This week: Exploring how loss reaches out with its own language
(i wanna try, too)
things that vanish
first, the small things:
scrambled eggs without toast,
foundation smooth onto skin
like belief in flawless beginnings
then:
my workout routine,
and the clean hour of sweat
when I still thought
discipline might save me
my dislike for my feet,
the way he said they were ugly
because they were too big
the second drink,
and the soft blur that used to mean
risk, not freedom
caring about marriage,
the dress, the ceremony,
the idea of soulmates,
which once fit like a song lyric
seeing him strong,
shoulders broad with answers,
now he asks if I can help him
remember to put on a band-aid
again,,
it’s like raising
a memory of a man,
when grief hinders my own
my dog’s wild youth,
now her leg shakes
when the walk is too long
being cancer free
i hate pink ribbons
and the j word,
i never tell people
dad, mom, grams,
all three gone
in the exact wrong order
and still, i get up,
eat my eggs differently,
put no foundation on,
love, too, vanishes
and still, i love
When all of these vanish, does it make room for others? Or do we have an incalculable amount of room for loss?
Love the turn in the poem with "still, I get up..." Keep on writing!
Equation Called"Life"
Everyday we live
to take a bite.
We also live
to lose a night.
Every moment we spend,
we lose time.
And we take a breath
that we hold tight.
What is the dark
without light?
what is the black
without white?
There are always
things in mind
and there are things
out of sight.
We can say everyday
we are alive.
In fact we are dying
this is the life.
So good of you to share your work! I love reading others' responses to the column and to find out what everyone is processing. We're always, it seems, after the deepest questions!
Your subtle rhyme is working here! Well executed. Thanks so much for sharing your poem.
The short, clipped lines and question/answer rhythm give the poem a musical, meditative feel 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
Another trip to the hospital
Ghosts of visits clang tonight
You ran through the hall
Ghouls in dark hoddies
Chasing you
cry, wolf
{for Geoffrey Arnold Beck}
a wolf
ran through the garden
& all she ate
were the roses.
where
played prokofiev
to re-stem whimsy –
innocent as peter,
un-haunted
as a rockwell tyke.
the light-blasted turner
to rescue brilliance –
sparks
so joyful
they could stalk
& out-stun
the sun?
that dazzle now?
this plot
of staggered stems
smile-savaged
by beauty-famished choppers.
the time,
where the vision
to ever see
how fragile,
to ever see it coming?
our sanctuary
from the failure
of forever?
It’s a lament not just for a musician, but for the entire fragile architecture of human wonder.
Hello p.a. Yes, strange and beautiful! Happy to see you are always creating.
(i wanna try, too)
things that vanish
first, the small things:
scrambled eggs without toast,
foundation smooth onto skin
like belief in flawless beginnings
then:
my workout routine,
and the clean hour of sweat
when I still thought
discipline might save me
then:
my dislike for my feet,
the way he said they were ugly
because they were too big
then:
the second drink,
and the soft blur that used to mean
risk, not freedom
then:
caring about marriage,
the dress, the ceremony,
the idea of soulmates,
which once fit like a song lyric
then:
seeing him strong,
shoulders broad with answers,
now he asks if I can help him
remember to put on a band-aid
again,,
it’s like raising
a memory of a man,
when grief hinders my own
then:
my dog’s wild youth,
now her leg shakes
when the walk is too long
then:
being cancer free
i hate pink ribbons
and the j word,
i never tell people
then:
dad, mom, grams,
all three gone
in the exact wrong order
and still, i get up,
eat my eggs differently,
put no foundation on,
love, too, vanishes
and still, i love
When all of these vanish, does it make room for others? Or do we have an incalculable amount of room for loss?
Love the turn in the poem with "still, I get up..." Keep on writing!
Equation Called"Life"
Everyday we live
to take a bite.
We also live
to lose a night.
Every moment we spend,
we lose time.
And we take a breath
that we hold tight.
What is the dark
without light?
what is the black
without white?
There are always
things in mind
and there are things
out of sight.
We can say everyday
we are alive.
In fact we are dying
this is the life.
So good of you to share your work! I love reading others' responses to the column and to find out what everyone is processing. We're always, it seems, after the deepest questions!
Your subtle rhyme is working here! Well executed. Thanks so much for sharing your poem.
The short, clipped lines and question/answer rhythm give the poem a musical, meditative feel 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
Another trip to the hospital
Ghosts of visits clang tonight
You ran through the hall
Ghouls in dark hoddies
Chasing you
cry, wolf
{for Geoffrey Arnold Beck}
a wolf
ran through the garden
& all she ate
were the roses.
where
played prokofiev
to re-stem whimsy –
innocent as peter,
un-haunted
as a rockwell tyke.
where
the light-blasted turner
to rescue brilliance –
sparks
so joyful
they could stalk
& out-stun
the sun?
cry, wolf
{for Geoffrey Arnold Beck}
a wolf
ran through the garden
& all she ate
were the roses.
where
played prokofiev
to re-stem whimsy –
innocent as peter,
un-haunted
as a rockwell tyke.
where
the light-blasted turner
to rescue brilliance –
sparks
so joyful
they could stalk
& out-stun
the sun?
where
that dazzle now?
this plot
of staggered stems
smile-savaged
by beauty-famished choppers.
where
the time,
where the vision
to ever see
how fragile,
to ever see it coming?
where
our sanctuary
from the failure
of forever?
It’s a lament not just for a musician, but for the entire fragile architecture of human wonder.
Hello p.a. Yes, strange and beautiful! Happy to see you are always creating.