Untitled – NaPoWriMo #20

Now, at the start of spring

Winter sends us one last blast

of cold.  Like a dying

patient who rallies

just before he

finally fails,

finally falls

into whatever comes next

Though no one seems to mind

when Winter dies

Winter has one of those,

“it’s a blessing”

deaths,

though, when people say it

about a loved one

(theirs or mine)

I want to scream

or give them a slap

or both,

no matter the circumstances of the death

But the death of

Winter is

another matter.

After all,

we know that

Winter

will always

find her way back.                                                     

April Fool

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!