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
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
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
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
Somewhere in deep recesses of my mind
I try to picture my great- grandma's face.
She left no photograph of self behind,
But I dream of her dressed in bits of lace,
Tatted perhaps, by her artistic hand.
Her sewing genes survived but not in me.
She lived, labored and loved and then she left
No memories for future progeny.
I've traced her name, it is all I can do
To give her substance and to make her real.
She was a living being who could cry,
Could laugh and all other emotions feel.
There was a time I could have asked my mom
If there were things about her that she knew.
That chance is gone and is forever lost,
No one is left who could offer a clue.
Dear Grandma I lend you my willing pen.
Reflect upon the life that you once led.
Be free to speak about your memories
And say the things you wish that you had said.
There must be lots of stories left untold
And lessons great-grandchildren could have learned.
Dear Mollie Blosser, I'd love to record
The place in hist'ry you have richly earned.
By; Joyce Johnson
Form Iambic Pentameter
My Dad was Chicagoan.
He would light up a room just like my Mom.
He loved to fish ! He loved his beer .
He also designed a Octagon home in the 70's
Built custom by hand . I was very proud of Dad .
Alcohol hit our Family , a curse .
He left my Mom when I was 14 in Illinois.
To renew in California , leaving a trail of tears .
Meeting my step mom , my sisters age .
My 2 sisters they were accepted in her world .
Not I , I looked too much Like Mom . Told this all my Life .
She a petite Beauty , RN , real estate Broker .
I did not see why it was wrong to be like mom ?
I moved in with Dad, His new Wife , and 2 sisters
eventually . All three women were competing for my Father .
I was kicked out at 16 yrs.
Years do pass , you try and accept people places and things .
At the end of Dads life , he was calling me once a week .
I ordered a Engraved Clock for the Fathers day coming.
This was a issue for the Wife and sisters , never invited to his new home , 2 Decades ~My little Brother & I , never wanted .
Dad passed suddenly one sad Spring Day . Not one word from his wife , all 3rd party, how and when, Dad Died . being denied the right to his address , even to say goodbye .
Not being able to send my engraved clock .
"Dad Passed " received call from sister whom just stayed a week with me , I took her all around the sites here . "1st day I get call , you should come , 2nd Day after , Dad's been cremated already . " It was a lie.
I went anyway , finding the funeral home, the Funeral Director was appalled at the denial displayed.
He insisted I was given 10 minutes alone with Dad , my Birthright to say Goodbye , he was in dismay over the Hostility towards a daughter ~
I get to this room of mean relative's. His sisters , Mine, angry looks , hearing from a Aunt "What is she doing Here ! " I can't give nor reason or rhyme.
Shame to you and all that participated that wicked day.
Are you Glorified with Power? Denied the right to grieve ,
Left with no sane answers to give in hatred received by Blood . Some , just Spouses , telling me I had no right to Say Goodbye to my own Father , My DAD .
My Dad wanted me there , I know he did . I love Him and will never forget , his youngest girl whom looked like Mom . I know in my heart and dreams he speaks.
We all see when we leave . May God not allow any Son or Daughter to go through such Evil.
Thank-you Poetry Soup for returning my voice .
There's not much to say.
I knew her, know some things,
but certainly not all.
I know how little she put up with fools,
how her cooking surpassed so many others',
how simultaneously sweet and hard she could be.
I know about her smoking,
about her jewelry, her faith,
all these I'll hold close to me.
Every single spark, every star,
shines with such a glow, such a marvelous radiance,
that we can't gaze too closely at it,
lest we cause ourselves pain.
And yet, despite ourselves, again and again,
because it's not within us to resist
the sheer beauty of it all,
of stories and of life.
A bouquet of tulips for you.
We all miss you already, Grandma.
I miss you.
I know Heaven's got you, taking no guff as always,
making sure we're all doing alright.
I love you.
Andrew James (McGillicutty) Sprouse
I was just trying to remember the past
trying to remember the good people
and the bad people,
that i came across on my way,
i want you to know
that you are among the good people
that left a good trace in my life,
once again i just want to say thank you
for passing through my life,
is so short but is wonderful
i want you here forever.
