Tag Archives: poem

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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The Spot Writers – “The Sunflower,” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “spring flowers.” This poem comes from Cathy MacKenzie (an old poem from her “archives” since she forgot about writing something new for today). Check out her website at the bottom of the post.

***

The Sunflower

The fragile crayon picked, a soft pastel,
Out of the waiting tray of rainbow shades,
Brushed onto the outline a sunshine belle,
With grace and form, subtle beauty cascades.

The loving smoothness massaged in the light,
Gives birth to a once-pale flower,
Blossoming into a beaming yellow bright,
Its hidden root grasping so much power.

How stunning, she says to the mirror,
Its sturdy stalk rising high to the sun,
The seeds she’ll scatter, growing dearer,
Buds bursting forth, living has begun.

Later…

She snatches the fragment, the broken end,
Posing naked beside her in the looming tray,
The pastel crayon, stiff, unable to bend,
Breaks easily, shades of betraying grey.

The scratching of the jaundiced piece
Scrapes across the outline as she mourns,
Covering the smudged paper, hiding a crease,
While a brighter one laughs and scorns.

The sickly pallor on the leaves do wave,
Colouring the roughness, the grain peeking,
Applied like a shovel attacking a grave,
The wilted sunflower leering and weeping.

 

***

The Spot Writers–our members:

 RC Bonitz: 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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The Seamstress

Mom

 

(In memory of my dear, sweet mother, 1927-2016)

 

My mother holds the tangled threads

of her five children

gathered in her frail hands,

now adults, all of us,

grown,

yet her babies still,

siblings once woven so tightly.

 

She clutches the flimsy threads

delicately,

not wanting them to break,

but she knows when her time is done

the stitches,

almost brittle now with age,

will pucker and snap,

unravelling

like a knitted sweater

frayed at the seams

that slowly unweaves

and shrinks in the wash.

 

The five of us,

once finely patterned

within the squares

of a cosy quilted comforter,

are now knotted differently,

we are mismatched buttons,

different lines we stitched,

different designs we embroidered,

different templates we followed.

 

We may have been pierced with needles

or cut with scissors

and discarded like scraps,

but still forever entwined,

criss-crossing like lattice

or unfolding like yards of white lace

or glistening like beaded brocade,

other times jumping through our fitted hoops,

casting each other off.

 

Sometimes we’re bold like strands of gold

and other times we hide in the folds

as we try to patch our souls.

 

We are twisted

and at odds

the five of us—

two against three,

three against two—

faded appliqués of assorted shades and sizes

torn from a worn and loving quilted spread,

smothered with pinpricks of jealousy,

looping alone

and spinning yarns

and piping warped dreams

that don’t gauze the rip

or mend the tear.

 

We’ve forgotten the wicker basket

from whence we came—

a hamper once filled with love

and accessories with which to mend—

the one the seamstress hovers over,

ever watchful and caring.

 

But in times of crises—

when pockets are picked

and seams are shattered—

we gather and braid together,

our dyes running forth again

while we weave a tapestry of colours

into a padded patchwork

that frames our mother in love.

 

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The Spot Writers – “A Visit from Saint Nicholas,” by Tom Robson

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to use these words in a story or poem: star, pine bough, elf, glass bulb, mistletoe.

This week’s contribution comes from Tom Robson.

***

A Visit from Saint Nicholas – and Others.

(With thanks and apologies to Clement Moore.)

“Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the condo,

The only ‘kid’ playing was my dad, on Nintendo.

The star sparkled brightly on the tree down below

And hung right beside it was our mom’s mistletoe

Concealed midst the pine boughs, so dense and so green

The white mistletoe berries could only be seen.

 

My pillowcase lay at the foot of the bunk.

I knew that, by morning, it would be full of ‘junk’.

My brother and sister lay in bed without sleeping,

From down in the kitchen they could hear mother weeping.

Her oven’s too small to fit her huge turkey.

And all she could serve to her kids was beef jerky.

 

Then out of the basement there came a loud curse.

I said to myself, “Now! What could be worse

My mother upset or my dad in a rage?”

Then outside the window the sky came ablaze.

I jumped from my bunk to see what was alight

But I didn’t believe when my eyes saw this sight.

A fire truck was coming. It’s lights were all flashing.

My kid brother and sister said “Cor! This is smashing!

Can we go out and see where the fire is, please?”

I said, “Are you crazy! Your fingers will freeze.

You’d have to dress up from your head to your toe.

Cos the temperature out there is thirty below.”

 

The fire truck stopped right outside our front door.

Out of the truck leaped brave firemen, four.

Quickly they started to unfurl their hoses.

The reason why suddenly came to our noses.

“Fire!” yelled my sister. “It’s here! This is fun!”

“Get down here, you kids! We’re on fire!” shouted mom.

 

The room filled with smoke. We dropped flat to the floor.

I reached out my hand but it touched a hot door.

“Too late to go that way! To the window! Let’s go!

Now both of you take a tight grip of my toe.”

Have you ever tried crawling, with two kids holding tight

To your toes, as you creep round a room, black as night?

As we got to the window we heard a loud CRASH!!!

So we finished our crawl in a shower of glass.

 

Then, through the smashed window, what should appear

But a frightening figure, all dressed in fire gear.

He was clad in thick clothes from his head to his toes

And out of his headpiece emerged a black hose.

