Seasons Change

This is for gues prompter, Merrill who asks us to write a haibun on transitions. Haibun are factual accountings usually of one to three brief paragraphs ended with a seasonal haiku.

Seasons Change
Winter changed to spring and spring changed to early summer. The sun was mild and roses were blooming everywhere. You had changed from happy and verbal to non-verbal and sad. I watched you changing before my eyes. I would wheel you around the skilled nursing facility, taking you to activities and into the dining room. You enjoyed your table mates and the musical activities. You liked going out into the garden and having your hair done. You had a stroke and then another and another. You became non-verbal and bed ridden. The last two weeks of your life, I sat by your bedside for hours reading your favorite verses from the Bible and singing hymns to you. Suddnely one day you said to me, “Mama is here. So is your father.” The next day your father joined them along with your beloved Grandmother. I knew the end was not far away. I left you that day after praying with you and telling you I loved you. The look in your eyes was sad as you watched me leave the room. The next morning, your nurse called me to let you know you had died. I went from beloved daughter to orphan.
blue sky of autumn –
the earth moves to silence –
leaves drift like the clouds

copyright kanzensakura

 

Death Comes For Us All

For dVerse Poets Pub, MTB where the theme is repetition.  I have closed this poem with a classic haiku written for my cousin Billy who lost his battle with lung cancer yesterday.

Death Comes For Us All
“Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind, no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom … is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.” Anthony Bourdain

Seasons change – green leaves touched by frost
change color and fall from the trees.
Flowers fade, tomato plants wilt and die.
Death comes for us all.
my mother died two years ago,
my best friend committed suicide two years ago,
my dear friend died last June from suicide,
My cat died –
My cousin Billy died from lung cancer yesterday –
A litany of death.
Death comes for us all.
One after one after one.
The woods are filled with layers of dead leaves,
rotten branches, dried moss,
the carcass of a squirrel.
Death comes for us all.
One day…
Death comes for us all.
fall’s chill breezes blow
making the leaves shiver –
stars fall from the sky

 

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or has had thoughts of harming themselves or taking their own life, get help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255) provides 24/7, free, confidential support for people in distress, as well as best practices for professionals and resources to aid in prevention and crisis situations.

Haiku – 10-24-2018

My cousin Billy died after a long battle with lung cancer. His gentleness will be missed.

fall’s chill breezes blow
making the leaves shiver –
stars fall from the sky

The Kittens

For Sanaa’s Get Listed at Real Toads. The four words I chose were lucid, touch, sleep, gravel. This is also being posted on dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.

The Kittens
it was a clear and chilly morning.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet
as I walked back from getting our newspaper
from the foot of the drive.
The chill snatched the sleep from my eyes
and the frost sparkled on the grass.
The morning was like a lucid dream
and I bent down to touch a blade of grass –
the frost melting beneath my fingers.
I put the paper on top of some boxes in our garage.
Something caught my eye.
I looked behind the boxes and saw a nest of newborn kittens,
huddled close and tight for warmth
And then I noticed the maggots
crawling on their beautiful fur.
My mind warp sped to the body of a cat
I had seen in the road a few days earlier.
The kittens were stiff in death –
Orange, tabby, black, and calico
all together in a nest of death.
I began to weep in grief.
The morning turned to nightmare
as I grabbed a shovel and walked
to the edge of the woods to bury them.
When I was through
I sat on the back steps and thought
of how the death of wild kittens
could hurt so damn much.

The Old Wall

 

The Old Wall
The wall around our family plot in the cemetery
is waist high and built from local stones.
The stones are weathered
and some are missing.
My great-grandfather’s great-grandfather
built the wall when the first grave was interred –
his wife and son, both of them dead in childbirth.
Grief built the wall.
Grief holds it there.
Covered in lichen and moss,
sometimes a few fallen leaves,
sometimes a small stone added to the top
to record a visit.
It wraps around the graves
holding them in its secure embrace.
The wall was there when I was born.
It will be there when I die.

Old stone wall with moss and lichen

The Evidence Clearly Shows…

For Poets United, Midweek Motif: Evidence.  A brand spanky new never before seen by anyone poem.  Years ago I made extra money doing autopsy photos.  This was the day before all the technology and photographic and DNA gizmos.  It was simple – black and white.  Snap, snap, snap.  The coroner removing body parts, weighing them, pulling back the skin, spreading the ribs.  Speaking into a small hanging microphone while a clerk stood by transcribing and a photographer walked around taking photos of wounds, the body exposed, etc.  The summation usually ended with, The evidence clearly shows death by…This is also being posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

The Evidence Clearly Shows
“To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.” Oscar Wilde
No evidence of drugs in his system.
No evidence of foul play.
No evidence of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Just him, hanging from the shower stall.
I wonder what dark place he visited
before he embarked on his final journey.
I wonder about his thoughts before taking the last step
into parts unknown.
One has to wonder.
One has to grieve.

Painted in Tones of Argent

For the weekly 55.  When I wrote this, my mother was dying. She has since died.

Painted in Tones of Argent
My backyard sleeps under
the full moon like a drowned Atlantis.
I sit on my back steps inhaling
the scents of honeysuckle and
a whiff of pot from my neighbors’-
A faint scent of petrichor:
the storm breaks
weeping on the trees.
My mother is dying.

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: