Tag Archives: poem

The Spot Writers – “Echo” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to write a story or poem using the following words or images: memory, mist, moonlight, mosaic, mask.

This week’s contribution comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series. Find out more at www.corgicapers.com.

***

The poem was inspired by staring at the numbers of the date of this post: 2-20-2020 and the imagery of its repetition.

“Echo” by Val Muller

The moonlight wakes me,

It cuts the night,

Corporeal.

 

What does it want?

What does it know?

How many eons of time in its glow?

 

I sit up in bed,

Bare feet on carpet,

Toes splayed on the mosaic

Of moonlight through trees.

The room is cold,

But I do not shiver.

 

I rise, silent. Déjà vu.

I have done this before.

A memory:

 

Once, at age eight,

I awoke in moonlight.

It called me to the mirror,

And I looked.

Half in dream, I peered and saw myself.

My mind transcended the glass:

 

Someone peering back at me,

Someone old.

Familiar but foreign,

Comforting but startling,

The eyes were the same:

Sadder, more tired, more intelligent,

But mine.

 

I saw myself seeing myself,

And I shivered.

 

Child-thin body staring at womanly curves,

Tangled locks echoing graying ones.

What etched those wrinkles in my face?

What lessons sculpted wisdom in my eyes?

 

I don’t remember returning to bed,

But I must have.

I awoke the next morning

And I was still a little girl.

 

Now, the moonlight invites me.

It lights the night,

A friend.

 

What does it want?

What does it know?

How many eons of time in its glow?

 

In the mirror, it bathes my

My gray locks in misty aura.

My wrinkled brow

Speaks of hardship and victory,

Of disappointment and loss,

Of survival.

 

The gossamer light cuts through the mask.

I slip behind the glass to find, perplexed,

Entranced, a little girl of eight,

Staring back at me like maybe I’m a mother

Or a savior or a ghost.

 

Like somehow I have answers.

 

But instead I bring more questions.

How can I possibly have been that small,

That young, that naïve, that creative?

How could I ever have had that much confidence and energy,

And why on Earth would any of us

Trade it all

For wisdom?

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

+++
C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers including Amazon [https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/].

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“I’m Still Here”

It’s another 11th. Thirty-five months today since my son Matthew died from a rare heart cancer. I cannot believe it’s been almost three years. It seems like yesterday; then again, it seems like forever. This is the last monthly poem memorializing Matthew in the poetry book I’ll be publishing next month, the third anniversary of his death. The poems deal with my loss and grief as a mother. 

Matt hunting

“I’m Still  Here”

I’m the sun shining down,
Warming without sound,

I’m the wind in your hair,
Caressing you with prayer,

I’m the touch on your shoulder,
Celebrating every year older,

I’m the ladybug on your arm,
Protecting you from harm,

I’m the cardinal red,
Lessening your dread,

I’m the drop of rain,
Diluting your pain,

I’m the blue sky,
Calming your cry,

I’m the fluffy cloud,
Shrouding you in a crowd,

I’m the moon above,
Sending down love,

I’m the bird chirping,
Healing your hurting,

I’m the air you breathe,
Helping you to not seethe,

I’m waves crashing on shore,
Knocking at your door

With hope for the future
And wounds to suture:

Life is too short,
Be a good sport,

Don’t grieve,
I’ll never leave,

I’ll never forget,
So don’t you sweat,

I’m still your son,
Though my earthly life is done.

+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers, including Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/.

 

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Two Years

Two years

of repeated tears.

 

I see your face

in another place.

 

A life ends:

every day blends

into another

to smother

effusions,

the harsh intrusions

of reality and death

that suck our breath.

 

We grieve,

we peeve.

 

Nothing brings you back

from the crack

of elusiveness,

the conclusiveness

of death.

 

One’s last breath

is the ultimate

not the penultimate;

it’s the finality,

the banality.

 

I act strong

though I long

to race

and not face

another day

of grey;

I’d end the song

were I that strong.

 

Hearts don’t always heal.

 

We can’t always kneel

to pray,

to produce a ray

of sunshine

to aid a wilting vine.

 

Stems strive

to thrive,

but all good things die

no matter how well they fly.

 

And so it was with you,

my son, who grew

but only to thirty-six.

 

Your heart not to fix,

your death to come

while we were numb,

unaware and

unable to swear

because the end

did transcend

rosy illusions

and delusions

that you’d remain

to forever reign

in life

without strife.

 

Instead it’s us

in this life

of strife.

 

We cuss

and cry

and ask why

you had to go

instead of grow.

 

Matthew

 

Rest in Peace, my Sweet Son.

I miss you with each breath

and still can’t believe you’re not here.

April 28, 1980-March 11, 2017

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The Spot Writers – “A Mid-Winter Night’s Dream,” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

This month’s prompt is to write a story including the words, “Will winter never end.”

