- It got mighty hot in the midwest of the states, and, for me, that means near Chicago
- Oh, I am sure it was as hot in other places before and after our heat spell broke, but I guess it was smart of them, whoever ‘them’ is, to alert the public so they keep hydrated and check on loved ones who live alone in highrises
- Does anyone remember this tragedy in 1995?
- Still, I don’t want to be that guy, you know the one
- The complainer.
- Hot enough for you? Haha
A sad story that broke my heart. I am challenged by ‘little learner’–one of the first I followed on WordPress–to be more transparent, when life calls for it.
I don’t know where my father rests.
With no understanding he signed a form,
And when all breath left his breast
All had vanished, his body still warm.
His parents’ house. The family car.
His favourite books. A baby spoon.
His cribbage board, the well-stocked bar.
The TV set. His vinyl tunes.
She took the lot and sold it all
Folded the money and drove away.
Without a word, She left a pall,
Not a thought for her unwitting prey.
By the time we heard that he was gone
There was nothing for us to put flowers on.
Write a sad poem, but one that achieves sadness through simplicity. Try playing with the sonnet form.
I didn’t plan
to dwell on death
trying to appear poised
but you are there
in my mirror
to mark me
my one difference
that some find ugly
but I like it best
a mark of myself
atop your Sicilian eyes
they played games
late night slumber parties
chanting and reciting
in a corner
reading a book
as something far away
that could not
touch me yet
searching my mirror
for your smile
among the living
I walked around
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
waiting for that four-leaf clover
that seems foolhardy
something new tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
wasn’t that sweet
following with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step
on rose petals
to silk bliss
the decay forgotten
Photo by Joe Papp, Wikipedia
I don’t want anything of his when he is gone. Not a damned thing.
We didn’t talk for 20 years, and now he tells me stories. He tells me things about my mother I never knew, and I tuck them away like perfumed handkerchiefs in small drawers. I may never open them again, but they are there, preserved for posterity. Someone will want them and treasure them. Or someone careless will throw them in the trash.
you break my senses
(your unsettled charms)
so my tears run down over their wrongs
to pay at my command
to release the dread
I shake their weak masters
from the groves
as fancy is mine–-
than any grave
A reprise of a Monday Random post from 2017, which applies directly to the wounds of this past weekend, real and imagined, and no, I will not explain that right now. Thank you for reading.
I do not sleep
vases of lilies threaten
bouquets of roses are well past
all the words
and flying about
just within reach
I cannot hear your stories anymore, how you would repeat the same one over and over once the dimentia had got you. Now you are not here to ask about the parts I have forgotten. How come you told me five times and I cannot remember?
It is quiet now, and I miss your grace, your smiling face, your eyes that inspired trust.
Do not worry, I will keep feeding Frisky while you are gone.
a worn Bible sits
snow falls on the fence posts
her smile on dark days
live by faith
love with intelligence
die with hope on your lips