For today’s prompt, write a memory poem. The poem could be about a personal memory, someone else’s memory, or even play with the fact that some people lose memories. Just remember to write a poem.
Here’s my attempt at a memory poem:
“Tomorrow”
I can’t remember tomorrow
when I always lose yesterday
falling out an open window.
I can’t remember tomorrow,
not that I’m filled with great sorrow,
because I still have my today.
I can’t remember tomorrow
when I always lose yesterday.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Break into Copywriting. Learn how.
Memories
Every poem is a memory poem.
Of hot summer days when the
tar bursts into bubbles on country
roads. The joy as it pops when
your bicycle hits it just right.
In college how the last warm
days of fall spend themselves as
the sun nourishes more than your
back. Days so rare you will never falter
in love. But every poem is a memory.
How wild iris mingles
with the new ducklings
in spring for a splash
of color near the pond.
Some stones fade. My Mom gone
now for four years and her stories
begin to need to be retold. Every poem
is a memory and a poem.
aftermath
by juanita lewison-snyder
after katrina
we were never quite the same again
no matter how hard we tried.
the house in which
my mother was born in,
sisters conceived,
parents wedded,
where beloved pet memorials
held backyard court over the years,
where melons and apples
grew ripe for the picking,
and frogs lulled us to
sleep late in the evenings,
the home altar where fireflies and
lemonade glued us to the screen porch
and dance recitals and watching old glory
climb the pole made us cry every time,
a hearth where barbecues and fall canning
invited cousins to gather ’round
clapboards and shutters and blossom
like sprigs of wild roses.
but then the waters came,
and with it a mountain of mud and silt,
uprooted trees, bobbing vehicles,
bloated animal carcasses,
occasional corpse.
the winds were fierce at first,
slammed window panes and rooftops
leaned backs and shoulders
against sills and foundations
until only slabs of pitted
concrete and rebar were left,
the once picturesque orchard
and garden areas vacuumed
off the face of the earth
as if we never existed.
no,
after katrina
we were never quite the same again
no matter how hard we tried to forget.
© 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
LOOKING OUT THE WINDOWS ON THE WORLD
(c) 2012 – G. Smith
—————————————————————————
Just the night before,
I stood on the very top floor,
Looking out the windows on the world.
Below the city lights,
Shone clear and crisp and diamond bright,
Mirroring the stars out the windows on the world.
Out the windows on the world,
Looking out the windows on the world.
Could we have been prepared,
For those things that we’ve all shared,
Looking out the windows on the world?
Who would have thought,
The dinner that I’d just bought,
While looking out the windows on the world,
Would be the one that I remember,
Since that long ago September,
Looking out the windows on the world?
Out the windows on the world,
Looking out the windows on the world;
Could we have been prepared,
For those things that we’ve all shared,
Looking out the windows on the world?
Now Yellowstone steams,
And fog blankets Alcatraz,
Mists drift through the bayou,
Like Dixieland jazz;
The Rockies stand proudly,
And the Hudson River curls;
You could see it all by looking,
Out the windows on the world;
You could feel it all by looking,
Out the windows on the world.
They keep on going without,
The windows on the world.
OVER AND OVER
(AGAIN AND AGAIN)
(c) 2012 – G. Smith
———————————————————-
Over and over, again and again,
I see the smoke being blown by the wind.
Over and over, it goes on and on;
And then in an instant; everything’s gone;
Then in an instant; everything’s gone.
Clear, cloudless morning,
Sunny and bright;
The city wakes up
And shrugs off the night.
Another day dawning,
New work to be done.
Where there where two,
Soon there will be none.
And,
Over and over, again and again,
I see the smoke being blown by the wind.
Over and over; it keeps running on;
And then in an instant; everything’s gone.
Then in an instant; everything’s gone.
The same old routine.
Punching the clock;
Walk down the hallway,
Put the key in the lock.
Greeting the faces
You pass every day;
Without being ready
To see them taken away.
Yes,
Over and over, again and again,
I see the smoke being blown by the wind.
Over and over, it runs on so long;
And then in an instant; everything’s gone.
Then in an instant; everything’s gone.
Over and over;
Again and again.
Tender memories.
This is a tough one
how to explain a life with someone
who never remembers?
Or more accurately sometimes does
but in fits and starts
and how that constantly breaks my heart.
Because I’m like an elephant
everything sticks.
I remember a film from a line overheard
a book from ten years ago,
every moment we’ve shared
each word and the way it was spoken
but I live in a world where a promise is broken
or rather it isn’t quite because can you call it a promise
if the person who made it forgets its conception?
Not in a way that can find recollection
the data is gone ,its gone.
Every day is a new day, a new beginning
which sounds rather lovely and full of hope.
I carry our history, treasure it carefully,
curate our necessary frequent contracts,
there has to be trust, because I am the only
person who tells of the things that have been.
And this is the way we have been forever,
I tell you the story you follow directions,
we laugh and we love and we have new adventures
and I tell them to you so you don’t lose the moments.
I sit in my bedroom and I travel in time
and scents and sounds and feel of the air
and sun on my skin and I’m there
while I’m here
and I cry for the you
who will never be able
to hold onto a moment and love it forever.
So I’ll love it for both of us,
I’ll love us for both of us,
and that will have to be enough, forever.
