BEREAVEMENT

Waking Up, alone

she woke up alone again
cold blanket wrapped around her
no tug from the right side of the bed
or a poke on the rib with an elbow

she closed her eyes
mightily holding back the tears
they seeped through her eyelids
and wet her short lashes

a grandchild ran in and snuggled
chubby hands grasping her tired body
no whoops no irritating braying laughter
from her other side

his smell still lingered on the old bed
the horrid odour of stale tobacco
she thought of the lazy smoke from his pipe
placed carefully on a ceramic dish

she wanted to burrow into yesterday
and scold the old man, her beloved
forty years of loving
never changed his attitude

she sat up as the clock strike nine
she couldn't sleep forever
searching the dreamscapes
for a glimpse of the old fool

looking out of the window
waving to her child with her child
she glimpsed a familiar face
mirrored beside her on the window

she smiled sadly as she looked around
forty years of loving made him a part of her
he seemed to stay with her in brief glimpses
yet she knew she couldn't haunt him forever.

R.I.P.Sorry.  KJV Ps 69:22  

.:I'm.sorry.:.you.:.died:.
>honest<
>I.am<
.:darling.:
>u.moved.me<
>honest<
.:you.did:.
>:honest:<
>you.did.<
>honest<
>you.did<
>>Sorry<<
.:sorry.:.you.:.died:.
liar...liar
>pants.on.fire<
.knot.

This is going to be a difficult decision, thank you all for contributing. I'll waive the limit to two submissions, if anyone would like to let more work flow.

Competition extended by a week.

Un-Pre-Dic-Table

Beauty in the un-pre-dic-tab-le
positively unassailable
consumate unattainable
thirsting for aquivaccal
vocal
latency

Speaking
not being heard
talking
not a word
muttering
pledging the third
a whisper,
not a word

I am not in your minds I
am not ready to tr-I
am a work of art
am a sand storm dessert
wind swept mountain
cold, drawn, carcass
felt, tipped, pen
whisper, in, repentance
trepid
press
send.

[Written after watching this: https://www.ted.com/talks/alyssa_monks_how_loss_helped_one_artist_find_beauty_in_imperfection ]

Cross I Bear

I hide my tears
So no one can see
It's not from fear
Without you I'm not me

You spend your days
Under the shade
In a field of stone

I'm no ones child
Now that your gone
I feel so lost and alone

This cross I bear
You always had to wear
I keep around my neck
So God won't forget

I want to go home

Where an open heart,
without judgement
is always welcomed
and given rest.

How do I explain
that segments and facets
and pieces of my body
and soul over time
have left the temple,
where hate
and misunderstandings
(I'm so exhausted)
and faux idols,
have been encouraged
and allowed to dwell
with the well-meaning,
accommodating,
the new, the young,
the long-term elders,
the amiable,
the strong, the infirm,
the entrepreneurs with their
small shops
open for business,
and the barefoot lost
who arrive daily
in hopes of being found.

But I am a warrior
who has been active
in the same campaigns
for many years,
and it's these years
that turned inward
and started to undermine
and break down
what takes a long time
to tire the spirit,
and continues to beat down
the physical spirit
from the epic battle
in the ultimate war.  
A warrior knows only
to stand firm and be true
for as long as there's breath.  

And there's the teacher in me
that I haven't the strength
to give in service
as my body continues
to let me down.  
A warrior and a teacher,
who's hand and purpose
turn to tremors
like a fault line
in the shifting earth,
moving closer to the sea,
to run out of acreage
and simply disappears.

Closure

What the fuck is closure anyway
Some mystical happening I’m told
Apparently there comes a time
When you are meant to close the book
When the matter is finished, it’s over
Closure is an invented buzz word
Created by social workers, psychiatrists
And weak minded talk show hosts
It’s time to move on they say
You’ll be just fine going forward
You must bury the past
Forgive and forget
Stop grieving
Well I say
“Fuck it.”

There is no such thing as closure
When you have had to bury a child
And the culprit has walked free
You’re not meant to outlive your child
Or anyone you have unconditional love for
There is no tangible way back from that
You have to carry it around like luggage
It’s not even a matter of choice
Love creates painful memories
That never, ever goes away
A cross to bare
A load to carry
Never ending
Sadness
“Fuck it.”

Closure is nothing but a sick joke
A joke that is simply not funny
Pedalled by Jeremy Kyle and Dr.Phil
And an endless line of celebrity assholes
Who know nothing of real loss
You can only truly find closure
Once you stop loving or caring
I don’t want their fuckin closure
I want to remember
I need to be angry
My beautiful son’s light
Will never go out
I won’t let it
No closure
Fuck ‘em

Misses Missed

Amid my stiff cold morning
Adrift in dread
I saw you
Lingering in the shadow
Teasing my shirt
My ugly hair

I laugh, then tense up
Your sadness drips
From evanescent memories
Dying softly in longings
A mournful touch
A sorrowful daze
Confused visions
Fading life each day
In a pail, listless grey




~anonshadow😏

Too Many Ifs

Too many ifs drive me on
far from those I hold dear
full the barrier between our souls
expressed in dual letters so hard to hold
a future I rush towards in my haste
here is the way to understand.

