Poetry Can Fill an Empty Vase,

 

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Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List --Joy School

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I am a poet and a mystery,
Each day myself as in a glass I see:
Creator and created fused in one,
Sun that makes night and night that drinks the sun.
~John Gould Fletcher

 

Certain poems are sharp like an iceberg

 floating on an evaporated sea,

whispering sounds of the ocean from a conch shell

with a message as loud as a scream.

They take us somewhere far yet close as home

 with the soft touch of a special lover,

then tell us how to fix our deepest ache,

 like a devoted mother.

They conjure up my brother’s hardest punch

or my father’s long-lost voice.

Some poems carry the whole weight of lifetimes,

yet the lightness of a single choice.

A poem can transfix or move us,

it can narrow, or expand the views we hold;

give us spring’s spray of flowers

 in the midst of winter’s dismal cold.

They stir the cauldron of memory,

like a witch crafting a certain spell,

leading us to forgotten secrets

that we never planned to tell.

Then they open us like a wrapped-up gift

with a remembrance made brand new,

again, witnessing the birth of grandchildren

and the graveside service that came too soon.

I keep an empty vase in the kitchen

that once held the flowers for your grave.

Poetry has the power to place it back in my hands

holding the newness of grief, I knew that day.

Nerves of Steel Are Not What They Seem

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List ~ Absent in the Spring

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"A full heart has room for everything and an empty heart has room for nothing.

 Who understands?"

 ~Antonio Porchia

 

Feeling no pain is not a strength darling!

True guts and nerve require a certain suffered calling.

We must be willing to sit within the bitter ache of it all, like we would a chair in the surgery waiting room.

Then hold the hand of grief and cry the tears of another’s greatest loss.

For we get nowhere if we recite words we do not know

to souls we understand even less.

Some things must be felt to be truly understood.

The years never pass quietly with nothing to struggle through;

we will be awakened by more than alarm clocks and baby’s crying.

There are phone calls at 2 am, the crash of thunder, and emergency sirens.

And where there is something to hold, there is also something to let go.

If you are grieving then you hold the greatest treasure of mankind;

a loving heart!

For empty hearts are too lazy to move what matters.

They only leave a soul roving far from where they should be.

You see weakness lingers in the comfort of the sidelines,

but strength runs into burning buildings

to save someone it doesn’t even know!

So, don’t be discouraged beautiful soul,

it is far grimmer to feel nothing in the midst of a hurting world.

I Have an Announcement: We All Get the Invitation, No RSVP Necessary.

 

Photo source ~here~

Linking with one of my favorite prompts: Shay's Word Garden Word List "Book of the Dead".

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Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality....
~Emily Dickinson

I speak of death

 like I know it well,

 always pulling at its shirt in public,

 like it is my mother and I a timid child.

But I still hate it,

much like a sad teenager views life,

or an old man his symptoms.

It is crashing thunder

 and everything I wish I hadn’t remembered at 2 am:

unsafe ladders, a box of matches near an open flame,

 all that hurts and takes away!

Then like bells that ring of morning,

there I am trailing behind it like it is my father and I am 9 years old.

I have spent my life all too aware of its existence and how it looks to take a final breath.

Unwilling to forget, yet, in a constant state of trying!

A heart can become weary dodging every invitation and risk,

but I have also learned that staying clear of everything is in itself another form of loss. 

Her Voice is a Stranger Now

 

It is strange how we lose the memory of a voice. We can picture the smile, feel the grip of the hands, or see the stance, but the voice it slowly fades into the distance like a cowboy on his horse into the sunset. After 50 years, it is something I know has slipped completely away from me, like a lover that was destined to leave one day; her voice is a stranger now. I can only wonder if I heard it again, would my face light up or would I be unaware of the gift.

Linking with What's Going On? The prompt this week is "sounds".

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That Kind of Wreckage

 

"The best way out is always through."  ~ Rober Frost

Sometimes to stop the fire you have to break down walls

 and other times you must leave some doors closed.

Destruction comes and leaves in different ways,

 like lost sons returning home.

Each one holds a different heartache,

yet the affliction is the same.

It is a painful feeling

when you must watch but cannot fix.

You do not hold the hatchet.

You do not have the power to stop the flames.

One can only pray for healing,

and mercy from that kind of wreckage.

 When the one you love is the soul that cannot run away from the burning building,

but can only go back inside

to save their self.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #230.

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The Drummer,

 

Theda Bara in Cleopatra 1917

“Iron left in the rain
      And fog and dew
With rust is covered.—Pain
      Rusts in beauty, too.
I know full well that this is so:
— I had a heartbreak long ago.”
~Mary Carolyn Davies

 

 I don’t need an axe!

