Tag: loss

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)

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.)

Could It Be?

Walking away –
the only solution
I’ve ever excelled at…

…and yet, absence
does not obliterate
that which dwells within

I can pretend that I have nothing
to offer, but life and circumstance
require more of me…

…a challenge to exhume
the remains of my potential…
Will I be up to the task?

There is flattery in being looked up to –
the feeling that someone needs me –
but that is akin to temptation – an ego play

Could it be that acquired knowledge
has merit only when shared;
that we are all here to offer our piece;
that in releasing what I’ve learned,
I will find flow, feel in sync again,
restore my abilities and reignite
a passion for teaching?

Dare I hope?

( I first wrote this poem in 2017, three years after being bedridden with ME. Interesting to go back now and acknowledge that life still did have purpose for me. So grateful.

Image my own)

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.)

The Pilgrimage

A soft-sided,
well worn,
briefcase
slouches
in a closet

One side agape,
a red lanyard
stuffed inside –
occupational identity

A row of black, brown, and gray pumps
line up beside it – a thin layer of dust
betraying idleness.

Silent, unblinking,
a television recedes
into the wall,
flanked on either side
by smiling images –
shadows of nostalgia.

Stacks of books
and journals
rumour
a scholarly mind.

The woman,
to whom all these trivialities
once had relevance
is no longer here.

She has been called to another purpose.

(Originally written in 2014, The Pilgrimage strives to help me understand the purpose behind losing all to illness. Image my own)

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.)