This week’s story comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara dreams, reads, edits texts, translates, and occasionally writes in two languages. She also has a lot of fun.

 ***

A Midwinter Night’s Dream by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Through the forest I did go

Tallest trees covered in snow

All was silent, all was white

Soft and crunchy, left and right.

Up above the sky was blue

And the sparkly stars in view

 

Promised love, and magic, too.

 

Love and magic? Don’t believe

All your heart wants to perceive!

Winter stars are left alone,

All the fairies are long gone

And the woods will just pretend

That white ice is good a friend.

 

Oh, will winter never end?

 

Don’t despair, this frosted season

Has a secret, cheerful reason:

Life beneath this blanket pearly

Hides and shies from all that’s earthly

Until spring returns anew.

This can I reveal to you:

 

Fairies dance on snowflakes, too.

 

My dear friend, you give me hope!

I’ll see flowers on this slope

Thousand colors, buzzing bees

The green magic of the trees

Sweetest nights, warm air, and moon

Dancing fairies, charming tune

 

Spring will be back very soon!

 

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

+++
C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers including Amazon [https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/].

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The Two Births of Jesus

The Two Births of Jesus
by C.A. MacKenzie

According to Matthew’s gospel:
Joseph had a dream
that Jesus, his son, was to be born.
In Jerusalem amongst a thorne,
there were three magi—
three wise men who would care—
who came from the East somewhere,
who saw a star to gleam
and knew Jesus was there.
The three magi followed the star so bright
to Bethlehem that night,
coming with gifts to give the son,
gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Falling in love with a Jesus so young
and scared of the future to come,
the magi did not tarry
but left to go back home.
And an angel did come to Joseph and Mary,
telling them to flee that land,
to avoid the danger to come from afar,
and so off to Egypt they ran.

Luke gave another story:
Of Gabriel, the angel of God,
who was the spirit of truth
and a messenger from God,
telling Mary she will have a son,
her son to be named Jesus.
Mary and Joseph leave Nazareth town (in Galilee)
to travel to Bethlehem, Joseph’s ancestral home.
Mary and Joseph, they did roam
but could not find a place to stay
before the baby was born that day.
And after his birth
in a manger the babe to lay.
And in another place, far away,
an angel of the Lord came down
to the shepherds in the field on earth
who were caring for their flock.
The angel brought them news of a birth,
news of such great joy,
of the birth of Jesus, a baby boy.
Said they would find him wrapped in bands of cloth
and laying in a manger trough.
And after the angel spoke the words to savour,
came down a Heavenly Host from above
who said in a voice of love:
“Glory to God in the highest Heaven
and on earth peace
amongst those whom he favours.”
The shepherds hurry to Bethlehem,
for Jesus they want to see,
and to Mary and Joseph they tell
the story that the angel did tell to them.
The shepherds then return to their flocks,
and Mary and Joseph left as well
to return home to their Nazareth.

And that is how Jesus was born that day.

 © C.A. MacKenzie (written many years ago)

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

I wish everyone peace, joy, and love.


+++

C.A. MacKenzie is the author of (among other books) the novel WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama/thriller, available from the author or at various retailers including Amazon [https://www.amazon.com/Wolves-Dont-Knock-C-MacKenzie/dp/1927529387/].

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July 11 – Sixteen Months

Heart is brokenfix

A piece of my heart ripped from my soul
Sixteen months ago,
Since then so many cliches of life and death
And sometimes there are no words,
No white, no black,
Just mucky grey between masses of nothing.

We honour you in death as we never did in life,
But isn’t that the way of humans—
Not missing something until it’s gone,
Withholding words until it’s too late.

I’d give all my next heartbeats to
Hug you one last time,
To tell you “I love you” in case you didn’t know
Because no one can hear those words enough,
I’d ask for forgiveness for my wrongs,
For not being perfect,
But throughout your thirty-six years
I tried my best,
But still, I could have done more.
We can all do more.

Balloons don’t go to Heaven
And though lovely
With colourful meaning and love,
That rubbery sheath
Harms the environment.
We need to protect our future
As I couldn’t protect yours,
A mama can only do so much,
Which I did not know until your death.

I tried so hard to save you,
But could I have done more?
Though my heart says otherwise
My mind screeches NO!
The word “incurable” exists
And I don’t know why,
Prayers, doctors, money…
Nothing could save you.

I’ll grieve every day with that
Empty hole in my heart,
That missing fragment I live without,
For I still breathe and function,
I still eat and drink and play
But I’m not whole.
My heart can never be repaired.
No amount of thread or glue can help.
Not even tissues can dry all my tears.
Nothing can bring you back.
Nothing.

