Today’s prompt was to write a “baby” poem. I found this little Triolet wafting around my brain.
***
Baby
Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your baby. “Don’t leave
so soon,” I so naively cried.
I never thought you’d make me grieve
back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your charming child bride.
How did you learn not to believe?
Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be yours. Baby, don’t leave.
The prompt was to write about something descending—though there is no way to post at the moment because the site seems to have sunk the comment section—my offering is here. It is about addiction and (possible) recovery.
***
Descent
the way is slippery
at times
and salty
with tears and other
less savory fluids
(snot, blood, shame)
and even through
the sound of my own
h
o
w
l
of anguish
i remain determined
on my
course
blindly
ignore
all
warnings
and when i reach
r o c k b o t t o m
and there is no
further
to go
is when
h e a l i n g
may
begin.
It was the end of a trying day near the end of a trying week and I felt exhausted and spent, late for my appointment, the end not even in sight, and quite crabby about it. And I tried to pull myself together on the drive to my appointment, tried to release the stress that had been keeping me energized and just relax and realize I was not as late as I could be, I was not in any danger of harm, all of my stress was purely mental.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered that J, a friend who is also my hairdresser, was waiting inside for my late self, and that she would no doubt be cheerful and kind, no matter how late I was, and that she had recently suffered a loss. Her sister had recently died under trying circumstances, and at once, my own distress seemed trivial.
My sisters are both alive as are both my brothers. I am not having to bend my life to fit a new configuration with teenagers in it again suddenly. I may have had a trying day, but an occasional reminder that things could really be worse always seem to be timely when I get in too high a dudgeon.
Bless you J, and bless your niece and nephew. And thanks to a watchful providence that always knows when I need a lesson in patience.
Never Enough Time
I turned on my radio to this song this morning, and it made me take notice because it was kind of fitting…and it was fitting because my dear brother-in-law passed early this morning. Mike had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April of 2010, and was given six months to one year to live. (If you’re good at math, you’ve already determined he lived two and one half years past his diagnosis.) He was T’s best friend in life, and so we’ve been spending a lot of time with Mike.
At first, the illness was like a hidden specter, with few signs, just a ghost of pain here and there, and the illness caused by the chemotherapy that began almost immediately. Chemotherapy was a dance with the white blood cells—how much poison can a body take before the white blood cells give up? The chemo went on and on at first, twice a week for a month, then a week’s rest to build up white blood cells again, then back to the chemo. Mike had to go to a clinic to get his infusions, and Sandy said the people there were unfailingly kind. I suppose one would have to have a sympathetic and kindly mindset to be a chemo technician. And how difficult would it be to go, week after week, to take the poisons that you hope is shrinking your cancer, but that is also killing the rest of your body?
About a year into the cancer therapy, Mike had a surgery to remove the cancer. This was a time of great hope, because we thought that if the chemo had shrunk the cancer sufficiently, and they could remove it, then his prognosis would be much better. But the doctors who opened Mike up, closed him right back up again. The cancer had spread to his liver and stomach and had become inoperable.
And so the dance continued, more grim and relentless now. Mike would go to chemo for two weeks, then rest for two weeks. Then it became go for one week, rest for one week. The pain increased gradually throughout this process as well, Pancreatic cancer is one of the most painful. But Mike was stubborn, and stronger than anyone could believe. He’d been a military man, and a firefighter in his life, and had retired at age 52. He told T that was the best decision he’d ever made and he never regretted a moment of it. He kept his sense of humor, he kept his sense of fun to the end. It was amazing that he could joke and release the tension. T was visiting and was, seriously, trying to take a picture. You can see the result below.
And so, we visited together, and T visited by himself, month after month, and we knew there was no cure, but still Mike kept on. He was one of the strongest men I’ve ever known, not just physically, but mentally as well. His determination and strength kept him going and I never once heard a complaint from him. Sandy knew when he was hurting, and she was in charge of his medicines; she never let him miss a dose. She cared for him through all of it, rarely flagging, always conciliatory. I don’t know how she found the strength, but southern women are wonderful that way. Delicate as a flower, and tough as a diamond. Hospice stepped in only relatively recently, giving her the support and help she needed as things got more difficult. God bless Hospice.
Mike passed early this morning, about 1:00 a.m. At this point, it is a relief that he is no longer in the pain that ate him alive. We saw him last weekend, and he was unable to speak to us, though we think he knew we were there.
And now he is off to his next adventure.
And what do I think about death? It’s is the next inevitable stage of our existence, the next place we go after this life. I think souls are immortal. I don’t fear the reaper, but I find I do fear long months and years of pain. If it were to come to that, I hope I could be as strong and brave and uncomplaining and hilariously silly as Mike.
Mike
That doesn’t make sense, does it. But a friend posted the most “down” post in FB today, so I am reposting it along with my response. So there. Down vs. Up. ^_^
I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of yelling.
I’m tired of being sad.
I’m tired of pretending
I’m tired of being alone
I’m tired of being angry.
I’m tired of feeling crazy.
I’m tired of feeling stuck.
I’m tired of needing help
I’m tired of remembering.
I’m tired of missing things.
I’m tired of being different.
I’m tired of missing people
I’m tired of feeling worthless.
I’m tired of feeling empty inside.
I’m tired of not being able to just let go.
I’m tired of wishing I could start all over.
I’m tired of dreaming of a life I will never have.
But most of all, I’m just tired of being tired.
vs.