I can grind words

with the romantic stare

of all my lost lovers.

I have lived intensely in the wasteland of charm and pretty lies.

A Rockstar of heartbreak with all the stages of grief.

I have known the scary feel of veering into oncoming traffic,

and crashing into hardcore hearts.

All the anesthesia in the world cannot stop that feeling,

and metaphors can only reveal a ghost of what was.

Writing poems now is my solace and my story.

They sing the song I will never sing again,

and make love to the drummer that first broke my heart.

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List ~ Featuring the come back of Creem Magazine

& the Sunday Muse for Muse #228

Visit both prompts and join in the fun!

What the Fox Knows

 

A fox has no expectations of what lies ahead.

He trails down the path where the lilacs brush across his face,

and it is always a new hello.

He deals with the seasons as they come.

A symbol of resilience he does what he must.

He has a way of enduring the shiver of winter’s sting,

and he survives to enjoy the summer’s breeze.

Never consumed with the memory of anguishing struggle

he moves onward.

I wish I could be like him,

but instead, I cry over letters that never arrived.

Every loss is a memento I store away like a ticket to a rare ballet,

for my heart is a feeble handbag filled with a quandary of old things

that were never mine to cherish., yet I fumble through it anyway.

Again I am lost over heartbreak like a girl that has astigmatism and yet no glasses,

I wander and yes, I am lost.

Somehow the fox has a deep and clear vision

of where he needs to be.

I am busy staring at an old crinkled map I cannot even read.

Linking today with Shay's Word List where this week she is featuring the poet Amy Lowell.  I had never read her writing, but was delighted to find that I love her poetry!  Thank you Shay for another wonderful prompt!

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Lost Upon a Wind That Never Blew,

 

“Ah, look at all the lonely people.” —The Beatles (Eleanor Rigby)

  

Flocks of birds and forests must know something human hearts do not.

Like a choir they hold the comfort of reaching in unison.

Always hungry for the sky.

Still man becomes a ghost

alone down a darkened hall.

A silver haired shadow

searching for a memory

that no one else recalls.

Silent stories

are a house burning to the ground,

never to be entered or seen again.

Some hearts are broken wings and fallen branches.

Secrets lost upon a wind that never blew.

A loneliness that only humans truly know.

 

 

 

I am so delighted to be participating in one of my favorite prompts, Shay’s Word Garden Word List!  It is always fascinating, educational, and inspirational.  Thank you Shay my friend!!

This week the featured theme is Jackson C. Frank.  Click here to learn more and participate.

Soul Speak

 

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard. ~Anne Sexton

 

There is another voice that speaks,

a poem with lines that drape softly like garland upon the rails.

I hear it like a child’s cry.

I hold it that way too!

It is a message that bears no envelope,

and a wingless bird that still shall sing.

There is no thunder bolt of lightning.

No trembling beneath bare feet.

Just the soft whisper of a certain knowing

that only night stars can surely speak.

Its absence is a deeper ache

 like the kind in an old man’s bones.

For lonely hands hold love like reigns on a galloping horse.

Trying to stop it from fleeing too far off course.

And it is surely a weary occupation

trying to be a god of greater things,

when we do not learn to listen

 for heaven is trying to speak.

 

 Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse # 211

Happy Birthday Weekend Shay! 💕

 

I Am a Door Closed to a Million Rooms,

 

...the heart is full — another throb would split it... ~Emily Dickinson

 

I am a door closed to a million rooms

and a million keys to just one door.

You could search a million drawers

and closets,

or fall to a million floors.

But you will never reach me,

even if you can climb the highest fence.

I bolted the windows tight

and threw away every wrench!

Some places when you enter

you are trespassing from the start,

for love cannot be forced nor taken

from one who has given away their heart.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #208

💔

I wanted to take a moment while I have your attention to say something important to me.  There is someone that I care about deeply that I have hurt recently through my own hurtful issues.  In my defense I did not do it intentionally, but I did it just the same, and as painful as it is to have to see our own wrongs, I guess I better get ready to hurt some more.  You see, sometimes we hurt people by what we do or say, and sometimes it is by what we do not, or what we do not acknowledge.  I wanted there to be utter peace; no waves, upset feelings, nor harsh words.  I don’t quite know why at the age of 58 I cannot get it through my hard head that sometimes you just have to ride the rough waters and let out a good scream when it gets bad, and just keep moving onward down the stream!  Rob, I think you are a passionate guy, and I do enjoy reading your poems, but the image prompt and the word lists, they are all good, and no comparisons or passive aggression needs to be thrown out into the blogosphere.  You have been through a lot Rob, so has my dear friend who hosted a magnificent word list, and so have I.  Sometimes people seem tough and hard as nails, but nails always make everyone bleed, and everyone needs to always remember that when they react to other people’s truths.   Anyway, what I am truly trying to say, is…………I am sorry for not speaking my truth, which is something my dear friend does, and that is one of the many reasons I love her.  I think I have spoken what my heart needed to.  Thank you for listening.