I’m not sure of my beliefs,
What my future holds after I’m gone.
Will we meet again?
I’m sorry to waver,
To not fully believe,
I’m like my father who opined that
Once we’re gone, we’re gone, and
Nothing remains but stone or ash.

But forever and always:
There are whispers in the wind,
Rustling through the trees,
Birds chirping,
Deer scampering across the field.
Perhaps it’s you, calling out.

I think of you too often,
Wondering where you are
In this game of life and death.
Within this vast landscape of living
Where does life end and death begin?
When does death end?

My son, my son,
These are words I could never imagine
saying, writing, or thinking.
Who could ever predict this loss?
Not I.
And now I ponder the future
And other wretched events that linger,
For if your death occurred, nothing is sacred
and more loss surely waits,
Waiting like the moon to rise or the sun to set,
For no one is immune to life and death.

We all have our beginnings and our endings,
And, oh, how horrid the endings.

 

Matt candle crop

 

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The Year of Firsts

The Year of Firsts

Matt candle crop

The year of firsts ends today,

What is this current year?

A year of seconds?

Is there a label for future years?

 

How did a year pass so fast

And yet so painfully slow?

I relived each day—

Three hundred and sixty-five.

 

Not wanting to remember,

Not wanting to forget

You walking through the door,

Your smile betraying antics.

 

We mucked with Mother Nature.

Did we do too much?

Did we do too little?

Guilt consumes my soul.

 

Flowers withered, trinkets exist,

Photos and memories abound,

Remains encased in silver or bronze

And within a wooden tomb.

 

A headstone highlights your grave,

Sun dancing upon blue and grey,

But you are as scattered and hidden

As your cans of empty beer.

 

Nine months I carried you,

Today I carry you ‘round my neck

And within my heart and mind,

Your death etched upon my face.

 

The first horrid year ends today

But every breath brings more,

You’ll remain an eternal mirage,

Forever unreachable until I die.

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Ten Months

January 11: Ten Months
 
What’s ten months?
Ten months could be any time length:
A lifetime or one day,
A yesterday or a tomorrow,
A today that never ends,
Or a moment frozen in time.
 
Not the same as nine or twelve,
Less than eleven
That will soon arrive.
 
Eleven is notable:
The eleventh day of every month
I commemorate you.
 
But what is ten?
Just ten long, unfathomable months
Since you’ve been gone,
Since you died—
Not passed away or passed on
But died—
Dead and buried died.
 
Ten months of grief,
Two months short a year.
 
My life has changed,
Irrevocably, forever,
But I’ll never forget you.
 
My middle child, my son,
Life isn’t the same without you,
My heart is a hole
That overflows with tears,
An endless pit of ache,
A vacuum of void.
.Matt candle cropUrn

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A Poem of Threes

A mother never expects one of her children to die. Never.

It happened to me.

Three months after the first symptom (which was hardly any symptom at all, really), less than three months after a diagnosis, my son was gone. The nightmare is replayed before me, every day, over and over. I can’t think about him without tearing up, but I don’t want to forget him. I want to remember him, but I’m sick of my tears.

Today, it’s been six months since he left us. Where have the days gone? It seems like yesterday, when too many of us surrounded his hospital bedside, but it also feels like a distant memory, a nightmare, one I never awake from.

There is so much more I want to write, but I can’t. I just can’t.

Poems are therapeutic.

***

A Poem of Threes

Six months ago today—

Nine months ago—

My life changed.

 

9/11,

Irma,Kattia,Jose.

Is my loss greater?

 

Feng Shui:

Fuk, Luk, and Sau,

Long life, fame, fortune.

 

Three-legged toad,

Three wise men,

Three immortals.

 

Three’s company,

Father, Son, Holy Ghost,

Tall, dark, handsome.

 

Rules of threes.

Odds better than evens:

Good things come in threes.

 

But odds beat you:

The Big C.

Despite three hearts.

 

Rules are meant to be broken,

But rules shouldn’t break—

Not at thirty-six.

 

Birth, life, death,

Two loving children

Plus one at rest.

Matt candle crop

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The Spot Writers – “reflection” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt was to look out the window and write about what was out there.

Today’s post comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Through her nanoscopic publishing company MacKenzie Publishing (nanoscopic is a thousand times smaller than microscopic, but, hey, everyone knows smaller is better, to steal a phrase from a fellow writer), will be presenting her first anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE, 21 tales for youth 13+, by 21 authors. The book will be available on August 1, 2016, from Amazon, in print and e-book, as well as at other venues.

***

reflection

tap tap tap

face looks back at me

tap tap tap

I turn

tap

she turns

tap

fingers slender

tap tap

fingers stubby

tap tap

face stares

hoary, haggard

face moves

bright, blissful

tap tap

tap tap

she taps

I tap

shadow on the lens

behind the frame

weary and worn

tap tap

you sigh

I sigh

a life done, gone

tap tap tap

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

 

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