around—
the entire blood vessel network, for one.
The heart’s in good hands as they coax the blood
and soul en masse onward while he’s undone.
Drums also stand in for my heart, their thud
stoking and choking my fire with low sound.
And sometimes an unpredictable flood
drives my heart to grab a far-flung back up:
an ear of corn, in husk; The Iliad;
the thought of quartz; a chipped, China teacup;
or an overripe fuyu persimmon.
Nearly anything can work as a pump
when my heart takes it and screams “Whassssup?!”
egads!!!! smirk not smirch
Really lovely poem.
When He’s Gone
He has this way
of sidling up behind
you—you not noticing his arrival.
That little smirch
on his face, and just the
touch of a wink.
And already you are
reeled in by
the way any party lights
up when he makes his
appearance (as if he
didn’t know that he
could cast his spell
from behind the curtain
just as well.)
But when he really turns
on the charm, he
can play the room
like a Stradivarius. And as
you long for him to
look your way, he does.
When his eyes catch yours—you
cannot bear to pull away—he
beguiles you with
epic stories; you not
noticing that his attention
has already begun to wander.
And just as you are ready
to fly away with him
among the stars
you look over your
shoulder and realize that
he is gone.
So you walk the beach
awaiting his return—while
working on a
potion to capture him
forever when
sneaks up on you
next month. Ellen Knight 11.9.12
WHEN HE IS GONE
When he is gone
I will become a slob -
get up when I’m ready
or maybe not at all;
eat what I like
when I’m hungry,
otherwise not;
take hours shopping
reading all the labels;
try on pretties
without buying;
turn the tv up
loud enough
to hear the dialogue;
write more poetry in bed.
The floor will stay clean
and doors will stay shut;
clothes will stay in cupboards
until needed, not on chairs;
dirty laundry will be in binS
and not on floors.
There will be no snapping
and snarling
when I shout the answers
at the TV on Mastermind
or don’t put enough salt
in the potatoes.
Hang on a minute.
Firewood will not be chopped
there’ll be no tea in bed
each morning.
There will be no dreadful puns
to make me laugh;
no comforting presence
in the other armchair
or behind the wheel;
no-one to make me
make an effort,
if he were gone.
I think I’ll hang on to him after all.
SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY
I remember
him in that hospital bed
a fly caught in a spider’s web,
eyes closed, limbs spread
this man who raised me
touched me wrong
made my sister live in angry
shadows
I remember
him in that hospital bed
a fly caught in a spider’s web,
eyes closed, limbs spread
this man who drank
away his pain, his life,
this man who told my sister
“because I loved you.”
I remember
him in that hospital bed
a fly caught in a spider’s web,
eyes closed, limbs spread
this man who taught
me to draw cartoons,
me wondering “how will I feel
when he’s gone?”
Just like I do now, I suppose,
confused.
Without Definition
He stands outside
My circle now,
Where once he
Centered its sphere
Of time and space,
Part of the dream
Maker of laughter
And light, always
The munchkin of Oz.
Stronger bonds than
Friendship could account,
Than lovers could find,
Than sibs ever know
Within lifetimes spent
Trailing stars and path
Among Moon’s shadows,
Between worlds explored,
Always on my blind side.
When he’s gone,
Life no longer sparkles
As richly, sun’s rays
Do not reach into forests,
And Moon paths remain
Untrod by my feet as
Once they danced among
Worlds unseen by others,
For he is gone, outside.
All He Wrote
When he’s gone, left in his wake
are little crumbs. He ate the cake
we left for him. Wait! There’s a note:
“Merry Christmas!” is all he wrote.
On the mantle where stockings drape
there’s gifts of every size and shape.
We feel our spirits start to float:
“Merry Christmas!” is all he wrote.
And underneath our ornate tree
are ribbons, bows and…hmmmm…let’s see…
a joyful message (here I quote)
“Merry Christmas!” is all he wrote.
So, Santa’s sleigh’s now gone from here,
just like it happens every year,
that ride the reindeer know by rote…
“Merry Christmas!” is all he wrote.
###
RJ, nice follow-up. You KNEW I was going to get to Santa eventually!
WHEN HE’S GONE
When he’s gone for five minutes, the children
are still nestled snugly, visions of sugarplums dance
and you’re still battling sleep. You keep warm and the year’s
work is nearly completed; energy depleted and you rest,
for morning comes quickly. Soon the bustle will be heard
and the first words will resound,. “SANTA WAS HERE!”