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
written 28th oct 2012
You were never seen by us, that privilege sadly was not for us
an extravagance we were overwhelmed by, the thought of your embrace
The entire twelve weeks you were a joy to have known, even 'without' being seen
hearing about you're arrival, was a blessing at the time you were conceived
For life hadn't been easy and we had all asked God, we even plea'd
We wait upon the day, you will finally meet us
having the honour to love and learn with you, saddly not for us
It brakes my heart as you part, you had already embeded love into my heart
Just knowing we will now...forever be kept apart
God has other plans for your love that's so strong, blessing us from the start
we continually pray, maybe he'll deside to let you stay around
But the intense pain of tears and loss, are constantly falling all around
just let it be known, we all desperately wanted you to become part of us
We all will love you for eternity, you are now forever one of us,
although it was only for a very slight second, it was better than never
You are from this day on, embedded into our hearts forever...
the impact you have left 'unborn young one'' my beloved grandchild....
Born American, sixth generation of great-grands all German,
not much liking sausage or sauerkraut, English speaking all the way,
except the Germany of my ancestry was fought over and broken
so I’m a bit of France, Germany, Poland, Hungary all the Holy
Roman empire, dissolved down, fought over, egotized, horrified
and remade Into some new state where English is as common as German.
We share a love of flowers in the face of cold and rain, I drink less beer
and wine, meet up somewhere, anywhere around the world on a beach.
From my parents and grandparents, I know to serve up too much food
seven sweets, seven sours and drink and whirl the night away to a band.
Hardworking sorts, unafraid of a little dirt, loving dirt, the turnover
and young sprout brought to fruit, wearing overalls and then washing up.
To sit before a pressed linen table cloth, served up on the finest china,
the cha in my father’s name, the uff da, and other exclamations.
The morning rosaries, the blessed churches where we give thanks for all good
and the setting aside of pride while we work together to make our food.
Sure there are aprons for cooking. Shorts for summertime. A dive into any pool.
What do I know of being German, not much, it's just somewhere in my roots.
Missy, missy little girl
With your blonde hair in a curl
Daddy's baby, momma's dream
Come let us catch a moonbeam
A moonbeam for your night light
A shooting star your wishing rights
Daddy's baby, momma's dream
Let us catch and hold a moonbeam
To the rhythm of :
Fishy, fishy in the brook
Daddy caught him with a hook
Momma cooked him in the pan
And I ate him like a man
A nursery rhyme that my mother taught me as a child...
Sponsor: Debra Squyres
Contest: Nursery Rhyme
It seems ages since we met over your long, golden hair
an hour glass on the table keeping the meter.
It seems like too many dress up doll days when we played
take me to the river but don’t get our feet wet.
It seems we lost our inner selves painting our faces
painting our nails, singing karaoke at the bars.
Oh, to regain those lost years of our youth, unwrinkled skin
turn back all the pages, like winding gold on a spindle.
Instead we have just leaves, grieves, and grandchildren
with their laser guns, plastic skin and smug attitudes.
They never challenged gamey little midgets with foul intent
they had us to pad them safely with money, love and scent.
Dear Rapunzel, do please let your hair down one more time
and play climb out of the cellar and up the apple tree with me.
Signed Your Dearest Play Mate.
If I Could Have Gotten Your Embryo
Before You Were Born
I Would Have Sheltered You Safely
and Protected Your Form ...
I'd Have Put You In My Womb
& Flowed You Knowledge Like In A Tubric
& Patted My Expanding Belly
As I Played You Music
And As You Got Ready
To Arrive From The Birth Canal
You Would've Known My Breasts
Would Be Ringing Like Welcome Bells! ...
Eager To Suckle You
Breast Feed My Own Flesh & Nourish
So You Could Grow Strong
... In Love's Encourage
I Would've Held You In Wonder
& So Close Tenderly
Amazed At This Little Bundle,
Breathing, Piece of Me ...
And When You Turned One
Or As You Sucked Your Thumb
Or Eating Baby Food Jars of Plums
... I'd Have Given You Trumpets & Drums
... And Building Alphabet Blocks
& Superman Capes
& Stuffed Teddy Bears
& Oatmeal Cookies & Grapes
I'd Have Read You Stories
From Capt. Adventure Books
You'd Have Known You Were Loved
By My Proud Mama Looks
I'd Have Spent Time With You
Showing You How To Tie Your Shoe
Rocked You If You Caught The Flu
or Any Sniffles You Went Through ...