Michele Brenton 11th September 2012
THE SHAWL
A shawl; a shroud.
Crocheted in hues
of black and crimson yarns,
the winsome tatter across her shoulders.
A gift perhaps,
or a remnant left at her disposal.
No offer or proposal, just a spinster maybe,
or a not-so-gay divorcee. She wouldn’t say.
Her silence is her voice; her stare, vacant and dead.
Around her head, a babushka cinched tightly
beneath her chin, a lofty noose without a victim.
The window opens the world to her disinterest,
at best, she has random flashes of its existence.
She clutches the cozy covering closer to her,
a sanctuary of sort. A harbored port
in this station of her life. Once someone’s wife
she remembers. Or she doesn’t. It matters not.
People did not find their comfort in her company.
Hers was offered in chastisement and vitriol.
This decrepit soul lost in the warmth of her frigidity.
It’s a pity. She does not remember that she was evil.
But, she knows that she feels cold.
**Written in response to Polish poet Anna Swirszczynska’s “She Does Not Remember”.
Back in the day I’d pick you up
in my yellow Ford Pickup
the tailgate rattling
as I gunned it over your gravel driveway
I’d bring your little brother sparklers
a young boy’s vice
and a book of matches
so he wouldn’t have to steal your mother’s
We’d drive all night
with the other Friday Main Street rally drivers
coolness on wheels
beer cans at their feet
and girls under the free arm
drinking cheap wine from the cold, hard, green rim.
And now we sit in our flowered room
watching movies on our flat screen
olde Butch sleeping at our feet
We sip our wine from shaped, formal glass
waiting for our child to come home
Keepsake
What I once so tangibly remembered was your smell:
it was so warm – you smelled of freshly minted life
and nothing could distract me from weaving between peals of laughter,
following its beckoning trace -
not your ample hands,
nor your furrowed brows before that very captivating book,
not even your proudly-displayed chest,
the subtle thief of my attention and affection.
I allowed myself to take notice
because there was no talk of life and death that afternoon:
no bullets graced the sky,
no news of the technocracy, nor of the fate of this Great War –
yet whispers begged through glimpses and gestures for the promise
that it would still be like this between us after the end,
constant through each end within end within end.
On that cursed day, after it was all over,
they took me home and covered me
in mounds of dry fragments of perception
the inheritors of the Phoenicians sold them
inside a tiny velvet bag,
while the spices that once underscored your smell
were not afforded the benefit of a potted keepsake.
As the men with doll-like hands cast you aside,
my others bathed me in coconut oils and rinsed me with pomegranate juice
until my skin was tight and flayed
and my mouth was swollen with the taste of
not three,
nor six,
nor six thousand crimson gems,
but of all the ever-invented gems
(including the stray one, drifting through that oddly baptized galaxy -
the one you, with your stargazing heritage,
have probably become intimately acquainted with by now -
that one must have been from you).
All these dainty drops fought tooth and nail
to cram into the nook
reserved for the slithering taste of your smell.
I allowed it from a distance, remembering your voice
as it laid out before me the heathen tale it captured when you were a boy,
the one whose steps we used to trace without meaning to – WHAT A FRAUD!
What kind of people would promise a woman such a thing,
who could have it in them
to come up with such a filthy lie,
to tell me that the more I taste the food of the Underworld,
the closer I shall bind myself to you …
So that is the story of how I lost your smell for a while …
A slice of time later,
when the last torrent of unconsciousness had finally dripped out of me,
I went out and I sought it in our city,
I sought it in the books you used to love,
in the people long-ago branded by a shake of your hand, even
in the sky scattered through with your ashes
and in the still-wanton soil.
It was gone,
lost at the bottom of the mighty waters
the crimson seeds had borne inside me.
I looked so hard, yet
I could not find it in your coat,
your large pressed suits,
your stray poetry –
only serendipitous wisps
that somehow swim against the current in tiny bursts
and magnetize my secrets
and draw them out through the corners of my eyes
like tiny cockroaches which crawl out of the upper corners of my walls
at the most unfortunate of times.
Perhaps this is the way the mighty waters shall rid themselves of me -
constant through end within end within end.
Wow, this was really beautiful. Kudos, A!
For a dying friend:
Remembrance
You walk down the long hall for the last time.
Framed photographs hang on both walls –
your memories lined up as a gallery.
When you reach the other end,
Your picture will hang there too.
Memory
Like celluloid stills in a row,
flashbulb moments held in tow,
life’s history culled from freeze-framed stops
knit akimbo in memory swaps,
like celluloid.
Spliced and spiced, only apropos
scenes to match old things we know,
our knowns the cozy comfort props
in celluloid.
We see what we expect, blind to
the true, our self-talk quid-pro-quo.
The conscious mind, late guest, up-pops
selecting stills, then photo-shops
and catalogs those snaps just so,
to have a tale to tell, a flow
like celluloid.
The Number
As the dusk faded away
And the moon rose high
In the midsummer night,
His thoughts wandered
To the faded phone number
Scrawled in pencil
On the back of a recipe card,
Buried with the essentials
In his rucksack
But never far from his mind,
A ten digit link
To the life he could have had,
The one within his grasp
Until anger built a fence
They could never climb.