When he’s gone for eight hours, there is plenty of cheer,
you ply yourselves with steaming coffee, and the children
are excited. You’d be delighted if the screams that are heard
were less piercing, and she’d get a chance to dance
back to bed and complete her rest,
but the best you can wish for is a sleep-in on New Year’s.
When he’s gone for five years
The cheer is still the same, but it is here
where you notice the change. It’s strange that the rest
of the time you go unnoticed, but the children
are staring you down and your eyes dart and dance
from side to side, hoping to hide their sparkle behind a beard
so cheesy it is easy to spot you. When he’s gone, nothing is heard
except for the strains of Bing singing , (has it been another year
already?) Your steps are less steady when you dance
her under the mistletoe to steal a kiss or two. It is here
that you linger, a finger alongside of your nose. The children
recognize this pose and can figure out the rest.
When he’s gone for twenty years, you’ve become the guy for the rest
of your life. Your wife can be heard
snoring on the couch, and the children
are feigning sleep, and you swear this year
will be your last donning the suit. It’s a beauty, but here
is when you realize you like its fit when you dance
around the tree. You hear Jingle Bells in the distance
and a hearty Ho-Ho-Ho above, and you know the rest
of the story. You’ve impersonated him here
for all these years and your suit and beard
are a bit tattered from wear. He’s leaving you something this year;
for you and your children, and your children’s children.
It will make your children dance with delight.
Tonight he gives you the suit, for this year and the rest of your days.
And he is heard to proclaim here tonight, “You are Santa Claus”. Get it right!
When He’s Gone
I strip the bed down,
use white linens with the tucked
diamond patterns he loathes,
that the singleness of days
will not catch his scent.
His absence shawls my
dreams and drizzling thoughts
the way the goose-feather
comforter drapes my body.
I make-believe dust, settled
in his absence, will make a trail,
and carry my scent that will drift
to his hotel room, cajole
him like freshly brewed
coffee to wrap up work
sooner than projected.
So nice! Love the seductive detail
Thank you, Bluerabbit.
Now That He’s Gone
Years ago I’d thought there time,
To say the things upon my mind
Who knew that I’d be proven wrong
I’ll miss him so when he is gone.
It’s hard to live so far apart
When cancer deals it’s final card
And doctors say you don’t have long
I’ll miss him so when he is gone.
I got the call one early morn,
From my chest my heart was torn
Mom told me then that Dad was gone.
And from that day I’ve felt alone
I miss him still, every single day
And talk to him when ever I pray.
I miss him so, now that he’s gone
I miss him so, now that he’s gone.
When he’s gone…
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/09/click/
SERPENTINE
a dizain, for Cowboy
When he’s gone, I’ll still hike the rock creek down
past a grassy meadow fringed by ghost-pine –
scrubby greenstone landscape, a bedrock crown –
to just above the bridge where columbine
holds scent of summer like a trace design.
He’d read it to discover what had gone
this way – a stranger passing; doe with fawn.
I’d try to read his sunstone eyes, his gaze
of distances and breeze, of noon and dawn,
those gems more lasting than our wander-days.
When he’s gone,
she misses him,
sometimes stepping
into the room
where he works
to share something
she has found
like a child taking
a toy to a visitor,
remembering with
a start that he is
off on another trip
she slips back into
her own routine,
reading on the couch
and taking long
walks alone by
the river. When the
phone rings, his
car pulls into the drive,
or he appears at
the arrival gate,
his face is always
new, and everything
they have shared
comes home.
I enjoyed how this unfolded, Bluerabbit.
Speculate
When she’s gone
they will miss her
bright light and song,
her beautiful eyes,
her cheery disposition,
and they will cast blame.
When he’s gone
they will miss his knowledge,
creativity and generosity.
They will mourn, yet
they will speculate
and pass false judgment.
By Michael Grove
okay after all this time why do I have comments awaiting moderation?
At Night
when the curtains are drawn,
when the lights are out,
when the car is in the driveway,
when the cats and dogs and
sleepy musings are shut away in their
comfortable beds,
is when she realizes that her night has just begun.
He had a tendency to stick his lips to anothers,
so long as that other’s name was Beam or Jack.
An affair of a different kind,
one that was loveless and likeless,
stiff and burning.
You can’t fit a woman into a shot glass,
but you can fit a man into one,
and he’ll gurgle and spurt and drown.
