Good-bye, March

OUR LAST GOOD-BYE

One sound alone
One muffled cry
A passing cloud
A tear-filled eye
One glance, one smile
Shared then gone
One heartbeat skipped
One fading song
I wait here watching
Winsome, sad
Wrapped tightly in
The fun we had
Sweet memories bind
The bleeding heart
That aches for you
For us apart
One sound alone
One aching sigh
A passing cloud
For you I cry

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Feeling Mystical

EMPTY CONTEMPLATION

Empty spacious contemplation
Leaves no traces in the mind,
A trance for every whisper
Every prayer you left behind,
A name for every moment and
A day for every word–
It is nothingness that calls to you
A ghostly voice you heard.

And it cries out in the darkness,
And it laughs whene’er it rains,
It can scream and shout then
Gently, softly whisper back your name.
It won’t let you go unhearing,
Lost in form-filled narrow worlds
When it calls to you to come and run
With boundless joy unfurled.

And yet we hide our faces,
Daring not to see that there,
Where we hear the echo of our soul,
There’s nothing more than air.

Am I

SUCH A FOOL
Such a fool
Believing this skin
Marks where I end
And worlds begin
Such easy lies
This life spins
Where you, not I
It says with sly grin

Such ancient tales
Spun from the sky
Fables woven reveal
The warp, the why
A distant God
Such sorrow wrenching
Belief not knowing
The truth unmentioned

Such a fool
So soon delighted
Laughing at lies
Old secrets united
Beginning the journey
Step over the side
Plunging from cliff
Into deep ocean skies

Dream a Little Dream

FOR THOSE WHO WHISPER

I turn once for those who whisper
Softly and tug my sleeve,
Attention sweet coating
On glances free and
Kisses blown gently.

I turn twice for those who whisper
Alone in their dark corner,
Comfort warming smiles extended,
Offers of friendship
Lighten the gloom.

I turn back for myself left behind,
Swept away by the
Pressing, needy crowd.
Embracing, we sink to the ground
And weep for all.

 

I’m reading The Three “Only” Things: Tapping the Power of Dreams, Coincidence, and Imagination by Robert Moss. He talks about using dreams to reclaim parts of yourself that you’ve left behind, perhaps in childhood or during other emotional times in your life. It reminded me of this poem I had written years ago. Most of my dreams as an adult take place in my childhood home. That house or its street is the setting for everything. It morphs as needed, but it’s always that place. Whether or not I’ve left parts of myself behind, I do think I’ve tethered myself there somehow. Maybe paying more attention to those dreams would give me clues that I could use to make this life a better one.

I Sit Corrected

Over a cup of tea, my sister pointed out that my dates are off. (My days are correct, though.) Another example of my failing brain? Maybe just a sign that I’m tired and still grieving and have little use for dates. More likely that I simply mixed up the dates my parents passed, swapping one for the other. This gives me two more days to remember my dad as he was, to celebrate those last laughs, to be grateful that the end of his life wasn’t lost in the fog of dementia that enveloped my mom. I had to remind myself that everything I wrote today, felt today, is fully valid. I didn’t need to rewrite my blog (my first thought). I had already labeled this week as a week of mourning. My sister gave me the gift of two more days.

Third Anniversary

ASK ME TOMORROW

I don’t believe in God
Watching over us
Picking and choosing
Judging, condemning
Hearing and answering
It’s Tuesday
Ask me tomorrow
After the dirt settles
Back in the grave
And the flowers bloom
Around the stone
Carved with the names
Of all I loved
Who left saying
Only God knows
Why us
Why me
There is no God
On Tuesdays
Just a procession of
Flagged cars
And a gaping hole
So hungry
With an almighty appetite
It swallows you whole
And Monday’s God with you
So ask me tomorrow
If I remember His name

Today is the third anniversary of my last conversation with my dad before he died. It’s the day he last laughed with us, joking with the nurse from hospice who had come to interview him, arranging his transfer from the hospital. I didn’t know that he would be dead two days later. I didn’t know on that Sunday that I needed to say good-bye. I didn’t know that Monday would be his last day, that he would be in and out of consciousness, not making much sense, but still acknowledging all his children as we gathered. I didn’t know that early Tuesday morning as I was racing to get to the hospice he was already gone. Today is the third anniversary not of when I lost my dad, but of when I last had him.