He could call that number,
Beg to be forgiven,
But after all these years
He knows that number
Only connects
To an empty phone booth,
No operator assistance available
To trace love’s last call.
If I Had One More Moment
If I had one more moment to say all the things I needed to say,
I’d tell you how much I’ve loved loving you this way…
Thank you for being my shoulder,
Thank you for being there for me.
In case you ever questioned,
I couldn’t have left more happily.
If I could open my eyes one last time,
I’d open them to see your face.
To have your image engraved in my mind,
Would make eternity such a better place.
For every second that I’ve spent with you,
For all the beauty that we’ve shared,
I’d give anything to go back in time
Just to prove that I’ve always cared.
With all my heart and all my soul,
I need you to know how wonderful you are.
You’ve given me everything I’ve ever asked for,
You’ve always been my shining star.
I hope you know that I never meant to take you for granted…
Never once did I not believe in you.
You were the greatest thing to come into my life.
Since the day we met I’ve been in love with you…
I just want to say thank you for making my life worth living,
And for fulfilling my every day.
If I had one more moment left in this world
I’d simply tell you how much I’ve loved loving you this way…
Yesterdays
And in the distance I do see
Golden, abandoned territory
Some images that had disappeared
Now follow me and seem so clear
Why do these ghosts still show their face?
Why have they left their hiding place?!
Some rocks inside the treasure chest
Have sparkling diamonds amidst their nest
A lingering fragrance from the dried up rose
Why,the broken thorns don’t hurt my toes?!
Those tears,now pearls I hold them close
And gently let them decompose
For, time to climb back to the ground
Embracing what I see around
But a hint of fairy dust has sprayed
A glitter of those Yesterdays
Into the churnings of Todays—-
PriyA Jane
So Long
It’s been so long
since we tossed the ball around
so long since we played pickle in the rain
so long, catching pop-flies
under a muskmelon sky
so long that glove you gave me sits
Rusty Staub on Rawling’s
Flex-O-Matic palm
worn leather webbing
crackled like old paint
along the edges of fingers
so small, so long ago
so long,
so come,
play catch with me,
Dad
it’s been
so
long
This is a memory poem which I wrote dedicated to my Mother
Are there ever any dreams in heaven?
Like those about winding roads
That leads you to remember me
With my small hand in yours
And will you pray for me?
Because I miss your eyes and smile
And the way you comforted me
In my heart of a small child
Will you not forget the bond we had?
As I told you all my cares
And you said to “trust in God
For he knows all your fears”
And you said you wish
You had money back then.
You never strived for fanciness
To broken to care about success
But the love that you had
You gave the best
From my heart of a poet
Mom you’re the best.
Kayak
When he came down
from the woods,
the dam had let out
and the kayak was gone,
swept downriver.
Later he saw a white
kayak with orange stripes
on top of a car on Roswell Road,
but he couldn’t catch up.
Now he has a different kayak
that he paddles in Kailua Bay
at dusk when the turtles
swim near the surface
so close, he can reach out
and touch them,
but he still feels like
he lost something else
and needs to keep looking.
Evocative…I recognize the reverberating sense you describe…I like the scenes you placed it in…..both of these aspects are memorable (no pun intended!). Thank you… !
An oldie. (Sorry. It seems I’m doing that too much lately.)
Niles Korner Dairy
A long way back, in ’66,
When we were eight years old,
A dime was lying in our path,
And we thought we’d struck gold.
My cousin Tom and I took off.
We ran, so we could pop
Into the Korner Dairy
With the Christmas Tree on top.
The Korner Dairy carried
All the stuff kids LOVE to have.
Every candy known to man;
Yummy sweet-tooth salve.
Bit-O-Honey, Beamans’ Gum,
Mary Janes, and Pez.
Golden Nuggets, Nik-L-Nip,
“Cool,” my cousin says.
Flying Saucers, Circus Peanuts
Goobers, Pixi Stix,
Saf-T Pops, and Tootsie Pops
(They take how many licks?)
Rootbeer Barrels, Good & Plenty,
Necco Wafer Rolls,
Life Savers (made in Cleveland;
Candy rings with holes).
Wax Lips, Mallo Cups,
Bazooka Bubble Gum,
Whistle Pops and Whirly Pops,
And Slo-Poke Suckers (Yum!).
Sugar Daddy and his Baby,
Candy Cigarettes,
(Which today is too P.I.),
And Chocolaty Croquettes.
Charms Blow Pops and Fireballs,
Bubble Gum Cigars,
(There’s that darn P.I. again),
And Hershey Chocolate Bars.
Bottle Caps, Marshmallow Cones,
A Candy Popcorn Ball,
Candy Buttons, Chocolate Coins,
Why can’t we have it all?
We could share an ice-cream cone,
If that is what we’d like.
Or perhaps a giant box of
JustBorn Mike and Ike.
Hooray for dimes in ’66,
So Tom and I could pop
Into the Korner Dairy
With the Christmas Tree on Top.
My all-time favorite from “Season 1″ of Walt and Marie! It never gets old (even for an “oldie”!
Scarring
I don’t remember much about that day,
Just broken movie clips haunting my mind,
The orange glow of the flames in the back seat,
My tumble out the door onto the pavement,
The two women with the kind eyes
Holding me on the tiled counter
Next to the sink pouring water
Over my charred skin.