The bar was usually three blocks down.
That’s how he moved houses.
He would walk, quarter after two, when the
bars finally hit the lights and become
nothing more than the shadow-keepers
of the mourning.
He would stumble first.
He would sit on the curb and gather his strength.
He would need it tonight.
She never stayed up.
He would asker her about it and that
was one conversation she wouldn’t be having again,
not since the 6th of September.
The keys.
She heard the keys first,
then the door,
then the covers she would clutch tight to her ears and
fists.
It would come in waves, mostly,
and would never end in contentment.
Her body would stay in the bed,
her mind would be elsewhere
with some other man.
It made it okay.
It made it okay because one day,
when he’s gone…
Heavy poems from a heavy prompt.
Stone Tears
By: Meena Rose
I still remember
A moonlit night,
A smooth stone bench
In a cozy corner of
McGill campus.
He sat down on that
Bench beside me;
His back to mine
As he leaned back
Quietly taking in
The tears and running mascara;
My shoulders, a shuddering mess,
As I wordlessly wept my
Shame gathering myself in a
Shawl that was suddenly too
Warm for a hot summer’s night.
Through blurred eyes I saw his smile
And willed myself to hear the words
Whispered from his lips;
Those tender eyes flashed with
Anger when he noticed my bruised
Shoulders – battered two days prior.
I wore no mask nor forced smile -
That night I was given space to be
Human, frail and vulnerable.
From that night forth, he always
Watched over me – always had my back;
I never for once thought how it would
Be when he’s gone – my sentry, my guardian,
My angel on Earth.
The next day, under Sun’s benevolent light,
He gifted me a drawing – me on that bench
In the moonlight, happy and carefree. He
Said that is the only way he sees me.
He is gone now – killed by a drunk driver.
Twice every year
the doors are opened, wide,
and a public tour
joins in the Hall by the Information Desk. Visitors
in shorts (or overcoats) and New Employees (wearing
the mandated Sober Black), assemble
beneath what’s called
Still Life With Empty Chair, and some Member
of the Board tells the story–
as if it were a lie–of course, of the day the Founder
climbed out of his frame. After he pretends
to wonder why, and where the man could be,
the Boardmember leaves.
And twice every year, when he’s gone,
and the brassy elevator doors have closed behind
his importance, a little man with mustard stains on his shirt
leaves the tour, straightens a very silly tie,
and from the corner of the desk, climbs
back into the frame.
Hah! Fun.
Gone
When he’s gone,
there is a moment when
his shadow registers as
its own kind of presence,
a hole in the shape of him.
When she’s gone,
she’s just gone.
Gone, baby, gone,
instant as a vapor.
Funny how two people
can have such different
ways of disappearing.
It’s as if they’re in two
Entirely different states
of matter.
Oops … Entirely should be lowercase. Word 2010 hates poetry.
“Drifting Hope”
hope stirred, though lately lost
whilst stormy seas still raged
it raised its head
from the murky depths
and drank the foam
of the deep blue sea
Suspended – it floated
like so much jetsam
weeping for the love to set it free.
And I, swept away
by salty spray and tears
Tossed – wildly asunder
like flotsam that will not bear
the weight of my grief
a distant horizon slowly sinking:
there is no safe harbour
when he is gone.
She Leaves a Poem Behind
She meets with a group of scholars
and discusses her latest concept
comprised of nature and art.
She gives a slide show
about creations made,
the bush carved into a human head.
She speaks with great passion
of nature’s art
of old cups made into a table,
and about the power of creation
that makes each of divine.
I greet this long-lost friend
with a smile and a hug
and recall memories
before she leaves,
and in my heart,
she leaves a poem behind.
Where?
Where does he go when he’s gone?
My imagination wanders.
He knows I hate being alone
What does he do when he’s gone?
He’s like this, I should have known
And really, I couldn’t be fonder.
But, where does he go when he’s gone?
My imagination wanders.
Diana Terrill Clark
Apollo
Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone,
(but that would be like stealing
and cliche to say the least).
Yet without him, we’ve no dawn,
no light from his free wheeling
across the sky. Life decreased-
poetry and warmth withdrawn,
a loss of dance and healing.
When he’s gone, we’ll surely cease.
Ain’t No Sunshine
“Oh, boy,” she says, mixing the batter
for pancakes, the sausages sizzling,
the coffee perking in her mama’s pot
that’s so worn it’s barely metal.
