Tag: grief

Mother

When I had a mother
my hair would cascade
in curls of auburn perfection
a red velvet bow to accentuate the wave

And I’d wear my best
newly sewn frock
with lace at the neck
and fishnet stockings
and patent Mary Janes

And the girls giggling with delight
would skip hand-in-hand
to the school prom
and the boys shyly perched
against the back wall would wonder
how to behave, and we’d blush
in return, begging them to dance

But now I have no mother
and no matter how hard I try
I cannot tame my too wild hair
it’s bi-coloured frizz
a nest of betrayal

And no girls invite me
to join hands
my state of dishevelment
a conundrum to be ignored

So I stand against the back wall
and hide amongst the boys
and stay far away from the gossip

And everyone says it’s because
I have no mother.

(Image my own. This poem originated from a dream, so is meant to be metaphorical, not literal.)

They Tried to Warn Me

The serpent alerted me
boa sized terror disrupting sleep
I tried to push it back
but the beast insisted
“Keep driving forward, woman
I am at your side”

It came again
infiltrating my slumber
with a wide mouthed warning –
“I could consume you,
you better be ready”

Of course, I looked away.

It was a tiger next,
whose force, unmistakeable
sat upon my legs
rendering me inert
“You will pay attention”
he warned. No argument there

But how am to decipher
these nightly messages
the power of such beings
infiltrating my waking moments
am I going mad?

It would be the wolf
whose presence caught me
mid-flight, awake while dreaming
that startled me the most
“No time”, he said, “the moment is now”

And I awoke with a shudder
heart drumming an anxious tempo


and that’s when the letter arrived
telling me that we were finished
flesh of my flesh
no longer forgiving
and then the dog died
and I know that things come in threes
and the threads of my heart
barely holding on
can’t handle anything else
and my mind burns with questions

If only I’d paid attention
when that first snake appeared.

(Inspired by dreams. My art)

Oh, How I Pray

These hovering lows
how does one escape the pull?

Defensiveness a useless tool
I cannot read intentions

I self-animate
a contrived endeavour

Shine reduced
I am humbled
off colour

Grief, on repeat
I want to disappear
like Peter Pan
childlike, armed
with illustrious fantasies

Could this be metamorphosis –

A paralytic calm
a spell-binding ponder
cracking righteousness
till clarity fades the gray

Oh, how I pray it is
the light of love
chiseling a new path

(Inked sketch my own)

I Remember

That day we strolled riverside
Wild poppies in full bloom
guiding us

The reassurance you needed
stuck on my tongue –
age and language separating us

We walked in silence –
a regret I carry

Now the poppies remind me
that you were less than naive
that life had wounded you
and that what I had to offer
was so much more than
a voiceless presence

But I was afraid too
And I let you go

My heart bleeds
the colour of poppies
My breath catching
every time I remember

That day
when the river guided us
and the poppies bloomed
and I failed to listen.

(Dedicated to my dear Alina, who had to be brave at a vulnerable time, and whom I miss dearly. Image my own.)

Dear Dad

I miss your wisdom;
could use some about now,
confidence lacking

Life’s what you make of it,
you’d say, and
You’re doing a good job…

Truth is, I’ve made a lot of mistakes –
call it stubbornness or stupidity-
but I failed to plan, Dad

Not bemoaning life
It’s been really good
and I know you did the same

I’m just tired of doubting my self
Watching the rest of the world
reach their goals and then retire

While I can never tell –
am I doing a good job
am I even appreciated?

Remember the day my marriage died
and I came to you, crumpled
spewing anger, defeated…

And you cried with me
raging on my behalf, said:
Goddamn it, you deserve better than this!

Funny that through all the pain
your walls, my walls
you, alone could see me

Tragic how I only understand that now
death and years separating us –
my need for you still raw.

(Image my own – cut and paste with AI)

Everyday Ghosts

“My father will always be a touchstone ghost. He comes around often, especially late at night when I’m singing…” – Raymond King Shurtz

A touchstone ghost?
My father?
A thick shame falls over the morning…
Mother is dead now too, and her death, still fresh and ungrieved
also hovers

What am I to make of the absence?
parents who consumed so much of my energy –
emotional energy, for sure –

Suddenly, they are gone
and the silence echoes
bouncing off the chamber
where my guilt lies

Was I ever enough?
I thought about walking away
So many times…

But how could I?
One dependent
one abusive
both declaring love

I am not infantile
not rendered immobile
but my heart does falter

If either ghost is a touchstone
it is a measure of progress
a beacon of survival

I wish them both well
and infinite peace
and well, I also wish them gone

It is the relief that comes with their passing
that gives me pause….
am I really that cold-hearted?

No, not cold-hearted
just worn out
and longing to breathe

But ghosts linger
spirit infiltrating
generational layers

and I hear my father’s voice
in my grown son’s compassion –
a side he seldom could convey

and I see my mother’s resiliency
in a granddaughter’s determination

and I know now what the grief is…
the failure to recognize the gifts
amid the constant suffering

Even in war their are blessings
and I’ve forgotten to stop fighting
still hold my breath, waiting
for the fallout

Maybe the ghosts remain
as a reminder

that I survived.

(Written for Holly Troy’s writing prompt: Everyday Ghosts, which invites us to breathe in a prompt (the quotation) and write without pause for 5, 10, 15 minutes.)

Dichotomy of Christmas

Between festive preparations
and Mother’s dying wishes
I walk a surreal line – numbed
surface belying broiling depths

I will serve the bird, scrape
the carcass, sing praises
and slip into solitude to grieve –
Mother’s flesh languishing.

(Last year, when I penned this poem, my mom was contemplating assisted dying. I supported her wish, but not without accompanying grief. This year, her absence weighs heavily on the preparations for Christmas, and I know I am not alone. Many of us feel our losses even deeper at this time of year.)

Lorraine

Remember how we fought
at four and five –
over whose turn it was
to push the baby buggy?

Your Campbell soup baby face
locks curlier than mine;  
eyes a brighter sparkle

How you withdrew from me with age
ashamed your mother was an alcoholic –
I did not care, carried my own secrets

How you chose drugs to cope,
while I went straight – the line
too wide to cross, it seemed.

You were my roots, dear friend
the rock I needed to ground me
Life, back then, never easy

Secrets tore us apart – projections
of judgments never actualized
somehow, I never measured up

I see you now, shrouded in the mist
of my own grief, understand that your turmoil
ran deeper than I had known, and one day

when we meet in Heaven,
I will embrace the whole you
and we will laugh at how secrets

whose very disclosure would have solidified us
kept us more and more distant – so little
did we know of love at the time.

(Lorraine died at the age of 26 – complications from drug use. After her death, I learned that she was a lesbian, a secret that she thought she could not share with me at the time. She had not known that I would not have judged her. Sadly, we never had the chance. I loved her so.)

Mourning

A murder of crows
peck at a carcass
beneath the old Spruce
Likely dragged there
by a coyote after feasting

They do that sometimes
a brazen act of rebellion
our bricked presence
blocking the path

I reached for the phone
this morning, wanting to relay
current events, and then…stopped
remembering you are gone
only my carcass remains, rots
at the mocking of crows

Coyotes are tricksters, they say
and I feel picked apart
preyed upon on my own path
the wounds of the past
inviting the mind’s vultures.

What is it all about
this mortality/ immortality?

A dove rests on the porch rail
sleeping despite the crow fray

Peace slumbers on this mournful day.

(Image my own)