But the scars, those have stayed with me.
As a child they were all I could see
Looking in my broken mirror,
The grotesque bubbling of my skin
From my chubby fingers
up my arm to my shoulder,
So sure that everyone else saw
The hideous beast lurking
In my mirror just as I did.
Scars, at least the visible kind,
Fade with the passing of time,
And today no one even notices
If they do not already know they are there.
It’s the invisible scars
From voluntary fires
That still persist.
Memory 2
(Haibun Poem 2)
Fortunately, memory is selective. Those you knew in the past are usually
remembered only for their positive qualities. The problematic parts of their natures
are shifted to account for meanness, lack of ambition or perhaps, bad judgment. There is
no definite accounting for historical improprieties. Memory cancels the less likely.
Imbecile person!
Leave quietly on tiptoes
Over time, gently.
POTSHARDS AND AMULETS
The epicenter was somewhere in a region that
wasn’t heavily populated, yet all around
the ground shook, all the houses found
themselves in heaps. Babies crying, what
nobody said could happen, in a moment
everything fell into this chasm here
before us. So far all we know, it’s clear
all the human survivors were saved. We spent
those long days, archaeologists, we come
to pick up what we can gather to know who
they were, those who dwelled in his shattered pool
now that they have left for good, all numb
from the fatal seconds the ground that stood
split in two. Treading carefully, down we go—
a picture frame, a president, Kennedy, so
saints and sinners . . . alongside worry beads, wood
trays in disrepair, we look for evidence of glass
or plastic perhaps, a large blue pitcher a sign
of someone who produced it, yes, April Wine,
at the base, MADE IN CHINA. We rest, a class
will be coming soon, we have to reveal
to them something about the people of this house
about some details, to excite their minds, to rouse
their curiosity, their intellectual zeal.
Zev Davis
This is a very long poem–both a memory poem and a Haibun. (Should I post it twice?) Some of the formatting is lost below, so you may prefer to read it at my blog: http://susanspoetry.blogspot.com/2012/09/resurrection-2012.html
Resurrection (2012)
I wake at 5:55 AM, noting the triplets again. Yesterday, I glanced at the clock at 4:44 AM. and the day before at 3:33. I anticipate tomorrow’s magical number at 6:66, but that cannot be. “Christ is Risen!”
I journal: 5:55 AM on Easter 1971, two hitchhikers woke on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He and I were wrapped in each other against the cold, waiting for the sunrise service to begin. Red rose. Blue shot through. Dawn warmed our tips and dried the air. Awe was all ours. By nine, people arrived. Three hours past first light, the spirit had passed, but Bibles were open and folding chairs shaped the congregation. Holy words filled the air, “Truly, He is Risen!”
Easter 1981, I sketched out an exercise for a rape play at the women’s center. We planned to confront the audience with a single actor rushing to get help. “My girlfriend was just raped. . . . and you weren’t there! You are never there, are you?” Witness would follow as each woman told her story . . . but this scenario never seeded nor bore fruit. Instead we built a theatre company among our river of women.
9 AM, I put my journal away and take my coffee to the backyard to hear spring dance: the blues sound the bass in the un-mown grass with hyacinth, violets, periwinkle and wisteria; the golds point up the rhythm with crocus, daffodil and dandelions; and the creams punctuate the melody with snow bells and dogwood. The robins taking turns on the dance floor are as big as the grey squirrels and the white butterflies are as small as the bees. To be here now brings peace.
Easter 1991, an Assistant Professor of Theatre directed at a 4-year college. Back East from a West Coast doctorate, I revisited the Native American grounds of the Women’s Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice. It did well, I think, for as long as it lasted. I had walked away a Quaker embracing Alternatives to Violence. Every day is Holy. God speaks. Resurrection is daily.
9:30 AM, day-dreaming in my garden seat, envisioning past friends sitting in a circle in the grass. The boom clang is an echo from the road beyond, not a drum ritual urging movement in the pattern of the grandmothers, not a bell from the adjacent church calling today’s services. I blink and they are gone but for the relics: stones here and there, me sitting peacefully.
Easter 2001, teaching English in Philadelphia—a Mecca for American Friends—and my ministry is creating environments for learning, participation, helping cocoons become butterflies. Students think I am crazy, “You even expect us to enjoy it!” They walk the walk though and the room buzzes with their symphonies, their delightful dissonance.
10 o’clock: I stand with difficulty musing about Easters I have known with drumming circles, in church, in Meetings for Worship or with my family and compare them with this day set aside for writing. They are all the same, all lead to communion, the egg I am about to eat for breakfast, the bird that hatches and flies into eternity. This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.*
Yearly Spring Show
dark earth flings open its doors
color dances in
*~Psalm 118:24~
Susan, I love this. Something in the way you bring the circles around – each time the same, but different, each with its own flavour and season. And then to crack it all open with the dark earth and the color dancing in. Thanks for posting this one!
I second this, and love how you expressed it, Andrew. So Susan, let me just add my ditto.
Wow! Thank you for reading and leaving this lovely comment!
Andrew, Thank you for reading so closely! I wondered if it would hold a reader and if the circles were visible . . .
You should consider performing this as Reader’s Theater. Small community theater groups are hungry for material like this. Think about it.