She keeps it for the sound, she says,
the perk of a comforting morning.
But he’s in his wing chair hunkered
over his guitar, his face blank as rain,
going strum, hum, strum hum,
Strum, huuuuuummmmmm.
His voice is like buttered rum, oiled
and warm as fever, just enough gravel
in his bass notes to scratch at her heart.
“Oh, Lord, that man,” she says to no one
but the lord hears everything in our hearts.
She knows this sure as she knows
the temperature of oil before batter
is tipped in, sure as she knows the hiss
and blister and browning of the cakes.
He is having one of his days,
didn’t take a genius to see that.
He could be as tough and solid
as anything standing for months on end,
but when the blues came, he didn’t fight,
just curled up with his guitar like a dog
and licked at the edges of his pain.
He’s singing his own song and she knows it,
her heart clutching at his words, wishing
she could mother his sorrow away,
bring his loves back from the dead,
resurrect his hopes, and praise his efforts,
but she just imagines the empty hole
he’ll leave for her when he’s gone, and
now she’s creating her own hum and scrape.
She turns to Jesus kneeling on the wall
and whispers, “Dear Lord, that man there…
we best put some blueberries in these cakes.”
Beautiful, i can feel the blues.
Oh, Jane, this is so masterfully written! My guitar playing son and I assume you must have been in the room, looking over our shoulder as you wrote. May I have your permission to send a copy to my son?
Thanks, Julie and Casey, for the comments. Casey, send away.
She Leaves a Poem Behind
She meets with a group of scholars
and discusses her latest creative project
comprised of nature and art.
She gives a slide show
about creations made,
bushes carved into a human head.
She speaks with great passion
of nature’s art
of old cups made into a table,
and about the power of creation
that makes each of us divine.
I greet this long-lost friend
with a smile and a hug
and recall memories
before she leaves,
and in my heart,
she leaves a poem behind.
Let’s try this one more time, Mike. I like this idea and poem.
When he’s gone.
I turn the music up loud and dance for half an hour,
Then prepare party food
Then watch a film or two
Then eat ALL the party food.
Then sleep for a couple of hours
Then maybe stare at the wall thinking
Then go on the internet and waste the rest of the afternoon
playing games and gossiping with my virtual pals.
Then I rush around for half an hour tidying up
Then he gets home.
Well that’s what he thinks happens when he’s gone.
Michele Brenton.
LOL! My older daughter once told someone that i never gave the toddler a bath–if she didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.
Oh, yes…
Good prompt, Sally! Good poeming, friends!
With the Wind
The newsman and his cameraman
stumble through the wreckage
of a neighborhood’s life, not
a single dwelling standing
on the once-sturdy foundations.
One man shakes his head
as his wife weeps nearby, holding pictures.
“Fucking sand”, he says to them,
knowing they can’t air that.
“You can’t trust fucking sand
not to sell out when the waves come.”
“You think you build a life,” he says
in heavily accented English,
“but when he’s gone, that’s it!”
His wife leans in and interjects,
“We still have our lives and
we’re grateful for that,”
but her husband walks away
saying, “yeah, yeah, yeah.”
People all along the way
mince through the detritus
of their lives, valuables suddenly
rendered useless, broken,
imagining saving this thing or that
to watch it mold in a new location.
Picking up and putting down.
In a homeless cold wind, the news crew
looks among the storm’s leavings
for an unusual human interest story,
some hope for continuation among
the weeping, the broken, the up-ended.
When they hear laughter, they follow it
to a man pointing hundreds of yards away.
“Found it!” he shouts, delighted to
have located the roof of his house.
“I just reroofed this year,” he says.
“Look at this! Those guys did
a good job—you can tell it didn’t leak.
It just didn’t stay on the house!”
He laughs some more. When asked
what he has lost, he says straight into
the camera, “I haven’t lost a thing.
It’s all right here somewhere, mixed
up with everybody else’s.”
Marking the progress of his neighbor,
he says, “I found a sense of humor
over there under some boards.
Lightly used. Looks like he needs it
worse than I do. When that’s gone,
there’s no fun left in survival.”
just brilliant!
Thanks, Rorybore!
Jane, glad you liked the prompt. Good word pictures of a tragedy.
Soup
When he’s gone,
it will all be soup,
leeks and stale bread,
beet roots and dried grass,
bits of green potatoes,
the eyes plucked and tucked
under plates so they can’t see
what happens to us
when he’s gone.