His eyes stared out at us through a bulb made of glass

And he carried a fire-axe to clear a safe pass.

A voice! It was distant! He talked like Darth Veda.

It said, “Please don’t be frightened, kids. I’m here to save ya.”

 

He picked up little Becky, and then tiny Tim.

Passed them out to another masked man looking in.

I said, “Don’t you touch me! I can manage alone!”

But he picked me up like I was just skin and bone.

Put me over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold

And took me to safety out into the cold.

 

With us each in a blanket, (mom and dad too,)

We watched the flames flicker, red, yellow and blue.

Our house it was burning and nought could be done.

This was just one more game Mario Brothers had won.

Dad said that, when he entered the Castel of Doom,

The TV exploded, igniting the room.

“Oh! What’ll we do? And it’s Christmas as well!!!”

Cried our mom. Just then we heard it, clear as a church bell,

A jingle! And emerging from out of the smoke

Came this sled-like vehicle and this very odd bloke.

 

Eight reindeer that pulled him had this very odd cough.

My father said, “This is no joke! Now clear off!

Get back to Walmart. This is no place for you,

Unless you’re a volunteer fireman, too.”

The man in the red suit and singed, wispy beard,

(Which made him look more than a little bit weird,)

Said, “I’m not a fireman! Oh, dear me, no.

It’s me, Santa Claus! Cough! Cough! Cough! Ho Ho Ho!

 

“I’ve brought you this ticket. Your future is fine.

It’s the winner of Saturday’s 6/49.”

As mam and dad thanked him for the life-saving prize

He fixed us three kids with his red, smoke filled eyes,

“You kids! Look for sacks marked with your three name tags.

An elf put one for you each on that sleigh filled with bags.”

 

We found them; and as we began to explore

What was in those three bags, we heard this loud roar.

Santa had taken, from out of his pocket,

And attached to his sleigh, a miniature space rocket.

“Emergency measure!” he yelled with elation.

“Save my reindeer who are suffering from smoke inhalation.

And Rudolph, my guide, has a nose black from fire.

That’s it for tonight, I’ll have to retire.”

With a last, ”Ho Ho Ho!” he headed for home,

Leaving all of the firemen, and our family, alone.

 

Now all the town’s children, including us three,

Did not find any Christmas gifts under the tree

At that Christmas time when our condo burnt down.

All the other children from all across town,

Could not work out (though they tried hard to guess,)

Why that Christmas their gifts came by Courier Express.

(Original version written in 1992 for his grade six students. Revised December, 2015)

 

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitzhttp://www.rcbonitz.com

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

Catherine A. MacKenziehttps://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Tom Robson: website in progress

 

 

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The Spot Writers – “The Horologist” By Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is “new years.” This week’s post comes to us from Val Muller, who wrote the following poem—on the theme of time—in memory of her father-in-law, who passed unexpectedly earlier this month.

 

The Horologist

By Val Muller

 

He was a warden of time,

Counting seconds, days, minutes, hours

With meticulous care.

His favorite color, green, is the hue of life and growth—

Like the internal ticking, the motion of movements and springs,

The eternal return of summers and springs

Even after the darkest winter—the color of forever.

 

A custodian of time, he measured days, minutes, hours,

Shepherding every ticking second

The way he protected his wife, his son, his loved ones.

He wound movements and restored clock faces,

Made memories and left smiles etched on cheeks.

He fixed hour hands and held frightened ones,

Restoring resonating chimes in the silence.

 

A steward of timepieces, he counted minutes, hours, and years.

He fixed broken clasps

And applied bandages to wounded knees.

He replaced scratched crystals and drained batteries,

Nursed his wife to health and helped his son allay fears.

He kept the right pace, luminous paint glowing on watch faces

And his luminous smile glowing through the years.

 

A warden of time, he counted days, hours, years,

Mechanical wonders keeping pace through the silence,

Making sense of Time, too great for our understanding.

He knows eternity now, but the gears he built remain,

His ticking wonders, luminous hands pointing our way

And the incandescence of his memory shining in every sunset

And the chimes of his clocks sounding a bit like forever.

 

The Spot Writers—our members:

 

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

 

Val Muller

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

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie

https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

 

Kathy Price

http://www.kathylprice.com

 

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The Spot Writers – “My Favorite Colour Tastes Like…” by Melinda Elmore

Another belated post. The challenge was to write something beginning with “My favorite colour tastes like…”

Today’s writing comes to us from Melinda Elmore. Her most recent publication, Blood on the Feather and Shall We Dance, is mixture of mystery and murder and a sweet Halloween tale. The books are available on Amazon and my publisher, Dancing with Bear Publishing.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

The dew on a new morning leaf

The sparkling drops tingles the mouth

Leaving one to mesmerize the taste across their lips.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….a Hersey’s Kiss….

Chocolaty, divine….never-ending…..

Melts in the mouth from the warmth of the sensations

 

My favorite colour tastes like…an Arizona sunset

Full of color and breathtaking…..

 

My favorite colour tastes like…..

The sound of the flute…..

Soothing and musical.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

My family….

Full of unconditional love.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

Love….

Heart feeling and full of emotions.

 

My favorite colour tastes like….

Friendship…

Being there for everybody you can…

 

My favorite colour tastes like…..

Life….

Full of vibrant sensations for total enjoyment.

 

 

The Spot Writers- our members: 

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

 

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