💔

The Open Doors & the Slammed Ones,

 

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows... ~William Shakespeare

It is the open arms that we long for;

the bright lighting up of the eyes when we enter the room.

An old man can deny it, but the 5 year old within still knows.

We want to be welcomed like a sunflower field,

or the sweet voice of a grandmother at the door.

The need to truly belong is a force in itself.

You see everything in life has an impact;

the power of love and the compulsion of hurt.

The open doors and the slammed ones,

the last words spoken and the welcoming's,

our heart never forgets them.

You were too weary for open arms,

and too hurt to truly shine.

Truths an old man can discern,

but a child 

 can only feel lost in the darkness of it all.

For it is the open arms that we long for;

the bright lighting up of the eyes when we enter the room.

An old man can deny it, but the 5 year old within me still knows.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse#204

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The Things I Remembered at 2 am Waiting for the Test Results

 

Photo by Jonah Reenders

The best thing I know in favor of TIGHT SHOES is that it makes a fellow forget all of his other troubles. ~Josh Billings

 

I used to search for worms in the blades of grass by the porch.

I found them fascinating like a scientist studies disease and the cells of change.

All the hidden things we do not understand; they escape us somehow.

Too small for human eyes to truly see or hands and minds to grasp.

I asked questions as children always do;

Why is the sky blue?

Where are my go-go boots?

Why was daddy drunk last night?

When is mommy coming home from the hospital?

Some answers never came, and others I wished didn’t,

but it never stopped me from questioning the world.

I just moved on to bigger questions and bigger problems,

like a graduate of hard knocks climbing to even higher spots trying not to fall.

We learn to tie our shoes, before we learn to hike, but sometimes we slip into the water before we can swim.

I have learned that sometimes knowing is painful, but uncertainty hurts more.

Like stepping out into the brush barefoot.  It is better to know where not to step,

and what direction you truly need to go.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for #201.  Come join us!

Somewhere Between Love Letters & Divorce Papers

When you have written a hundred poems of the remembrance of love,

how do you speak of the forgetting?

Do you measure every margin of a cherished page of poems?

Or ask the mute swan in winter for an annotation of spring?

I loved you in the bright of morning never afraid of the dark of night.

I swam a lovely ocean toward you,

and I could barely swim!

But somewhere between follies splash,

and dreadful storms,

I was stricken with the ailment of unknowing.

My heart lost the strength to hold

what it once could not let go.

Now I swim rough seas in the twilight

unaware of the sting

that once led me to you.

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #15 (Millay)

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Hope Can Be Held Whole or Served by the Slice

 Freedom is strangely ephemeral. It is something like breathing; one only becomes acutely aware of its importance when one is choking. ~William E. Simon

 

I never was brave or good with a knife,

but sometimes I take words and slice them,

so, you can see the core of my life

 and I serve them to the world on once empty plates.

For the rumbles of hunger call like thunder in the rain,

to sailors and farmers alike.

The living yearn to be fed.

Be it hope or be it bread.

So I started trying to fill the emptiness that lives in every silent place,

brush away every heartache

like tears from a child’s tired face.

 And say, it will all be okay,

but truly mean it!

You see I never learned to swim underwater.

Because I was always frightened of not being able to breathe.

I saw someone take their last gasping breath,

and I heard the silence that it leaves.

Since that day, I took hope and ink and learned to speak,

to soothe a bitter ache in the world,

and sooth the ache in me.

Cause I was never brave or good with a knife,

but sometimes I take words and slice them

so you can see the core of my life.

 

 

Carrie 101 💗:

In continuation of my post at the Muse, you may know I work at a library, and that it is inside a lovely garden park where photographers and families come to enjoy the beauty, but what you do not know is:

.....I am almost 60, I have been over weight most of my adulthood.  I have always struggled with knowing how to tell people "no".  I am horrifically afraid of heights. I work out 3 days a week or more to keep my heart healthy, cause most of my family members have died young.  I have a major addiction to English muffins and tacos.  Now that I got some of the messy stuff out of the way, I will tell you all the good things:  I have 5 grown kids.  One I gave birth to, and four that God gave me in marriages.  In turn I have lots of amazing grandchildren that make my heart smile.  We will leave it at that, but if you have any questions, feel free to ask in the comments.

