Death
Wordless Wednesday – Quiet Neighbors
NaPoWriMo – Day #23
I walked up the hill
past the old climbing tree
and down the path
into the woods.
There is a deep layer
of dead, brown leaves
from last year,
maybe several years.
They crunch under foot,
like walking through skeletons.
Yet, the buds on the trees
are swelling, greening.
This is not morbid,
it simply is
the way things are,
life and death together.
Perhaps
our insistence
on separating the two,
on fearing and denying death
is what’s abnormal.
NaPoWriMo – Day #11
Today I am cleaning closets.
I am the archaeologist
of my own life,
of my family.
I sift through layers and remember.
There is the High School Era
with my kids’ athletic medals
solo and ensemble ribbons
musical programs
home burned CDs
report cards and reports
dried and crumbling prom flowers
and so many pictures
of those brave, innocent faces
with a knowing in their eyes
that wasn’t yet beaten or
swindled out of them
that they would change the world
and the fresh young bodies
barely able to be still
long enough
for the snap of the camera
The Elementary School Era
with exuberant little-kid-bright crayons drawings
rippled watercolor paintings
ribbons for history day projects
and science fair projects
and some of the projects themselves
special stones
random game pieces
lopsided coil pots
and handmade cards
ending with “I LOVE YOU”
And photos that squeeze my heart –
smiles with missing teeth
and now-dead pets
first days of school
birthday parties
sledding and swimming
and sitting with grandma and grandpa
Then there is evidence
of the big extinction
when my mom
and later my dad
died.
There are two
black and white plaid bags
from the funeral parlor
four years apart,
but each filled with cards and notes
a slim, white prayer book
a guest book
a silver cross
and a bill of sale.
And that’s a far as I can dig today.
NaPoWriMo – Day #10
Good Friday
I have always thought it strange
that the day humanity
betrayed
Jesus
should be called, “good”
If one is a believer
doesn’t it
make more sense
to call Easter
Good Sunday?
Or is it “good”
that God is dead?
For he was on that day.
Must humanity
always kill its gods?
Asking for a friend
A day late, but not a word short for FF55 at Verse Escape
NaPoWriMo – Day #5
4-5-20
The dead have
their collective hand
on my shoulder
I can feel the pressure
of their words
in the back of my throat
See them gathering
in the shadows behind my eyes
Feel them crowding
my heart
They whisper unkept promises
and lament unfinished lives.
And now time unravels
before them –
an eternity of regret
Another day, another poem. I’m really a little ray of sunshine lately. One of these days I’ll post something optimistic again, honest.
Wordless Wednesday – What’s Under the Snow
The Sunday Muse – Dwell Time
Ghosts document my misery
as I stare, unblinking
into the next ring
fumbling for my ticket
I’m caught in ropes of smoke
trapped by the cyclops,
for the image of a thing is the thing
and the image of a soul,
well, you know…
Mirror, mirror on the wall
the next train to Hell
is now boarding
at gate seven.
Please watch your step.
I’m really rusty at this, but I loved the picture, so figured, meh – let’s give it a try. This is for The Sunday Muse , a weekly photo prompt site for writers, poets, and blogging enthusiasts. Follow the link and check it out.
Communicating with the Dead, in 55
I imagined
communicating with the dead
was shrouded
in mystery
But it’s not
It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book
it’s the smell of
his closet
it’s the work gloves
still stiff with
the shape of his hands
Communication with the dead
is small, common
everyday
and
pretty much
one way
This is a 55 word version of a longer piece I’ve been noodling with for FF 55 hosted by Hedgewitch, with a tip of the hat to Galen. Click on the link to go to her blog, Verse Escape, and join the fun!
Communicating with the Dead
I used to imagine
communicating with the dead
was a wispy, fine-spun thing
shrouded in mists and veils.
There must be darkness
and hands held around a table
and maybe chanting…
My eyes would most likely
roll back in my head
my body go rigid,
a voice would whisper
from somewhere beyond,
and we would all be left in a stupor
filled with awe and wonder.
But it’s not like that at all.
It’s a note
in his handwriting
tucked into a favorite book.
It’s someone mentioning her name;
maybe a story
you hadn’t heard before.
Or a story you’ve heard
a thousand times.
It’s junk mail
addressed to him,
asking for money or a vote
he can no longer give.
It’s the smell of her closet
for awhile.
It’s the work gloves you find
still stiff with the shape of his hands.
Communicating
with the dead
is small, common, everyday.
It can be soft and comfortable
or piercing.
It can come at any time.
The one drawback
to communicating with the dead
is that it’s pretty much
one way.
In Other Words 