Living memories
No matter what you say,
from now on I’ll start fading away
every day from your memory.
You’ll still remember me for a while
but later I’ll become a dusty photo
in a boxed file.
Bit by bit,
my fading image will become
a now ignored story on a diary page.
My dreams and hopes you once incouraged
will be turned into ghosts
and will feel so strange.
But when seeing someone
looking like me on a back street
you will remember me
and the memories of us together
will be alive again.
Alive and free!
Circuitry
Every memory
creates a circuit in my brain
like rivers
cutting across the land I love
the land I shared with you
bright and luscious
in daylight
midnight blue
in depths of night,
waking thoughts
and dreams of you
so long ago,
a tangle of memories,
and the rivers still flow.
this looks better, centered…but here it is nonetheless…
MUSIC BOX MEMORIES
so
many
memories
hidden treasures
swirling and twirling
daydreamer’s dance
comforts and
pleases
me
2012-09-06
P. Wanken
Love this, Paula. Looks great centered on your blog, too.
on reading Anne Lamott
some books are too beautiful to read
some music more than one heart can hold
some art aches beyond what the soul can bear
hard days I keep radio silence, wipe down
the empty walls, the pleading spines
fearful of an embrace that cannot last
for beauty is memory unfettered
tidal and wild, unbearable
I do not wonder that artists go mad
Oh, you’ve captured it!! Beautiful!
Oh, yes. Perfect. Love Anne. This is gorgeous. LOVE “pleading spines.”
What It’s About
You run forward but look back over your shoulder
And in that glance I see your mother grinning at me
Her dimples are yours, your giggles ringing in the air
Take me back years and years and I speed up
Swoop you up in my arms, arthritis forgotten
As I jog along tickling you and blowing kisses
Into your sweet neck – we both laugh ourselves
Breathless; I am surprised by sudden tears
Blink them away before you notice – it’s just that
I can see so far into the future and every bit
As far back into the past in that moment
And the perfection that is my life catches me
So by surprise, I want to grab it and hold it close
Capture it somehow so that I can take it out
When I forget how good I have it – study it carefully
Remind myself again and again, this is what it’s about
Things Forgotten
(a cinquain)
I don’t
remember when
I started forgetting
things that were important. Maybe
they weren’t.
I actually wrote a journal entry and a poem about memory… I hope you will visit my blog at http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/09/05/365-creativity-project-day-240/
Caught in Time
As we would sit and talk
for hours on end
the time we had back then
running racing having fun
oh sometimes how i miss it when
Silence is the house
silence is the air
walking through the open fields
memories of this place
almost seen myself running past
a smile upon my face
Adventure was our playground
we done this quite well
ice rink hand made
on the cement ground of white
Skipping ropes sometimes two
under the moon and over the stars
eating melted chocolate bars
questing which color of the next car
Looking at the stars up above
singing out not a note
wearing our sleeves as gloves
Fields of red against the gold
stories of the young
stories of the old
Open camp fires
catching our hearts
laughter filled every corner of the estate
no one fought
there was never hate
Stand by each other
played sports of all sorts
achievements made by all
no one single person gloats
Pride for each other
team play in our name
supporting networks
we gave it all
we had our perks
Setting the standard for the next to come
we had our hearts filled by all
as we speak of the past
we knew we had fun
we had a blast we made it last
http://fightswithpoems.blogspot.com/2012/09/left-and-found.html
Here’s mine. (Includes an S-bomb.)
ELEGY FOR PIPER
In the last days she was leaving
into the place old dogs go,
when love of master’s hand and the daily
joys of walk and dinner bowl
become forgetful;
when without wishing the ears
muffle over master’s voice,
and curtains silver-glaze
the eyes against daylight – painless
but wandering from her life
into a new one without us. Solitary
unless every cell
of fading body feels at its walls
the tremor – the soft pad of others
on the far side, their heads lifted
to an unworldly breeze
that already bears to them
her approaching,
remembered scent.
Love yours, Robert.
Memory Jogger (an etheree)
Two little girls climb into car’s back
seat, faces filled with dread of long trip,
parents proffering canned ginger ale.
I recalled two other girls,
pale sisters throwing up,
quick stops the whole way,
car reeking, dead
cigar smoke
from Dad’s
stubs.
Oh my! Unfortunately, you did a grand job here, Sara! Reminds me of a trip from NJ to OH late at night, my favorite cousin and I in the back seat with our dolls, and my cousin throwing up the hot cocoa we enjoyed at our last stop. Some memories are better than others.
ALSACE/ELSAß
That photo he clicked between shifting
borders – you don’t remember looking
like that: schoolgirl sitting
on a dragon’s tooth, so far from home.
Drachenzähne, you’d read of war,
but it hadn’t touched you.
Stories of ancestors eating roots
after fields were harvested by sword.
They packed that genetic information
into bags and sailed it
on the tides. Down years, to you.
That look the camera shuttered –
your lips shut tight. How generations
can slip the sound of a vowel
so it comes out foreign, so it takes
decades for you to remember.
Skipping Out of Work Early
“Mommy, I want to go higher!” she cries
Head upside down, those big brown eyes.
Back and forth and up and down
Goes the swing on our playground.
Giggles upon giggles echo in my ear
I’m grateful for the chance to just be here.
Feet in my face but I push her still.
