Horsetail Falls, 1/6/17
I know it’s not spring. The frozen mess from the last few days that has now melted into a soggy blob of dripping grayness outside my window tells me so. However, the single-minded purpose and extreme frustration of the last couple years is wearing off, and my brain is starting to feel that constipated itch that universally means I need to write fiction. The subconscious part of my brain has something to say and it only gets to do so well through fiction. Life is good. Today I wrote this:
~ Snowbound ~
Ripples in the frozen stream
Flow around the rocks and dream
Of warmer days to come.
Ripples in my frozen heart
Flow in warmth and dream of art
Of days I’ll write again.
Spring comes at last
I’ve made it past
My snowy heart now thaws.
If you missed it, here is Sarah Poetry #1
Since publishing the first round of Sarah poetry a couple of weeks ago, I have been feeling a little better. The first month after she died was pretty super crap. Publishing the poetry seems to have been pretty cathartic (probably the St. John’ Wort hasn’t hurt either…).
However, this weekend was rough. Everywhere I looked, it seemed Sarah was looking up at me or talking to me through the mouths and faces of other people. I dreamed of her Friday night and woke up crying Saturday morning. Tough day. Sunday I spent half of church in tears followed by a two hour nap and three hours in the hot tub (don’t bother lecturing me; I didn’t overheat and die).
Poetry arrived in the middle of all that, which is usually what happens when I’m hurting.
You’re there in my dream
Standing far away.
I jump and wave
And run toward you,
But when I arrive
You’re far away again.
Still in sight,
Even in dreams
you do not stay.
I’m mad at you
But I shouldn’t
I have no cause
I have no right
You wanted to stay
You wanted to live
You wanted to watch
Your children grow and
Your husband gray
But still you left
And this morning
But I have no cause
And it doesn’t help
And I wish it would leave
And I hate it
There is one more, the first one I wrote (probably the best one, of course), but it isn’t quite right. A verb is wrong. It’s imprecise and won’t say what I want it to say, what I feel inside. I’m beginning to think it might be because there isn’t actually a word that fits the emotion, not in English anyway. Seems like I’ve heard one though, something old, something from when English was young. It’s lurking around, and I can’t find it. Maybe later. Or maybe never.
Anyway, this is all for today. Monday arrived fresh and new, and this week has been much better overall. The poetry helps.
Last month my friend Sarah passed away after a two-year journey through the wasteland of breast cancer. She was 32. We became close after she got sick. Life, you big trickster!
Most of what I’ve been able to write since she died has been poetry that I haven’t really known what to do with other than message it to a couple of close personal friends and post it to the highly impersonal universe of Twitter. I want to say what’s on my heart but only to people who I know for sure will be gentle or to people who are removed enough that they can’t hurt me. It’s getting better. Last week I felt normal-er for about three days; but I still ping-pong between that and feeling very fragile, which is beginning to frustrate me.
In any case, I’ve decided to post the poetry so far here, which feels like a big step. Further forthcoming poetry will go in separate posts (I’m sure there will be more).
3/30/15 ~ The Midnight Door ~
Death sneaks in the midnight door
Silent it creeps along the floor
Its lengthening shadow snatching more
Wrapped in sheets, her breath unsound
Winding love, her soul surrounds
She calls no more, for she is found
“Rejoice!” Resurrection cries
Dying done, pain breaks its ties
Loved she lived, and loved she flies
The empty space
The afternoon I used to visit you
But now you’re gone
And all that’s left
Is fuzz on
The cursed day
The day you died
The day I loved to spend with you
The day you’re gone the most
Less tears today
I sang my songs in peace
And only wept in prayer.
You marked my hands, my feet, my heart;
I sow my grief in silence.
That’s it for me today.
Coffee was acceptable in only three forms – white peppermint mocha, peppermint java chip frappuccino, and cold-brew coffee – and espresso was vile, black sludge that belonged nowhere near my tongue. Then France ruined me. Now I drink espresso every morning and write its praises in micropoetry. [tweetthis]Espresso: I used to loathe it. Now I drink it every morning and praise it in micropoetry.[/tweetthis]
Photo by Sabino Aguad, CC License http://bit.ly/LicenseCC
Just a little sunset poetry because it’s a lovely twilight.
May your evening be quiet, relaxed, and filled with the swell of summer.