Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama)
Caressing a precious moment around my tender skin.
Teardrops, bagged eyes, a way of sin
The mirror reveals a lost eternal soul
A conniving move against tonight's phantom glow
Voices circle the insomniac moon
Like magic and beauty, "I AM" gone with the wind
The idea of love,
broken like yesterdays wishbone.
She is leaving
her arms, my shelter
her teardrops gone forever.
Never will she suffer-
Never will she return-
All I have is one last memory
tracing what is left
one last breath
washing away the pain.....
At Last Now I See!
Under the drunken stars
I had an epiphany
Striking like a match
A sunken treasure
At Last I Knew
you don't belong
you were there for the taking
Weak and sick, no longer sane
Memories lost, no longer -her
What has become of her?
You're a demon, who played us all
made us cry, while you slowly took her away
the way you ravaged her body
nip napped both her legs
fed her through others
the way she rapidly forgot
I hate you Alzheimer
I hate the way you took her the first time!
I hate you Death
I hate the way you took her that final moment!
Sleepless nights and pillowed feathers,
Caressing a precious moment around my tender skin
Pretending my mother tucked them in
Anything to help me get past my sleepless nights.
It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
the fuzzy down of peaches, acid-yellow tang of lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candy.
Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever flames that blaze across her page.
My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.
Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.
It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.
I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.
Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.
There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing. . .
Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.
It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears,
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.
My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness. . .
Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.
Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.
I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.
And the smudged charcoal lines of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours. . .
in memory of my grandmother
Beneath this table sits a box
It’s scruffy, thin and battered.
A cardboard box of memories
Of days that really mattered.
Confetti from my wedding day
A drawing by my mother
The shoes that took my son to school.
A photo of my brother
A tattered book of rhyming verse
My dad’s infatuation.
A silken flower, grandma’s ball
A golden celebration.
A pipe my granddad carved with love
A boyhood skill he cherished.
His baccy tin is scratched and bare
Its precious contents perished.
A tarnished ring with stones of paste.
My sister’s finest treasure
A suitor's gift, now black with age
Of value without measure.
This box hold moments lost in time
We add things when we’re able
A memory from everyone
Who’s sat around this table.
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
My white-washed bars surrounded me -
they held me as I slept;
they soothed me when the days were long,
and mother’s blue-eyes wept.
A baby girl, six months or less,
awakened from my sleep -
stood up legs as sure as hope;
as strong as flat is steep.
My hands, my saviors, gripped the rail
so I could peek outside –
the bluest sky I’d ever seen,
As tall as it was wide;
came into view - between the blue,
an airplane gliding by,
its smoky streamer like a flag,
across my memory’s sky...
The memory is a simple one -
a window, sky, and plane -
but in my heart, it's heaven's door
and there it shall remain.
I’ve hung it on my memory’s wall
Between that life and this –
It covers every hole I’ve dug
In sorrow’s vast abyss.
This picture brings the special peace
I knew when I was small –
Where mother’s just beyond the door,
and waiting for my call…
*Inspired by Danielle's Earliest Memory contest. I have blocked out almost every memory
from my childhood, and only a very few gems remain - this is the first. and I will treasure it
it started for me and my grandma always
on those rare but special Saturdays
the grandmother and granddaughter festival of preparations
for Sunday's after-church celebrations
the backing of the best cinnamon-sugar -cake
grandma's and my quality time to bake
we talked and shared our secrets of life
I was even allowed to use her sharpest bread knife
just the two of us throwing remaining pounce
creating our beautiful and beloved floury gowns
laughing loud with tears all over our white faces
and countless most heartfelt warm embraces
cleaning the antique black and green kitchen was another highlight
as well as the two missing slices for our well-deserved sneaky bite
grandma's great excuse: the cake broke into two
our secret two-disappearing-slices-of-cake coup
all those emptied flour sacks we could never hide
were transformed into something itchy, white and wide
I wore them always with the hugest possible smile
despite and thanks to the formless but exclusive floury white-ghosts style
PS. She did not give me 'just' h e r recipe for this great cake but also her recipe for
those days the sun flew like corn flour
freshly ground at the millrace
even in winter it was yellow
when I pressed it down with my thumb
like an unfastened button on my chest
I hardly cut my way with a stick
through the tall weed field
until my knee high socks
were filled with thistle tassels
jumping over the fence like a thief
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was
when the Big Dipper rose over the barn
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking
singing for the young foal with caramel skin
those days all hearts were red and warm
in the shape of a gingerbread heart
each star was a story
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade
What's most inportant in life?.... today
not tomorow but now,
Now is for living, loving, giving...today
yesterday has memories good and bad
but today is for you and Dad.
You see people rushing, pushing, shoving
everyone in a hurry,
wishing the time away.
If only they would stop and think
they're wishing their lives away,
I want to stop them and say
tomorow is not inportant,
live for ....today
That's what's inportant,
they should stop and think
It is today that matters,
Every day there is new life
in leaves and flowers
We must enjoy every waking moment
To wake up to the sun shinning through the windows,
the warmth it brings
the birds that sing
Jem you are in our thoughts each day
you are very special,
so go on live for .......TODAY and TODAY
and TODAY and TODAY and TODAY............................
During the Christmas holidays a candle is continuously lit.
It is in your memory to let you know I'll never forget.
Each year that passes gets harder than I like to admit.
I sit by the fire reminiscing while I smoke a midnight cigarette.
Your vanilla scented candle burns on the coffee table.
I admit when you passed I wasn't mentally stable.
You would be proud of me because eventually I pulled myself together.
I remember you warned me so many times you wouldn't be here forever.
You were my superwoman, I believed you were tough as steel.
This candle along with your memory helps me to heal.
It's kinda like you're right here with me.
I think of you as I put each ornament on the Christmas tree.
Tears roll down my cheek as I whisper your sweet name.
Inside my heart resides your eternal flame.
*I love you momma Merry Christmas Queen.....
Billie Jean Alexander Lopez...May 1, 1937 - July 26, 2007
At old age you chose to risk again
The pain of begetting a child in your sixties
You chose to give love to another soul in the world
Papa doesn’t know what is going on
But there is something going on
You just don’t know how to say it
It has happened and you cant deny it
Another child is coming
Like Sarah you don’t understand this
How possible can it be?
Yet you believe
With God all things are possible
You feel it and you can now see all the signs
You are expecting
The pain knocks
You bite your lip
With your hands
Hold your tummy
With a twist
It has been long since you last went through this
There is nothing like experience
Pain is pain
Each pain is dynamic
It’s the same pain but different
Papa knows now
You are about to deliver
He puts down his cup of tea
Forgets his hat
Because of the noise
He knows that sound
As each inch of your muscle tightens
Your scream is heard in the city
Its like you are pulling your lip
over your head
sweating and panting
You realize it now done
A smile of victory shines on your face
Has given birth to a poetry tot
A baby boy
Born to the Carter
Mazel tov! Cinda