Haibun: The Balloon

For Merrill’s prompt at dVerse – a quadrille.  A quadrille is a poem in any form with exactly 44 words using the prompted word, sans title.  The word today is “rise”.  A haibun in the manner of Basho.

 

Haibun: The Balloon
“Perhaps wisdom… is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.” Anthony Bourdain

The day I buried my mother’s ashes was a hot summer day. I untied the balloon from my wrist and let it go. I watched it rise quickly to the sky.
balloon rises to heaven
and clears the trees –
my heart goes with it

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes

Day 19 NAPOWRIMO  Kerry’s prompt at Real Toads – your muse

The Sensitive Plant Frank Dicksee

The Girl With Kaleidscope Eyes
“Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes And she’s gone.” Lennon/McCartney

Sitting in the ancient oak
pondering,
thinking –
his empty eyes
as he hung from the ceiling,
remembering the look in my mother’s eyes
as she lay dying.
Hearing the birds in the forest
and across the way,
the one lone crow.

Sunday Muse #47

Sunday Muse #47 Posting also on Poets United Poetry Pantry. Also on March 27, the Sunday Muse will expand to the Wednesday Muse with prompts. Sunday Muse will remain Pictures.

I Hate St. Patrick’s Day
“You can open for me the portals of death’s house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.” Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

In the same month of the same year,
My grandmother, father, and grandfather
had all died.
By St. Patrick’s Day
three of the people I loved dearly were dead and buried.
I hate St. Patrick’s Day.
And as I am neither Irish
nor Catholic,
I only love the natural greens,
the greens of trees, grass, birds.
Sing me a sad song birdie.
Sing me a sad sad song.
Today I will wear blue,
the blue of my loved ones’ eyes.

The Atlantic in November

For Sanaa’s prompt at Real Toads and dVerse Poets Pub, using as a point of reference Neruda’s poem, If You Forget. Posting on Poets United Poetry Pantry as well.

The Atlantic in November
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you.” Oscar Wilde

Remember that day by the grey-green Atlantic,
Standing there in the rain riddled with snow,
You pulled me close to you and kissed me.
We stood there lost in each other
Until the waves began to splash our boots.

Remember that day by the grey-green Atlantic
We walked in the fog
That misted our seeing, that misted our hair
With damp that made us shiver
As we wandered in the rain riddled with snow.

I remember that day by the grey-green Atlantic
Even if you do not remember.
I remember the gulls reeling overhead
crying like lost souls  in the fog.
I remember as the waves splash my boots.

 

 

Garden of White Flowers

The Notes:  A triple Cherita. A cherita tells a story and is written thusly: one line, then two lines, then three lines for a total of six lines. There is no line length, no rhyme, no syllable requirement. This first Cherita is the beginning of a series of poems in my Garden of White Flower Series.  This first section is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend Jeff, a sweet and gentle soul. He committed suicide this past June 18, 2018.  I miss him dreadfully.  I seem to be on a roll here with poems about suicide. I am working on clearing my system of three deaths this past June: my mother and two friends by suicide, all within two weeks of each other.

Garden of White Flowers
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you, all of my life.” Oscar Wilde

I. Jeff
He loved white flowers in his garden especially bathed in moonlight.

He began his white garden when he interred the ashes of the love of his life,
His lover who died from AIDS thirty five years ago and cremated.

He dug the corner of his yard by hand putting in much sweat equity.
He planted a scented white rose that climbed and then iris bulbs,
Paperwhite narcissus, and wisteria, in the corner with the magnolia tree.

He watered the flowers with his tears and sweat.

Next into the garden he buried his precious Cocker, Duncan –
Rescued from a dog hoarder, abused and starved.

He sat out here often talking to Gabe and Duncan.
He planted more white flowers to breathe their life into him,
He whose loves had all died leaving him alone.

He was sitting in his white garden in the moonlight

When he decided there were enough white lowers, enough memories.
He stroked the petals of the white iris and the white rose

Then went into the house on that beautiful June night.
The next morning he took his cat to the vet to board her for a few days.
He returned home and hung himself, the scents of his garden wafting through the windows.

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.

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

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