WHEN
When he is gone
thoughts will linger
as days grow long.
When he is gone
I’ll listen for that song
and remember
a soft breeze at dawn.
When he is gone
thoughts will linger.
Afterword
When
he’s
gone
she
breathes
on.
.
Inaugural
you hold your breath
as crowds assemble
on the mall
the poets and the judges
with the preachers
all arrayed in overcoats
against the January chill.
you wait throughout
the ceremonies
all the handshakes
oaths and invocations
urging on the
awkward silences
you do not move
until you see for sure
the helicopter rise
and circle one last time
and when he’s gone
when you are
absolutely sure
that it is true
you raise your head
and breathe at last
fully aware that
when your man
has won there’s
no one left to
blame
Immigrants
The old woman dusts the photo with the hem of her skirt -
this is all she has left – moments in time, captured.
Off to a better world, they went – bright-eyed with possibility,
so eager to make a new beginning – a new life.
How was she to know the emptiness that would descend
once the ship set sail with its precious cargo?
How was she to know that once they were gone,
she would disappear into the yesterdays of the old?
How was she to know that her one vice would turn out to be
hording any and all communications randomly sent?
Holding the picture close – examining each line, each shape -
How was she to know?
Oh, my! This prompt has inspired such wonderful poems, everyone who has posted thus far has left us such juicy morsels of verse! Thank you, Sally, for the inspiration! Well done, everyone, I have a lump in my throat that started with Robert’s poem and has just gotten bigger as I read.
Amazing poeming! So diverse.
(a lune)
It always happens
When he’s gone:
Somehow he’s still here.
THE WALTZ
Only now, when he’s gone
do I assess the damage we’d wrought,
the inroads we’d made at seducing our hearts,
how we weakened our resolves against our own advances
and accustomed our dances around the truth.
Only now, when he’s gone
can I see the path we walked toward,
the charmed camouflage we chose to cover our filthy robes,
how we weakened our resolves against the foe’s advances
and danced disillusioned circles around the truth.
Only now, when he’s gone
do I feel the weight I hefted on his shoulders,
the love I didn’t deserve crash around me like tidal waves,
how hollow and incomplete my weak resolve now advances
and how empty it feels to dance alone in the truth.
I’M RIGHT HERE
(a shadorma)
When he’s gone
there’s an empty space
In the room.
While I wait
for his return, he remains
closerthanthisclose.
Time Never Stands Still (a poem within a poem)
We thought we would have years
together
filled with laughter and tears
falling
learning your secrets and quirks
forever
plans were in the works
in
motion, only to be taken away
love
interrupted, held at bay
never
telling us what to do when he’s gone
left
to carry on alone each dawn
just
swamped by the fears of the unknown
gone
just me, you’re gone.
Wow–that’s really cool!
When He’s Gone
She goes without
So he can have.
He curls up beside her,
Keeping her warm through the night.
Her only friend Is aging.
As they take their morning walk,
She wonders how long her companion
At the end of the leash
Has left.
Ack. i can’t bear to think about this…beautifully said!
Oh, man. That dread is leashed to the joy they bring, isn’t it? Nicely done, Marie, and the papa poem too. I couldn’t get the comment to post. And although this is uncool, Walt, I wanted to comment on your John and When She Leaves as well. Both were touching and effective. Now let’s see how many tries this will take….
Respite
When he’s gone, I clean the house
Thoroughly, reaching into every corner
(He hates the noise the vacuum makes)
I take the covers from the chairs
And his worn old blanket from the couch
Toss them in the washer, then dry them
On the line – he likes the way it makes them smell.
I’m carefull with his bookshelves, some volumes
Are old and frail – a bit like us, I like to think
And his desk top, the computer screen and
Little specks of lint that don’t belong…
The truth is that he doesn’t use it very much
Most of his days he spends lying on the couch
Watching TV or mostly DVD’s, reminding me
Of those happy times when trouble didn’t lurk
Usually I have to wake him when its time for bed…
His sleep is restless, often he’ll wake crying out
For something that I can’t understand Some
Times he thinks that I’m his mother or some
Other name I don’t recognize. I just play along.
When he’s gone, it’s usually for just a couple days.
The Hospice people call it “Respite care.”
This afternoon, I’ll drive over and bring
Him home again.
The house is so empty when he isn’t here.
