Poetry, Unbound

Next to You

On sunny days when its rays
streak through closed blinds,
I dream I’m in the dust,
dancing and floating upward
and out toward the light.
I reach with greedy hands
for a chance at life,
a seed to plant in the morning breath.

I lay in bed next to you
warmed by the furnace of your belly.
I watch the ballet of tiny stars dance
and wait for you to move next to me.
I know you’ve been awake all night:
feeling me move,
hearing me breathe,
watching for signs of pleasant dreams.

You never sleep when I do.
You never see the universe
exploding in the morning light.

In response to Discover Challenge: Finding Your Place
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Rays of Sunlight” by BarbaraALane (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Looking Glass

Bad dreams keep me up at night.
Like two nights ago for instance:
I’m fighting with you.
Trying to flee.
I don’t really know why the urgency.

Then the looking glass spins.
I’m pregnant, crying in the seat next to you.
I’m bewildered at how I could be.
The only time we were unprotected
was two weeks ago.

Then there is a pivot to upside down.
The bodies have fallen down at my feet.
With a swollen belly and sunken eyes,
I’m climbing, running, crying,
but no one sees me, not even the child.

I wake up frightened.
I wake up heartbroken.
I wake up not wanting to wake up.
I wake up wanting the child
but knowing it may never be.

In response to Daily Prompt: Flee
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Nightmare” by werner22brigitte (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Elegy for Her We Love

I wrote this for my mother when she passed away last July and delivered it at her memorial service.  Beginning shortly before Thanksgiving and carrying on through the New Year, I feel the greatest sense of loss.  The holiday season is always tough, especially when you’re missing one of the things that always made it special.  Reading through the elegy I wrote for her always helps me feel closer to her.  I hope that whomever you’re missing as you read my words that you’re able to feel closer to them as well.

I.

How does one find the words to grieve?
How does one find the words to comfort?
For all the richness of the world’s lexicon,
I am still a pauper’s poet.

Lament; a definition:
A passionate expression of grief or sorrow.
The passion of those
with broken hearts, broken wings, broken spirits.

All too soon the joy that makes us bright is taken;
called to fulfill some ethereal purpose.
We who are left woefully behind
do not bemoan their destiny.

Instead, we grieve for ourselves
and the emptiness their absence leaves.
And, so, I beg with a daughter’s heart,
infuse this poet with your brilliant light.

II.

The things we remember most of her we love
are the special, stolen moments
of laughs, smiles, and twinkles of the eyes
because here we know we are alive.

The things we remember most of her we love
are the words of wisdom shared in stressful times.
The “Sissy, it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
And “Baby girl, it’ll be alright.”

The things we remember most of her we love
are the tender moments that make you feel safe.
A kiss fluttering on the cheek.
A soft whisper of “I’ll miss you. I love you. Be safe.”

Of the things we remember most,
we must always hold
that those we love are not lost.
We only need to look and solace will be found.

III.

We can find solace in the bluesy sway of an Elvis song.
We can find solace in the red-washed sunset sky.
We can find solace in the dewy folds of a rose.
We can find solace in the cardinal fluttering by.

We will find her in the smallest of places
like in the scent of vanilla or taste of pecan pie.
We will find her in the greatest of places
like within the love she gave that in ourselves resides.

For in these majestic moments of the mundane:
There you will see the way her smile lights up her face.
There you will feel the warmth of her embrace.
There you will find she lives on.

In response to Daily Prompt: Missing
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Christmas Luminaries” by Jill111 (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Vanishing Point

There is a vanishing point well off in the distance
that signifies the end of the world as we know it.
The fallibility of the human eye cannot see beyond it,
but as sure as we know the Earth is round,
we know there must be something there reaching out to us.

Vanishing points don’t just exist on the horizon.
They exist in the human soul.
What lies beyond this precipice of our humanity?
Could it be we are each born with a black hole at our center
ever consuming the light within us?

But vanishing points don’t just diminish the light
as it tends towards evening twilight and darkness.
They also herald the coming sunrise,
meeting it head on and erupting the sky into
sprays of warm golds and brilliant blues.

This is the moment where there is either
life or death, love or loss, light or darkness.
This is the moment where we meet –
The vanishing point between
who I was,
who I am,
who I want to be.

In response to Daily Prompt: Vanish
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Horizon” by diego_torres (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Phantoms

Out of all the times that I’ve tried,
I don’t know if there’s much left inside.
I’m screaming from the inside out.
My head is spinning. I’m left in doubt.
I’m going down.  I’m going under.
You’re drowning out.
We’re drowning now.

Tell me that I haven’t loved in vain,
Or has this whole world gone insane?
Our clock is ticking on the wall.
All the king’s men are about to fall.
I’m going down.  I’m going under.
You’re drowning out.
We’re drowning now.

All that’s left is ash and dust,
And all the pretty jewels rust.
The candles are flickering low.
Our heart’s phantoms soon will grow.
I’m going down.  I’m going under.
You’re drowning out.
We’re drowning now.

We’ve come to the end of our road.
All our dreams have been sold.
We’ve cashed them all in at last.
The final daylight is fading fast.
I’m going down.  I’m going under.
You’re drowning out.
We’ve drowned now.

In response to Daily Prompt: Faded
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Fog” by Skeeze (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Summer Storm

On lazy mornings as the sky’s tinder caught fire
We would sneak out in bare feet
To get drunk on wildflowers and honeysuckle wine

With red stained hands and jellied mouths
We passed the time playing ring around the rose bushes
And hide-n-go seek with spiders

In the afternoons we painted our skin gold
And washed our naked bodies
In sprays of falling rainbows

At dusk we caught lightning in a jar
And stretched out under dewy stars
To watch the strikes zing around

That night clouds rolled before our eyes and
In the distance we could hear the runaway potato cart
Rumbling down the hill

Grandmother set the storm free saying
“Child someday you’ll understand”

In response to Discover Challenge: One, Two, Three!
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Storm” by Dimitrisvetsikas (CC0 Public Domain)