My arms are tired, but I can- I will.
Higher and higher, this climbs for the taking
I fear the now shaky swing set is breaking.
No fright, no trepidation, she glides with ease
Until she can see over the tops of trees.
Secret Cache
By Madeleine Begun Kane
A fellow had a secret cache
of coins and stamps and gold.
He planned to sell it off one day
when he became quite old.
That time did come for him at last—
age ninety-three or more.
Alas, he’d thrown his cache box out—
forgot what it was for.
Madeleine Begun Kane
oh no!
Can always count on grins from you, Mad!
Red Heads
He smacks her
she remembers
the headscarf ‘s at home.
Damn it woman
I don’t need a bath.
The aid tries again,
he strikes once more.
He remembers
he doesn’t like redheads.
He doesn’t remember
hitting his wife.
He doesn’t remember
she was a red head.
Terribly disconcerting, and too true too often, I’m sure. Well penned.
Punctured
You were not what you appeared
to be, scrawny, dressed nice in white button-down
shirt, bent over a flat tire. I remember you, my hero,
saving the day and me, though,
as you recall, you didn’t want
the job, leaving me a wretch
with a wrench in her heart, a tire deflated,
never again to be filled with breath.
Oh my goodness. This is fabulous, Linda. Absolute definition of “poetry.”
I’VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO YOUR FACE
Your ashen features, freckle-pocked and framed
by flame colored tresses, make me whole.
My guess is that your soul has stayed behind
while you search to find the end of the universe.
And I, ensconced in verse, continue to purge you
without sounding like this dirge that plays in my head.
Those lips that held the sip of beauty’s savor
were a favor given gladly, but sadly silence
is the song that they sing eternally.
Your eyes melt me like the chocolate they mimic,
and your nose, pert and lovely – behoove me;
they move me to tears, and my greatest of fears
is that someday I will forget you if I let you go.
I’ve grown accustomed to your face
or at least the trace of it that still remains.
*tears*
Oh my … I believe a stronger love simply must never have existed. As strong? Perhaps a few. Stronger? I believe not. Nor as beautiful a tribute …
CRYING? There’s no crying in poetry! Well OK, maybe a little. I’ll join you. **sob**
“lost words”
judge her not—
for loss of familiar
words in her runaway time—
diminished,
mislaid time is no time for tucking words
away into her lost mind,
but time is all she has—this rare day
she finds lost beauty praised
while lost sorrow are lost
time and time again
I glance into tomorrow’s certainty
of lost words
and hug her against my soul.
So very touching, Janice. “… and hug her against my soul” – wow …
Silent Wishes
Experiments rose from need,
For curiosity’s sake,
Taking me places unfamiliar.
A need to know,
To understand my place
Within time’s fabric,
Drove me to silence
When others chose chatter.
A question needed answered
That I might know purpose,
My thread on life’s loom.
Silence claimed my voice,
Though rare subvocal
Responses reassured those
Who needed to hear something
From one who’d gone quiet.
Weeks rolled by,
Without comment from others;
No questions rose.
None wondered why I
Remained silent and still.
Did they not notice my
Stillness or my avid attention
To things beyond speech’s use?
When six short weeks passed,
Mother asked if I was ready
To rejoin the rest of the world.
She needed no explanations,
No reasons for sudden silence
Or stillness of spirit within me,
But knew I required time to
Find that space made for my use.
My lesson had arrived in
Silence and observation,
My fate sealed in those weeks.
I’d learned to listen,
Both within and without;
Silence speaks loudly
Of worlds little known
And seen only in quiet questing.
Oh, Clauds … another “wow.” Please find a publication that would be a good fit for this, and submit. BEAUTIFULLY PENNED.
atrial footprints
(a shadorma)
some things will
stay, never stray far
from this heart;
laughter loosed,
the inky sea of your eyes,
the slant of your smile.
.
Memory Exercises
The article told its readership to put music
back into their lives—literally. Play
an instrument, sing along, dance while you can,
do it every day, for music improves memory,
each melody and harmony repairing the ties
so thoughts are not derailed, snappy lyrics
staving off dementia for a few more months,
each note creating small ledges that our forgetful
selves can rest on when our futures
shuffle along on question mark walking sticks.
At the assisted living center, they bless my heart
for playing the songs of their youths, the ones
they fell in love to, the ones they made up
dirty lyrics for and sang beneath their breaths.
Now they remember themselves as kids
and laugh, loving themselves all over again,
singing aloud their naughty versions of songs,
moaning the blues, snapping the jazz,
popping the pop, waltzing hand in hand
with lyrics, dancing from their chairs
to the oldies, a fragile today traded in for
a sturdy yesterday, and the hope
that tomorrow will be kind, or at least
remembered like an old love song.
You and Nancy … you both always wow me! EXCELLENT work!
Rearview Mirror
You spill out some story
in your garbled two-sie tones,
greenblue eyes bright, feet flailing,
carseat rocking with that bingbingbing
energy level you have never quite lost,
busy hands tossed into the air and tumbled
words poured loose by the hundreds;
take a deep breath, and then:
“Wasn’t that a good remembry, mama?”
Yes, Baby.
Yes it was.
.
Awwww!!!
deja vu
Something in your eyes
looks familiar
Have we met?