I’d love to hear this aloud. Beautifully written story.
OH.
Missing
Where hes gone
we did not know
phone calls and searches
nothing nothing did show
We tried all the avenues
all the resourses
available to us
we needed somthing
we needed a crutch
Looking for you
not know where you were
was so heart breaking
not knowing whether or not you
had been taking
Living in that country
beautfy everywhere
but the stories the walls hold
they surely would scare
Page set up to find you
hoping for clues
searches never ending
when one day a new
Message with a contact
a number was there
from a wonderful man
whos help was so rare
I rang the number
your voice on the other side
angry excited and hurt
was the pain inside
Glad to know that you were okay now
hearing your voice was golden
after all that time had been stolen
smiling now it never stops
knowing that your alive and well
makes my heart beat pop
Wrap my arms around
when we will meet
until then a brother so dear
a brother so sweet
the Blog Gremlin
When he’s gone
we will post in peace
and live without frustration
for his game is getting old
but we refuse to allow him
to affect the creativity
of the wonderful souls
who reside here.
Note from author: he really didn’t like me writing this, as he was fighting the whole way
Be back later … Having an impossible time trying to post comments -
Sandy
He’ll leave a mess
Couches, carpets and such
Instead of socks and wet towels
And the women will sigh
And bend to tend
Finally smiling
In simple relief
At the rainbowed end of
This rabid foaming rant
When he’s gone
Nice take on the prompt, Pearl. Praying for you all.
When He’s Gone
Dad has cheated life
three times.
Perhaps hundreds more.
“God must have more for me to do.”
Yes, Dad. How right you are -
More love to give
More guidance to offer
More music to make
More prayers to pray.
My kids refuse to think of life
Without Grandpop.
My heart is beyond grateful
That you cheated life three times
Perhaps millions more.
Holding “Pops” close along with you. Cherish every moment while you have him. They’ll mean even more later that you did! Trust me on that!
Wishing I could share him with you in “real life.” The two of you would enjoy each other.
A tip of the cap to your Grandpop
confused…he has cheated death, or cheated life? or both?
This makes me smile, and also reminds me of how i wished i’d hugged my father-in-law one more time….
I can relate to this lovely poem, MarieElena.
A Cry to No One
When he’s gone
she picks herself up
and sweeps up the pieces
of her shattered life
When he’s gone
she tells herself
it was her fault
and believes it
When he’s gone
she covers the bruises
with makeup and lies
and forgives him again
But when he’s there
she lives in fear
and tries to hide
from the monster within
Oh, JW … a reality too many live. I hope this is not your reality.
Powerfully penned.
Thank you, Marie. Just fiction on my part, but yes, a very sad reality for some.
Good to hear.
Well said, and glad it’s fiction!!
The door shuts softly
Outside a cardinal flies
When he’s gone – silence
Robert, yours paints a sad picture quite powerfully.
Excellent prompt, Sally. Busy, busy, full day … hoping to return.
Oops. The above comment is misplaced, but gave me the opportunity to see Pearl’s gem above.
Glad you enjoyed it Marie Elena.
Tender and sweet. The cardinal reference blows me away. There’s an incredible story I’ve told our resident cardinal keeper (Laurie Kolp) about when both of my parents had passed and the appearance of the cardinals as almost a harbinger of their peace. Thank you for this reminder and know my thoughts are with you.
Huge impact in so few words, truly lovely, Pearl. i can actually feel the silence when i read this (and look, my comment is longer than the poem i am commenting on!)
Enjoyed this, Pearl.
Tuscany
When he’s gone
I’ll take that trip to
Tuscany
Sit under that sun
Face turned up
Sweet wine
Rolling on my tongue
When he’s gone
I’ll tear a chunk of
Crisp warm bread
And try to swallow
Even a single crumb
As sunlight cools
Wine meets vinegar
And I veined
Hands rising to
Fauceted eyes
Try to remember
How I thought it
Would be
Flooded with
How it now is
When he is gone
“I’ll tear a chunk of
Crisp warm bread
And try to swallow
Even a single crumb”
This says so very much, Pearl. A fabulous example of “show, don’t tell.”
beautiful
Wow Pearl. Now, YOU have no parallel. You don’t know how much I love this piece. Well done.
so unbelievably good. I’ve returned to read it 5 times.
A stunner.
This gave me chills! (and, um, just so you’re not too lonely, you could take me with you….)
