Another Day

image source

White roses symbolize those who have passed

Five hundred stems prepared and wait amassed

Each mourner enters and receives a bloom

The ache within the air is more than vast

Her rose caressed as if it were her groom

and she the bride, perchance life to resume

Her eyes blink wide, awakened by a thorn

Returning to her lot in this sad room

Unwanted children, burning tears are born

She chides herself and shakes her head with scorn

Another year, another rose to press

Another day, another day to mourn.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Mini Challenge, Rubaiyat

I Wish

image courtesy of Magpie Tales

Black Isn't the Color of Death

Black isn't the color of death

Sometimes

Death is red

blood splatters and pools

carpet stains

an entire industry spawned to clean up afterwards

Sometimes

Death is  blue

Mama's little baby

footsie pajamas and smelling of milk

goes to sleep one night and doesn't

wake up WAKE UP WAKE UP!

Death is sometimes yellow

eyes and skin

toxic brew of destruction and denial

dragon's breath burning

anyone caring or stupid enough 

to get close

Sometimes

Death is white

hospital walls

sheets bleached threadbare

faces of families

numb, dumb, blank canvasses

of misery and confusion

Black isn't the color of death

not the only one

Death takes all colors

and makes them hers.

submitted for dVerse Poetics, Playing with Color at dVerse Poets Pub

Bringing You Home (for Micael)

So

it's time

for 

good bye

You're leaving

for good

where

I can't

follow you

I don't want just

memories

I have

ink

paper

canvas, paint

I will

bring

you back

home.

Spider and Moth

The web has done its job

sticky strings trap

fragile wings in

threads of oblivion

The spider

eight legs furiously winding

she's an old grandma

with her ball of yarn

The moth

little mummy

silky death dress

Such a tiny

perfect

demise.

submitted for We Write Poems, #77, In An Instant

and Gooseberry Garden, Nature

Ribbons

                                                    RIBBONS

                                    too         many

                           ribbons            and no

                               damn           cures

                               friends        die

                                     and     we

                                         wear

                                            R

                                          I   I

                                        B      B

                                       B        B

                                      O         O

                                     N           N

                                     S            S

The Ghosts Are Not Speaking

image source

The ghosts are not speaking

If you could see them

     (which you can not)

you would see them sitting

     (perhaps hovering is a more correct descriptor)

on wrought iron benches

back to back.

You would also notice

their crossed arms,

noses and chins pointed skyward with

righteous indignation.

These ghosts carry a grudge like 

others carried the ball and chain.

They have been bickering since 1897

The dead ignore them

The living are oblivious unless

they stir up too much of a fuss

     upset a flower pot or

     scare a horse

Most days, however, are spent in

quiet and purposeful disregard.

Neither actually remembers

the slight

but each ghost knows in her restless soul

that the other is at fault

and that it had something to do with

     evening gowns

     hurricanes

     and lemon chess pie.

So, the ghosts are not speaking

but if you could see them

     (which you can not)

you would see

at the corner of each one's mouth

a very

slight

grin.

submitted for Red Writing Hood #61 at Write on Edge

Narcissus's Granddaughter

The Revenant, , Andrew Wyeth

Like Narcissus enchanted with his reflection

you loved those in whom you saw yourself

lavishing them, me

with your affection

  withholding from those who 

did not mirror

what you wished to see

You were good to me

for you cherished that which

you valued

Even now

you come back to me

in dreams

You are a revenant

Do you return to see me

or to see yourself once more?

submitted for Magpie Tales, 82
and for Jingle Poetry at the Gooseberry Garden, Poetry Picnic, Week 4, Grandparents

The Bright Side

Sometimes, my love, there is no silver lining

When one door closes

they all slam shut

You are a Mormon on a street of

atheists

Sometimes, my love, gray skies are gray

for such a long time you forget

what light is; it burns your eyes

And if you keep looking up

you get a stiff neck and

bird shit in your face

submitted for Poetry Jam, Always Looking Up

Tree

image source

I once tried to climb my family tree

I didn't get very far

The bottom branches were sturdy enough

(although I'm not sure that I'd entrust a treehouse to them)

Then I looked outward

and upward

I noticed a

lack

To the left 

branches were scrawny, frail

mere twigs really

To the right

brittle, leafless, budless

pale with melancholy

As I climbed higher, they

thinned even more

Sun rushed in through scant leaves

no hiding place here

Above me

gaps

I could climb no further so I climbed

down

Later

as I sat by the fireplace watching

the logs burn

I thought about trees and

gaps

lacks

my family

and the trains that

took them away.

written for Theme Thursday, Tree

Balloons

 *This one is in honor of all the kids at Camp Phoenix, the hospice camp where I volunteered this week. They've all had someone close to them recently die.

image source

Balloons aloft are lifted to the sky

Up to the clouds above they rise to meet

those who've passed from this life on to die

and left us here bereft and incomplete

The wind will get them where they need to go

with messages and wishes we have sent

to those we'll always love with hope they'll know

just how much they're missed and what they meant

From sun, from sadness tears are in our eyes

We watch as our balloons sail higher still

Vanishing, we whisper our goodbyes

Like bright hued birds they fly away; yet still

Our gazes linger after they have gone

knowing we will soon have to move on.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Elegies

Sonnet For Living

For the last Friday Poetically, Brian has asked us to write a poem about an organization or cause that has meaning to us. This poem is about hospice, where I volunteer. It's a wonderful organization that assists individuals and families who are dealing with an incurable illness or injury. Hospice believes that people have the right to die pain-free and with dignity and ensures that families will receive the necessary support to allow patients to do so. They also provide bereavement services to grieving individuals and families. Go volunteer!

 

We need not fear to speak Death's name

She pays no heed to our affairs

For speaking of Death holds no blame

And doing so may ease our cares

We come together in our pain

With grief that one alone can't bear

And pray to feel some hope again

Our burdens lift when we can share

Remind us there is life to live

Although Death follows close behind

We each give all we have to give

To make this Hell a bit more kind

On journeys we can't understand

Sometimes it helps to hold a hand

submitted for Friday Poetically at One Stop Poetry

White Roses

Poetry Jam has challenged us to write a "dark" poem about flowers. Mine needs a bit of explanation: I volunteer for a local hospice, and each year we have a Service of Remembrance for those in our program who have died that year. The family members are each given a white rose at the service.

image source

The roses are a sea of white

To bloom within a sea of tears

Each bud held tenderly and tight

The roses are a sea of white

We pray to Heaven's gentle light

For hope to guide us through the years

The roses are a sea of white

To bloom within a sea of tears.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Flowers

Sonnet For a Friend

photo source: Gordon Haslett

How do I say goodbye to you, my friend?
I wish on stars but see a waning moon
And though I want to be there til the end
I fear that I may pull away too soon

How to protect a heart from pain I know
There is no anodyne able to heal
The scars I'll wear within me when you go
And grief from sorrow's reach I'm loathe to feel

But who among us has the strength to dare
Consider Death may swing her scythe's blade too
Toward any of us, living unaware
Perhaps, my friend, I'll lead the way for you

And so I'll give you all I have to give
For whatever time that you have left to live.

submitted for Poetry Potluck, Void, Loneliness, and Sorrow, at Jingle Poetry