clay slapped on the wheel shaped from spinning motion with the control of hands form, substance given before the heat of the kiln then give years of care secured from breaking ends in sharp edged shards broken: mosaic in form
In the early morning hours of January 3rd, 2015 my wife, Karen passed away from ovarian cancer. On this day, the eighth anniversary of her passing, I decided to repost this poem. While no relationship may be perfect, I’ve come to realize perfection is found in the things people share. Karen and I shared our love of dogs, so of course, in a dream, I met her as I walked the dogs, and one day I’ll meet her again, but when that happens, she’ll be the one walking all the dogs.
I thought to find you on the path between the heather patches. You were not there. I thought to find you along the roads from here to other places I traveled, but there were no traces. I thought to find you along the routes where I walked the dogs. Of course, there you were, ready to laugh and say they loved you best-- as you always did. Taking treats from your pocket, you fed and petted them. Looking up at me, you said I had more grey than last you saw, but it didn’t look bad. Your idea of a compliment, I know. I killed the weeds of anger over things like that. Now I must learn to trim back the hedges of grief. Get electric hedge trimmers, you laughingly said. Then whispered I should learn from the dogs and you’d meet me along the path between the heather one day. And that was all. You were gone.
Image courtesy of depositphotos.com
Before morning, she wakes, adrift still in half-remembered dreams, dirtied by ghost footprints upon the waking to muddy tread marks ever present, no matter the hours spent in scrubbing— the marks indelible— tattoos of mud. Leave her to the simple tasks of morning, to her daily reckoning, preparations of covers and cases required, all the hiding away, layering as if for winter, this bandaging of tender spots.
There exists no lexicon
For the echoes of emptiness here–
Where the azaleas bloom
Purple, pink, and white,
While dusty looking
Lavender sends up
Multiple spikes,
As roses yield up
Open, thirsting mouths
To the sky.
Though the soil here
Nourishes color and green
Growing things,
While life appears
Apparently abundant,
Although neighbors smile and wave,
The soil remains absent of truth, of meaning,
Of love—of a spirit—of a soul.
No lexicon exists for the emptiness
Echoing throughout the soil
In this place.
Spring threatens to melt into us. Summer follows soon enough. Birds will return, seeking seeds and worms, Building nests for the young to come. Will the birds remember the songs they sing? Songs of summer, songs to mate? Flowers will emerge, warming their petals And leaves under a brilliant sun. Will they remember how to open Their blossoms? Will they remember how to dress themselves In glorious color? How can the birds or flowers remember When the world walks a tightrope Over the abyss And sunflowers may never grow again Tall enough to bow their heavy heads to God?
Close the blinds against the grey light. Prepare a cave for the soul in cold January as the wind rages. Contemplation, prayer like John of Patmos? This cave readied, awaits the apocalypse devils wish.
Each new year brings Now this garden grief Nourished by regret Each year, this day, here— Standing, kneeling, sitting—I Spend tears, words, wishes All meaningless now, In the barren garden grief Flowers never bloom Seven years gone now-- Nothing roots, though it has tried, In the garden grief inside
Questions hang in the air Like heavy coastal fog On cool autumn mornings Eternal questions of humanity: All the whys, the wonderings-- Never answered prayers-- Laying pressed between the Pages of a book like brown, Dried flowers—forgotten, Having lost their sentiment. Speak the differences Among roses, weeds, wildflowers— Inconsequential answers For inconsequential questions. Could sense of counting Out the hours be sliced Like blood, blooming meat To find truth absolute Like high priestesses of old, Scry the answer In a blood filled bowl?
Caught in the evening downpour, I am washed clean of summer. Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching. Morning greets me with a cool hand Of sunshine upon my brow. Autumn whispers of a harvest Under skies of bluest topaz. A clear, clean, honest reaping In days yet to be had.
The daughters of Lilith condemned To chance a gory laden death once again, All the while, standing vilified as they Who wear the mantle of Lilith’s power have always been. Tomorrow and all tomorrows after, The daughters of Lilith will rise With the glory and power of their mother, Breaking the chains men make Seeking to steal the power of Lilith residing in her daughters Thus, breaking their spirits to subservient acquiesce. But each of Lilith’s daughters will remind Such fearful little men Their mother was made before Eve And fashioned of the earth as well.
undone in spectacle
An Imaginative Life with MS
Because Sound Bytes Are Stupid
Bring On The Wonder
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Spit mixed with dirt - Muddy words flow
~ Communicator, WordSmith, Artist, Guide, Mentor, Muse ~
Where writers gather
Atmospheric Mind Flow
Driveling twaddle by an old flapdoodle.
stories, poems and more
Poets lie all the time but there are some truths only poetry can tell.
Now we see through a glass, darkly
The Writer
Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.
Musings on life, love, and healing past trauma
Sharing Poetry and Hugs
Poems, Ramblings and Photography
KL CALEY
Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
Growing with gratitude for life's challenges
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
These are my inner thoughts, passions and inspirations.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 6,000,000 visitors since 2014 and over 9,000 archived posts.
Echoes of Life, Love and Laughter
Poetry
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
A Discovery of Enlightening Insights, Information, Humor, Writings and Musings
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
Premium Poetry Page Peskily Pondered Profoundly
Doing the best I can to keep it on the bright side
An Old Plumber, An Ex-Carer, An Amateur Poet, Words From The Heart
A storyteller with a poetic heart
...poetry, stories & rants.
Poetry by Devon Brock
by Lize Bard
Author Aspiring
Less is not enough.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 