On the Way to Somewhere Else

 

Today 23 years ago my mom died.

I was with her,

so was dad and

maybe Uncle Jerry.

But why was Jerry there,

and not Aunt Kathryn? 

 

Did he just stop by on the way

to somewhere else,

or from somewhere else?

 

And then it was Mom’s turn

to be on the way

to somewhere else

 

The end was

a big inspiration

and a final expiration

Then only her body

was left.

 

In a Doctor Who show,

of all things,

someone said of their deceased father

“He’s not gone, he’s just dead.”

There is something beautiful about that,

not in the oooooh – ghost sense,

but that the memories

of our loved ones

keep them with us,

always.                              

Untitles - NaPoWriMo #20

 

Now, at the start of spring

Winter sends us one last blast

of cold.  Like a dying

patient who rallies

just before he

finally fails,

finally falls

into whatever comes next

 

Though no one seems to mind

when Winter dies

 

Winter has one of those,

“it’s a blessing”

deaths,

 

though, when people say it

about a loved one

(theirs or mine)

I want to scream

or give them a slap

or both,

no matter the circumstances of the death

 

But the death of

Winter is

another matter.

 

After all,

we know that

Winter

will always

find her way back.                                                      

 

 

  

Wordless Wednesday - Curved Lines

 

Autumn Fruits

 

Over at dVerse Poets' Pub Laura has asked us, keeping September in mind, to write a nine-line verse, taking one of several lines from different poets so that each consecutive word becomes the start of the next line of the poem. I chose the following:

Those/ pale /flowers /might /still /have/ time/ to /fruit  from Karina Borowicz’s ‘September Tomatoes’ 

 

Those autumn evenings grow crisp at the edges.

Pale moonlight spills on fields as that first star

flowers in the darkening sky.

Might this inexorable transition towards winter

still surprise us, still catch in our throats?

Have we lost our awe of beauty, death,

time slipping into past?

Today we should enjoy the final

fruit, sweetened by September’s breeze.

The First of September

So what do I write on this first day

of this new month, September, this

almost autumn?

Do I write about how the garden

is nearly exhausted?

Do I write about how the leaves

are already beginning to turn?

Do I write about my dad, born in this month,

whose favorite color was red,

whose favorite flower was the American Beauty Rose,

whose favorite season was autumn?

Do I write about his strong, freckled hands,

or his neat-nick habits

or his quick mind

or his laugh that filled rooms

or his clever sense of humor?                  

Or do I write about the cooler nights

and the shorter days

and how death is coming for us all?

This is linked to dVerse Poets' Pub for their open link night.