Not here, not now
you say
Another life, perhaps
We have journeyed
together and apart
And meet again
Two lifetimes ago
I lost you
Not again
For eternity
is unknown to us
yet we’ve lived it together.
Forever.
FURRY CHINNY-CHIN-CHINS
Grandma had a fox fur stole
that she kept stored in the freezer,
and when she wore it against her chin,
she looked just like a geezer.
Laughed right out loud. Ha! Love it!
Memory
He knew they were tests,
those questions posed so flippantly,
Do you know what year it is?
What state are you in?
Why should it matter what day or year or month
if all he does is sit in this same chair, waiting for dinner
or bingo or, if the stars align just right, a visit?
If he tells them he’s in the state of boredom,
of discontent,
or steady decline,
will they read the dark humor intended
or prescribe a little something
to lighten his mood for their benefit?
Even he can’t understand why
he remembers a single meal
from childhood more clearly than
this morning’s breakfast,
or why
he recalls every nuance of a conversation
from his early courtship, but not
whether the children called today.
They call it density—those memories
etched in the recesses of the brain
when he had fewer names
or birthdays
or phone numbers.
Now he wonders at the poor use
of grey matter, filling those cells,
firing those synapses to memorize
times tables, the Bill of Rights,
the states and capitals,
the days, the months, his old address,
taking up space where he might have stored
for each retrieval, the names
of all his children, the scent
of his wife, long faded from her pillow,
the songs he’d meant to write down,
to be sung at his graveside,
all now muffled by the white noise
of the inconsequential.
Nancy, this has me in tears. Beautiful, beautiful capture here.
Wow, really truly powerful. Some beautiful truisms in that one. One of my favorite pieces today. Nice job, N!
Who Are You Again?
I just can’t remember your name.
I know you, I think I do, don’t I?
Your face is familiar, that’s plain,
But I can’t remember your name.
My memory’s just not the same
I suppose even I can’t deny.
I just can’t remember your name.
I know you, I think I do, don’t I?
Diana Terrill Clark
Grandma’s Place
Wild roses growing on the gate
scenting the air with floral spice
on their half broken down estate
Wild roses growing on the gate
Go to bed early and sleep late
Nothing sweeter or half so nice
Wild roses growing on the gate
scenting the air with floral spice
Diana Terrill Clark
this is wonderful. my gran grew lots of plastic flamingos in her garden. I prefer roses.
Grandma had wild roses all along the front fence and gate, and more roses and fruit trees all around the house. I loved visiting. <3 Thank you, Misky.
“There ain’t no sunshine when you’re gone”
A warm and humid morning, the first time
We walked back to the pond. You, your
Sister Kathy and me.
You told us about the weather in Seattle
And how this day reminded you of it.
The weather report had mentioned the
Possibility of afternoon showers and you
Hoped so, on the Pacific coast, you told us
There was not a lot of thunder and lightning.
Kathy quickly climbed down to the water and
Sat on a big flat rock where she took off her
Shoes and socks. I climbed more slowly,
Sliding now & then on my rear end which was
Easier than watching where I stepped. A few
Seagulls flew overhead, screaming out their
Seagull song that seemed to carry echoes of dis-pleasure
You remained on the bank, staring out over the quarry
Which was more treeless than you remembered, but
Still speckled with those tough, bristly hemlocks which
We always cut down to use for our Christmas treel
You started to climb down the bank but ended up on
Your rear end, the way I did. You and Kathy lit up
Cigarets and we all looked blankly at the water.
That was when you began to tell us about what all
Had happened to you in Seattle. When you talked
About your fiancée, and your memories of the day
He left, you began to cry and soon Kathy and I were
Crying with you. Those were the days when you were
Still mad at everybody back here and saw that psychologist
In Palm Desert who taught you how to blame everything bad
That happened to you on some childhood memories that.
To your anger, few of us remembered and then only barely.
But you are here, (or you were here) and once again at the
Quarry which you had missed. We all cried harder when
You told us you wish you could take away all the things
You were sorry for nd how was it that people could all
Remember different things from the same day and place,
After we had all calmed down and kissed, you said you would
Always remember us like this and the quarry and the misty day
That smelled like rain.
But you didn’t remember it very long. It was only a few months
Later when they shipped your body from Seattle and we buried
You in St. Joseph’s cemetery and try to remember the good times
Which took a long time to do, bot now we can and see, I wrote
This whole poem about the last time we all went to the quarry
Together only of course we didn’t know that that time was the last.
Oh, Marian … wow …
I love pieces that tell a story, esp. when it’s as poignant as this. Great message, M, about what’s truly important in the end. Lovely piece.
Moonlit Memories
By: Meena Rose
Sister Moon, remember?
Those long ago nights
When I looked upon
You ahead of the
Silvered misty
Fog?
Sister Moon, I remember;
Your delicate hands
Reaching down offering
The sweetest caress;
A butterfly touch
Wiping away tears.
Sister Moon, remember?
Those long ago nights
When we sang our Heartsong
In the forested grove
Two voices twined
Into one song?
Sister Moon, I remember;
The calming of Soul,
The opening of Heart,
The willing surrender
To the Great Mystery
Of Life.
http://2voices1song.com/2012/09/05/prompted-memories/
<3 I am a moonchild and I approve this poem. (I actually love it!)