Pearlie, this bread chokes me too. I tell Volodya that if he dies first, I’ll need a world cruise to get me over him. We laugh, knowing the fun of that idea is in doing things together, not with a memory of what once was. This is well done.
Just Half
When he’s gone
I’m a half-full glass, not half-empty
as I’m easily filled back up.
When he’s gone
I’m only half a tune, half a note,
half a cord, a chorus in discord
so I’ll sing half a song
because that’s what I do
when he’s gone.
Love this, Misk.
Just love this. “a chorus in discord” — fantastic!
Ah lovely!
When He’s Gone
When time has healed her wounds a bit, whenever that may be,
I’ll sweep his lady off her heels, and surely she will see,
We have so much in common for I loved her husband too,
So much loss between us, so much left in life to do.
I wrote him once in Kabul, felt relieved when he returned,
I never wrote again though, once my passion for her burned,
A secret locked inside my heart, a thing I can’t confess,
For all in all, her love for him, I love about her best.
I know she’ll always love him more, for first loves never die,
His spine of steel, his gentle touch, she’ll always wonder why,
But when he’s gone, I’ll wait for her and soon she’ll love me too.
Accepting that I’m second best, for her, I’ll gladly do.
Wow. Contemplative, respectful, impressive heart. Bless you — and him.
Thanks, Marie. Though I’m sure the scenario plays out a lot these days, for me, thankfully, the only non-fiction part is having been an ‘also ran’ in a woman’s heart.
You communicated such patience, and as Maria said, respect and complexity. Hard to live through the situation but well written.
Awww….i’d watch this movie! Seriously, lovely story, and you’re so clean on the rhythm, wish i could do that.
Very well put together, DA. I think the form itself lends an understated pace to the theme of waiting in the poem. That last line just clinches it. Nice work.
“Loss”
Walking starfish strewn beachs,
hand in hand.
Hiking steeply tilted wilderness trails,
him covering my back.
Biking beneath stately moss draped oaks,
he leads the way.
These jewels, tucked among precious
memories, will remain
when he’s gone.
Lovely, Maurie. I can relate.
So simple yet visual, it speaks loudly.
WHEN SHE LEAVES
When she leaves, she always checks to be sure
that I’m OK. She’d say she was thinking about
the time we drove for an hour scouring the countryside
for a place to hide for an hour or so, and we would go
on for half the day, walking, talking, taking the time
to find comfort in each other like no other time before.
There was this place way south of the city. It was
a pretty serene scene. A spot beneath a crossing bridge,
a dry stream bed with a trickle of its former self.
A shelf of rocks and dried logs and bogs of reeds
poking skyward, She would sit on a trunk of fallen
majesty, and me? I would snap photos of her contemplation
in my elation; a celebration of life. Before she was my wife.
she had become the love of many lives. I can see it clearly
and dearly miss that place. It puts a smile on my face.
When she leaves, I believe she smiles as well. I can tell
how much she has grown. I know she will return,
When she leaves.
Tender, touching — makes me smile inside.
So sweet!!! She’s a lucky lady.
No Julie, I’m the lucky one!
JOHN
When he’s gone…
The reality of his leaving
will hit some hard, Others
will not be fazed. It’s crazy
to think that he’s been
on the brink of death’s door
for four years or more.
Stomach cancer was not
the answer. Not to mention
dementia. Parkinson’s Disease
is putting the squeeze of his once
statuesque appearance.
His disappearance has been long
awaited. Fate can be a cruel
executioner. When he’s gone
some will mourn, some will scorn
his selfishness for leaving.
The cash cow is dead.
Long live the king!
So sad. “Fate can be a cruel executioner. ” A reality many, many face.
You and that lovely wife of yours hang in there. <3
When He’s Gone
My time is not for me alone
I am on call from dawn to dawn
Relentlessly I care for him
Yet, I will miss him when he’s gone
Contributes little in this life
His words are few, the day is long
At times my patience wears so thin
Yet, I will miss him when he’s gone
His smile can warm the coldest heart
His hugs and kisses can go on
And his delight becomes my own
Yes, I will miss him when he’s gone
Beautiful, Connie. A very touching and dedicated piece expressed well.
Amen. Bless you, Connie.
So much stated in so few words, Connie. Inspiring.
very poignant, Connie; nicely done
Ah this hit my heart such a lovely poem
Heart-breaking and true, Connie. You start us off with kindness and heart.