Thank you again everyone for being a part of the 200th celebration at the Muse!  Especially to Chrissa, Shay & Toni too! 💓💓💓

Linking with the 200th Sunday Muse.  

The Memory of Sorrows

 

There's nothing in the world that clings

As does a memory that stings...

~Georgia Douglas Camp Johnson

 

 

Everything is fragile

skyscrapers

 bobby pins

an old woman’s hands

Styrofoam cups

the northern spotted owl

a human heart

you see even the moon has craters

being the old woman that I am

I have come to understand and know this

still my mind forgets all the details

but my heart remembers things

the flickering of starlight

the joyful tears of birth

the song they played at my grandfather’s funeral

falls that scrape more than knees

for words crash like waves upon a shore

relentless like a salesman

and serious like a preacher on Sunday

the memory of sorrows

is a child waiting

 promised a day at the county fair

you can bet your bottom dollar

that day will be remembered

in the joy of going and even more so in the not

it is all the things our hands never hold

that seem to leave the heaviest of weights

for a child never forgets

and one day that boy becomes a man

with a heart that still remembers

what a child cannot forget.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #198

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Life is Crazy That Way

 

Photograph by Anita Sedberry at Harold Ross Fine Art Photography.

Life is a long road on a short journey. ~James Lendall Basford

 

Life is crazy that way

A bird that flies away and home all at once

It reaches tall

Like a boy at 16

And then stoops

Low like an exotic dancer

Leaving us mesmerized and complacent one time or another

It quivers like a flame

Yet is still like fog on a winding road

it moves slow like an old man’s stance

and then zooms fast like a dragon fly

it is erratic like a small child

and then floats on air like a ghost

it is a million loads of laundry

and yet just one true kiss

the kind one never forgets

long after the flame has burned out.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #195

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One Hurt Yet a Thousand Injuries,

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #7 (Langston Hughes)

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Grief is historian of the heart. ~Terri Guillemets

 

When the heart remembers

It is never a gentle farewell

It is the burn of cities on fire

Blood of arguments words can’t un-tell

It is clocks that won’t stop ticking

And the landlord always at the door

It is the full moon of longing

Lighting an empty room that once held more

It is a million withered roses

That never filled a vase

And strangers all around

That remind us of a loved one’s face

For when the heart remembers

It is never a gentle goodbye

It is the bruise of a thousand stumbles

And wound’s salty sting from every cry.

 Photo by Rachel Claire from Pexels
 

Above Bullshit & Silence

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #6 (Laura Marling) 

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I held my love like a wounded bird

Wings broke from life’s fickle ways

The skin of my heart bruised

From fallen words

Spoken on lonesome lips

Yet I still write poems of love like a song of blues

For I am a hunter of truth in a wild land

Searching for warmth in December

For holy in the lost places

Crying for sand and sea in the waste land of dust

I ring bells trying to be heard above bullshit and silence

For that is what poets and lovers do.

young eyes see the rain drops old eyes see the storm,

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #5 (Gregory Corso)

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When we are young and our heart is an acrobat

sorrow never steals the beauty of the day

even nuns can’t turn us away from the fierce and the glorious

awe and wonder of something new

life is a tv

a magnificent show

and if we are lucky

each day a birthday in itself

but time and weather do take away

they dry oceans and conjure ghosts

volcanoes eventually erupt

yet engines lose their steam

and acrobats their agility

just like my heart

now I am fat on regret

I eat them till they are skin and bone

emaciated and sorrowful to see

they steal the beauty in the room

where I yawn until my eyes are truly closed.

 

 Note:

Ironically I thought of Corso’s life in writing this but did an opposite view, since his early years were as rough as an old man’s face.

Photo by Aline Nadai from Pexels
 

I Would Fly but My Hip is Acting Up,

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #191 hosted this week by the utterly amazing poet Shay!

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"Everything slows down with age, except the time it takes cake and ice cream to reach your hips." - John Wagner

 

 

I have become heavy like a ship

But not so sea worthy

Capable of sinking at more than an iceberg

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment

Nor remember when I could no longer move with the ease of a raven

I just know now my being is cumbersome and weary to run

It happened like wrinkles and joint pain

A slow conjuring of proof of the journey

Slow like a teenager heading to chores

But sooner or later the leaves are flying all around you waiting to be raked

Dishes are crusted and need to be soaked

Just like my feet