“Memories are Snails”
Memories are tiny intangible snails
That tag along behind you,
Leaving their sticky residue
In persisting, twisting trails
And even if, after a mile or two,
They fall so far behind
When you take a rest, you find
They soon catch back up to you
You might even want them gone
So you throw salt in their way
But even if they shrivel or decay
Their shells keep rolling on
And if you try to break those shells
The fragments are still there
Stuck in your fingers and toes so bare
So the pain never truly quells
So let the snails follow as they will,
Acknowledge them, but walk ahead
You’ll gather more on the road you tread
As your earth-changing trail grows longer still.
I LIKE this, and love the way your mind makes memories into snails and now I do so imagine them all crowding along behind me forever. ^_^
Your imagination is absolutely endearing and intriguing. I always adore your work!
Love the way you engineered this piece. Very linear. Also, nice use of imagery. Bravo!
My first post…
Memories
Moments appear fleetingly
Like slides upon a screen
Breif accounts of a lifetime
Of things I’ve felt and seen
But as my hair grows grayer
And my mind gets weeker
The details aren’t so keen
Good job, Nita! Keep writing and keep coming back — I look forward to more!! ^_^
Hear, hear! I agree. Nice work. Keep ‘em coming!
Memory
M ay remember it, may not
E very day’s a guessing game
M ay remember it, may not
O ften he doesn’t know my name
R emembering is like fishing
Y ou catch some, but most get away
That is really neat – the acrostic and the poem – love those last 2 lines!
Well played! Ingenious!
you’ve been gone so long
and what if Ican’t remember
and what if I forget
your name
and how we first met
floating on that rocking dock together
dark
storm clouds rumbling in
your certain smile
as our surging bodies
touched
and how they felt
as if they’d known
each other
a thousand
lifetimes
http://unevenstevencu.blogspot.com/
You’ve really caught that hyper-sensitive lovely love feeling. Nice!
I Will Remember
The first time we kissed
The first time you said you loved me
The first time
Those days are passed
But I will never forget
The day you broke my heart
Wow.
Is that a good wow or a bad wow lol
Well, as for me, count this as a “good” wow. ^_^
MOTHER
Ten steps
From bed to bath
One to lay the other way
Ten seconds to wait the pain
As nerves squeeze and leg draws in
Two seconds for squeeze to ease
Sitting up, standing lean, now just the normal pain
Ten steps
From bed to bath
Now begin again.
Ten strokes of her hand
Gentle sweet and soft
My strength my heart my rock my mom
Forever and oft
I love this.
“My strength my heart my rock my mom.” Breaks my heart, I love it.
Thank you, Laurie and Domino.
She truly was my best friend.
Wow. A very unique take on the prompt, and very touching.
Love this.
Poetic Form: A Haibun
Remembering You
I am home, just two days away from you, but I’ve travelled across harvest-stubbled fields that still smoke and smoulder in wisps, across creeks clearer than glass, across hills that winter will cover with snow like bosomy rounds, through tunnels where the secrets of water are kept from wavering eyes, passed cows and goats that hint of cheese, and beyond the sound of your sleep that rattles like peddles on the beach as you breathe.
September sun glares
Home is where your heart remains
Autumn comes just once
that should read:
….. rattles like pebbles …
This is so full of images, I feel I can smell the smells and taste the cheese. ^_^
Shaded
too many grey hues
to make sense
of what is or isn’t
inner god-
dess goodness.
Be careful using “shaded” and “grey” in the same sentence Laurie, lest your inner goddess goodness get tainted!
lol… trying to think of a title now that the kids are off to school
Ruh – roh. LOL!
“Inner goddess goodness.” Lovely.
“What we remember”
Fresh memories
grow stronger
faster,
sinking their roots
deeper,
pulling nourishment
from older memories
and melding them both
into something
that looks like me.
COLLECTIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS
File boxes brimming.
Possessions skimming the surface
of a tired mind. I find trinkets
and “tchotchke”, treasures
I took pleasure in when youth was kind.
I find their stories come to mind haltingly.
I fault age and a life rife with abundance.
Photos and stubs become hubs
for a slow moving wheel. I steal memories
from the vault buried within and I grin.
It saves me from forgetting. I won’t let go.
DO YOU RECALL?
It was in the fall.
Do you recall the time we met?
I’ll bet you haven’t forgotten.
It was in the mall.
Do you recall seeing me near the food court?
Can you sort out those thoughts?
I gave you a call.
Do you recall the way my voice cracked?
The cards were stacked against me.
We had a ball,
do you recall laughing at my plight
and talking all night to the strange stranger?
Or the banquet hall?
Do you recall that first nervous kiss?
I could not resist those lips.
Our relationship stalled,
do you recall the reason? Or the season?
After a brief lifetime our time had come.
I remember the pall,
I do recall saying good-bye as they lowered you,
to the earth’s cold embrace. I remember your face.
Do you recall?
Oh, so sad.
MOMENTS AGO
I left you moments ago,
and I know you will be gone
for as long as your heart will allow.
It is now that I feel your absence.
But your presence will linger
long after your image fades.
Nothing can erase
your face from my heart.
I will start to miss you tomorrow.
I left you moments ago.
I love this, Walt.
Mmmm … poignant and lovely.