I blinked through tearful eyes
to see if the yellowed ivory keys
of the old family piano
were really moving.
In my mind’s eye, I saw them
dancing a Sentimental Journey of
Saturday nights growing up;
a special time when we children
forgot animosity and joined together
in harmony, creating memories
more precious than Ivory Palaces.
when I’d give you puppy eyes,
you’d smile and reach out to hold me,
and I’d jump at the invitation.
As you held me in your arms,
you’d be covered in wet kisses;
then we’d settle in for the evening
snuggling on the couch.
Since I could see better in the dark,
I’d protect you from all harm;
and as you peacefully slept,
I’d be right there by your side.
We’d tell each other secrets
and share our hopes and dreams;
We’d be the best of friends,
forever and till the end.
We have woven our lives together,
tangled threads of two individuals
coming together in smooth fashion,
continuing to love one another.
Each stitch of time was treasured
as the fabric of our family was formed,
knit of love and compassion, and
growing in value every year.
Through all the years, however,
we’ve come to discover that
not all stitches were even, and
the edges have unraveled a bit.
But, as with the troubled oyster,
we’ve been blessed with pearls
added to our family heritage,
a daughter and grandson, jewels
that add sparke to our lives.
She died, and my head felt dizzy as if water surrounded me,
searching for my bearings as I struggled to accept the loss.
And then he died, and I felt engulfed in tidal waves,
ebbing and flowing between my loss and his new peace.
But I’m now caught in an eddie in the sea of grieving,
kicking to stay afloat; stroking to soothe my soul as yet
a younger family member is unexpectantly called home.
Yet I know I’ll not drown for my life raft of inner strength
keeps me afloat as I row toward calmer days.
Peace and beauty come together as
perfectly shaped, deep purple petals
open to a beautiful inner core, a tulip
of exceptional quality and strength.
Spring ushers in with warmth
to welcome new life, like
my favorite royal flower,
sunny yellow daffodils,
and my beautiful daughter.
Happy 30th Birthday!
I keep watching
for you to come home.
I can’t remember how long
you’ve been gone,
but I miss you so.
I’m sure sitting listlessly
won’t bring you back
any sooner, but
I just can’t seem to focus
on anything but you.
We have such fun
when we’re together,
and I get so lonely
when you’re not here.
May wishing you here,
make it so.
Ah, but to enjoy the simple things again
Where grief does not interfere,
Where memories are once again pleasurable,
Where a smile comes with happiness, not obligation.
When will the pain and suffering end?
To what lengths must we go to assuage these feelings?
How long must one endure the roller coaster,
The ups and downs of emotions?
When will one step in front of the other actually
Take one forward instead of treading water?
Grief has no true beginning nor end,
Nor does it follow the same path for everyone.
The road to recovery will have potholes and bumps
Along with curves and forks to traverse.
But be assured, the grief will begin to hurt less
As you travel this journey to a new destination
Where you can find joy and a renewed self.
His small hand
tightly clutches the present,
the one he picked himself.
So full of pride is he
as he hands me
a golden yellow cluster
of petite petals dangling
from its spindly stem.
“I picked a flower,
‘specially for you.”
Carefully, I take the
delicate gift and
find a mini vase
to showcase its beauty.
“Oh, thank you, honey.
I love it!”
I don’t have the heart to
tell him I’m allergic to
indelibly stored in brains,
heavily weighted by physiology,
tipping the scale, if allowed.
a negative will take
a positive down.
So stack the odds with
of good times,
of positive feelings, and
of loving family and friends.
I don’t like getting dirty,
Yet I like to play in the dirt.
Oxymoron? Perhaps, but
Fresh tilled soil, raked and ready for planting,
is a welcome invitation to run the soil through my fingers,
sifting through memories as I stop to remember
our first flower gardens beside the porch,
mine on the right side, my sister’s on the left.
Tilling, planting, watering, weeding…it seemed so
tedious at times to a child, but it brought beauty to our lives.
‘Twas Mom’s clever way to teach the ways of work…
Responsibility, competition, rewards; and
Dad’s way of sharing his connection with earth,
Where today he rests in peace.
Birds of a feather
walking hand in hand,
we’ve traveled together
o’er many years spanned.
’twas always the plan,
so we joined as one
‘neath glowing twilight
of the setting sun.
Not even foresight
could have foreseen
the wonderful life
we have shared and seen.
Written in the spirit of Robert Frost and Dante, I have adapted the terza rima.
Photo from publicdomainpictures, http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=38784&picture=penguin-love
Each Valentine’s Day,
every kid’s temptation was
the sweet convections of
powdery sugar candy
with the see-through heart
on the box front.
We’d shake and turn the boxes
peeking through the cellophane,
checking out the messages
impressed into the heart shapes
before choosing our purchase.
Then, in hushed whispers, we’d pick
the one we thought would send
our secret Valentine into a heart spin and
slip it inside a paper Valentine picked
just for them, hoping they felt the same.
Red is the color of my true love,
a positive aura in adversity. He
balances my pink personality
when mega cautious tries to rule.
His powerful stance and personality
helped his career quickly advance;
whereas my pink, more reticent self
leaned toward intuition more readily.
He’s self-assured and has overcome strife,
Cerebral Palsy and polio, to name just two;
But here is where my pinkness shines,
my nurturing soul yearns to take care of him.
You’d not likely find two more diverse souls.
However, like the colors that represent us,
blended together, we become a richer,
more beautiful version of each other.
Steam rises from the soup kettle,
adding a ruddy glow to her cheeks
as she accompanies me ’round the kitchen.
She’s been gone nigh 30 years, yet
it seems just yesterday she taught me
her secret recipes, her gift of laughter,
and her special way of loving.
I’m sure she earned her angel wings,
and I’m glad she takes time to join me
in my kitchen as I often joined her.
The smell, like steam,
rises to warm me.
It reminds me of helping mom
in the kitchen while growing up:
for the evening meals;
for nightly desserts.
As the smells intensify,
memories drift to
my own years of cooking
meals for my family, or
baking goodies like
and Birthday cakes.
Yet, this year, I’m not in a kitchen.
The delicious smells wafting through
the house are complements of a
retired husband with a passion
for trying new recipes, while I am
afforded the pleasure of writing
in my sanctuary.
And do you know what I’ve discovered?
I never knew I didn’t like to cook…
Until I didn’t.
Distressed beyond repair,
his body broken down,
years of daily living
finally take their toll.
Assistive, caring hands,
help bring a calm resolve,
labored, shallow breaths
replaced by even sounds.
As we sit here by his side,
listening to him sleep, his
quiescent repose grants
peace to grieving hearts.
of loving each other,
of laughter and fun,
of memories to share,
since we first said ,”I do,”
From the minutest second
to the longest day,
when shared with you,
they’re beyond compare.
I can hardly wait
for the next thirty years;
best friends for life,
in love till the end.
Happy Anniversary, Babe!