If I yelled the sky would sound
with anger's voice unfulfilled
rasping horse with vented rage
the inner child full of dismay.

If I cried the land would drown
with tears unceasing to ground
from bottomless pit of despair
never stopping once released.

If I could touch life would leave
the ones I reached with body pressed
with hunger far too deep to please
the empty crypt seeking peace.

All these ifs are too much for me
I've tried to still the moaning voice
cauterize the stumps that bleed
find a place where I could hide
if only there was a path to take
on the dark of away from here
at the end of barrel steel
one step into the truck's way
with too many pills to ease the pain
to stop the voices that if the pain.

Prisoner of Love

I am not your vessel
My life is not your wet clay
To spin in circles
Doing what you please
Probing with grubby hands
Molding my curves
To fit the bends
Of your fingers

There's no slip of paper
Snatching my family name
Away from me
No tiny handcuff around my finger
To chain me to your existence
You are not my savior

I am married to the night
Melting into the shadows
I became one with long ago
I am growing weary of this charade
Yet still following you into your life
While my own is dissipating
Into the Western skies
That I once looked to for salvation

You grab my hand
And run toward the sunrise
In your sky
While my dreams are dissappearing
Into the neon clouds
Of a fading horizon

Stunning. This captured it all. Well done.

In the end, it's all about the destination

7.30 train North to South,
carriages full of bankers heading to the smoke

a woman adjusts her make-up in a compact
draws a neat little cats-eye line on her lid,
the juddering of the rail makes it an art form.

I am already on my fifth brew of the day
came prepared with a silver flask
holding hot water and steaming tea,
my peppermint permeates the air
overrides the cheap coffee aroma
drifting from a graveyard of paper cups
strewn down the aisle.

It's where I'm headed-
to bury her

to bury a woman who's veins gave out
to bury a woman who's insanity ate her
from the inside...

the ellipsis would have killed me too
if I let it.

Trees feel like they are burning,
autumn flames beyond the window
my forehead pressed against glass,
I close my eyes counting heartbeats
of wheel against the iron track

one-two
              one-two
                            one-two

it pulses in my skull, migraines of change
and by the time we grind to a halt
the woman's face paint is perfect,
the bankers click their leather brogues
down the grime-trodden platform

I light a cigarette to welcome me home.


~


3.30 train South to North,
carriages full of tired men anchored to screens

I forgot to wear tear-proof mascara this morning,
I dab at my face eradicating black from my cheeks
and unlike my love of watercolour, it doesn't wash.

English rain arrived like I knew it would
I wear patent heels to the churchyard;
I should be studying her
I should be watching her final fall
deep into the floor, but I do not

I watch water slip over my shining shoes
and think about the metaphor.

I wonder what it would be like to sink,
to be lowered by clouds that brought me here
wonder if the rope bearers count
"one-two, one-two" earthing themselves
in meaning and preposition

I remember my Mother, her little finger
curling against my Father's [I think about you]
and how we're all dependent on something
all of us just waiting for a rhythm,
bones perhaps, a drop of blood
to build a wall around our memories

in solitude, our coffins are perfectly matched
right-angled in failure and descent,
madness gleaming with pearlescent silks
I paid for with bereavement
a few lost dreams perhaps

I light a cigarette to welcome me home.

would you like photos?...

... the nurse asks
in room 8
on the the 3rd floor.
it is the 10th day
of the 10th month
& it may be dark
beyond the white blinds,
but i don't need
flash photography
to remember
the many shades of
dead on arrival blue
bruising her skin

she's medical waste,
the matron says
at the checkout desk
2days &
countless hours later
& they've already
incinerated biohazard bags
& never breathing babies
who aren't fit for
caskets or prayers.
i suppose we're meant to
bury the memories.

i leave emptier
with my hands
full of flowers,
overflowing
with understanding
what plath meant
about tulips.

Dancing With Grace

I'm dancing with Grace,
her hand to my shoulder,
the other joined in kind.
A view of what could be,
for a daughter entombed,
present in my arms tonight.

Kindly relation dear stranger,
you could be the one,
my little girl reborn.
Divine grant me this echo,
beautiful revenant corporal
of a daughter now passed.

What could she have been,
I may never know for sure,
but in your image I am assured.
I acclaim your achievements,
your elegance and beauty,
of age as the one not here.

You honor her and all your kind,
in your life's ways, choices made,
to the best of what could be.
I'm dancing with Grace,
you truly are not her,
fair clue of what could have been.