Dry your tears.
Take a breath.
Try to smile.
Be who you are.
Hug your family.
Let go of your anger.
Realize you’re sane.
Step outside your boundaries.
Pay it forward.
Just let it go.
Be content with what you have.
Embrace your difference.
Call someone you miss.
Realize you are precious.
Fill your heart with love.
Learn to just let go and go on.
Realize that starting over isn’t always the answer.
Dream of a life you can have.
Take a nap.
XOXOX
The prompt today was to write about something small. Who knew that this is what would emerge. I hope this isn’t too dark for you, dear readers. And the only other thing I can say to you is, treasure your fathers, most of you are luckier than you know.
Holding Hands
My tiny hand
resting in yours
trusting you,
loving you,
knowing that
as my father
you will be there with me
through the trial of my life.
My childish hand
grasping yours.
We live alone, now
my brother, and father
and me
and we know
daddy will be there
to take care
of us.
Until the day
the policeman knocked
and took our little hands
and tore us away
from you,
my father,
and I cried
as we went to
my mother’s car
and begged to go back
to your loving arms
and at the car window
I said, “I’ll never see you
again.”
And I was right,
unless you count
the six other times I saw you
until the day of your
funeral
thirty-six years later.
And my woman’s hand
rests on your cold hands
for the last time.
Hear the scary music playing? It’s Friday the 13th, of course, though I don’t really believe it’s unlucky, it does give people with triskidecaphobia chills! The prompt today, fittingly then, is “Unlucky.” So I tried to put a little twist on the idea of an unlucky child born on Friday the 13th.
###
Unlucky Me
Born Friday the thirteenth
Just what could be worse?
Dad was a mortician,
rode home in a hearse.
Mom was a worrier
She watched over me
with bell, book, and candle,
esprit, and weak tea.
My childhood? A strange one.
I thought I was cursed.
But it wasn’t that long
ere my doubts had reversed.
See, what always happened
would look just like trouble
But when the dust settled
I’d still stand (in the rubble).
And those all around me
thought I was the greatest.
and all hung around me,
newest to latest.
So I learned to worry
about all my friends.
Because they seemed destined
to meet untimely ends.
And so I spend my life
watching o’er theirs
(They think I’m just kindly
and someone who cares.)
But I’ll always worry
that someday I’ll be
unable to stop something,
that I’ll be absentee.
So I keep on working
and trying my best
to just save my friends
from bad luck’s bequest.
That was not a misspelling – Ekprhastic poetry is a poem based on a work of art; a painting, sculpture (or an ode, say, to something like a Grecian urn), etc. Our prompt today was to write a poem based on one of four paintings. I chose The Shootings of May Third 1808, by Francisco de Goya. And I suppose some smart alec will point out to me that cameras with shutters weren’t even invented until 1817 or so, but I say that the simile remains good.
###
On Shutters and Overexposure
(after The Shootings of May Third 1808, by Francisco de Goya)
My eyes are shutters
but even closed
they still see
the shuddering
horror
of the executions.
Like when the
camera’s shutter
clicks,
the picture is
taken in my mind;
but unlike
the film,
I cannot erase,
by overexposure
what I’ve seen.
Only by
overexposure
of another sort
will my mind
become numbed.
Today’s prompt is another “fill-in-the-blank” prompt. I ran with it. It kind of stole some of yesterday’s theme, though. That happens. Here is my attempt… And remember, no poets were harmed in the making of this poem.
Once Upon a Broken Heart
Once upon a summer night
at the park, under the lights
children rolling down the hill
tumbling, giggling, laughter shrill
Thinking that for once I’m right
about you.
Once upon a sunny day
I thought to go but said I’d stay
snuggled up with you so close
Heart to heart and nose to nose
Gladly dancing love’s ballet
with you.
Once upon a starlit night
Words were spoken, seemed so right
And so binding our two hearts
whispered words, we’d never part
holding close with all my might
to you.
Once upon a stormy day
You said what I had thought you’d say
And harshly, coldly, had to part
Things you’d done had torn apart
our love, turned the world to gray
without you.
Once upon an afternoon,
years later, true, and none too soon
we met again in awkward grace
and found our hearts had kept the place
bookmarked; I was still in tune
with you.
Once upon a broken heart
We’d fallen hard, but had to part
but only so we’d learn true love
is something sent from heaven above
If love you’ll have, I’ll never depart
from you.
Today’s prompt is “broken.” Just that, a word that has so many implications, at least to me. And this is a bit on the dark side for an optimist like me, but this is where my muse led me today.
Broken
As a child,
the world we’re born into
is whole.
There are generally parents
grandparents
aunts and uncles
siblings and cousins.
This is our life
this is all we know.
And eventually,
sometimes sooner
sometimes later,
someone dies
and leaves our
little
world
a little less whole.
And we grow and
learn and
people come into
our lives.
Friends
teachers
babysitters
later, bosses
and coworkers
and eventually
(hopefully)
love comes along.
And our world gets bigger
with each addition
but also
a little smaller
with each loss.
And we discover
that everyone,
everyone
is from a world
that was once whole
and with each loss
becomes more
broken.
And in fact,
the people that raised us,
they were broken
for as long as we’ve
known them.
And as life goes on
and the older each of us gets
the more broken
our world is,
the more people
we are missing.
And somehow, even making
more additions
does not take away
the weight
of the loss.
A Drift of Bubbles: Pop one and see what happens.