I Would Have Played With You
& Prayed With You
From Crawling To Walking
Paved The Way For You
Yeah, I Would Have Fussed At You
& When Needed Even Spanked You Too
& I'd Meant: This Hurts Me More Than You
'Cause You're The Little Symbiot, Mama Grew
So, You Would Have Known
You Were Loved & Treasured
You Would Have Known
Your Worth Couldn't Be Measured
Nor Compared To Anyone Else
At Any Point In Time
'Cause You Are The Best
Because You Were "Mine"
* * * * * * *
But I Never Knew You
But Believe Me If I Had ...
I'd A Made Sure You Had
A Loving Mom & Dad
And You Would've Never Been Abused
Or Treated Bad ...
But From Now On Find Your Joy
To Replace What's Sad
Written & Copyrighted ©: 9/12/2013
by: MoonBee Canady
I wrapped all my tears, to see you smile.
you are the best, always by my side.
I tell you my feelings will get you crying,
you must think I’m out of my mind.
You don’t know, what I know,
all the angels let me go.
We were born to teethe and die,
you will grow to be so fine.
Fall in love, feel your softer side,
Remember me when life is kind.
When you go, let me know,
don’t walk away like the world and go.
Life is rough and the world unkind,
fight them down and you will be fine.
The truth of live is a brutal sight,
make no mistakes, you can learn from mine.
You have a strong heart, you are unique
I treasure times when you smile at me.
Live the life, I could not find,
be there for me, when I say goodbye.
I do not know?
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Wish I could rewind the hands of the clock,
Only love songs with you I'll slowly rock.
There's many things I didn't get to say,
You left me & gone on a rainy day.
I still didn't give you that gift,
Just once more in my arms, you I wished I'd lift.
Your many attributes & words I did admire,
Like Jesus is the only way to escape Hell's fire.
A granny so awesome you showed that you care,
And a strong shoulder needed you were always there.
Teach all daily to do what's right,
And there's victory for us if we unite.
How can I forget whenever you call,
A short prayer was said for me & all.
I'm ever thankful for your blessings & love,
I'm guilty for not giving you what you deserve.
Through grief & pain you were holding strong,
Still hoping your days on earth were more long.
But you will always stay deep in my heart,
Because of the great things to me you taught.
"Don't trod the road that's broad & wide",
I'm trying hard so I'll see you on the other side.
Surely you're up there looking down,
With flowers, white dress & a golden crown.
The black cloak wrinkled from a restless night
Worn that day despite its negative appearance
Deep, deep black eyes look darkest from grief
Time only wears away the cloak's black color
Washed to a dull gray-black lacking luster
The fabric worn nearly through from its constant use
Each night's journey into the land of terror
Accompanied by the cloak so real that coated every dream
She would sleep, rest, and dream of reaching for her baby girl
Relive the horror of those black eyes a mirror image of self
Staring back at her set in death's grip, wide open and black
A dream that never went away for it was real life event
Dead at nine months old from pneumonia
Found by those living, deep black eyes that never lived again
My adoptive mother and father had a baby girl who died at 9 months old from pneumonia..My mother fed her at 2 A.M. and when the baby did not awake in the morning as usual mother went to see about her and she was dead..
Baby, when you’re grown
cradling your own darling babe.
Remember your days
of sweet raspberry kisses,
rhymes and twinkling lullabies.
I will remember
the sweet sound of your babble
through bubbling laughter,
your pudgy, little fingers
and wide-eyed wonder, always.
for Andrea Dietrich's SWEET or SALTY? Contest,
Mama cried when Papa died,
he was killed by a drunk on the interstate;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had a daughter yet to raise.
Mama cried when Becky died,
she was killed by an abusive husband;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had a grandson yet to raise.
Mama cried when Bobby died,
he was killed by an IED in Afghanistan;
but Mama stopped shedding tears,
for she had her own life yet to live.
No one on earth cried when Mama died,
she was killed by a deranged drug addicted junkie
for the seventeen dollars and change she had in her purse;
but the angels cried in paradise when Mama died.
I do not know?
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
The Echo of a Soul
By Andrew Weeden
In the windswept hills of vibrant green,
Here I sit at your lonely grave.
The bright flower that made my heart beam,
Is the wilted flower I could not save.
From the beginning I did not know,
I was oblivious from the start;
Cancer’s blade cut away your happy glow
And would thrust to pierce my very heart.
Consumed in the darkness of raging anger,
Ten years I stand alone in the rain.
With death no longer a distant stranger;
My only companion in the storm of pain.
Now it seems no one remembers,
But you did not cease to be.
Your spirit still burns in glowing embers
And lives inside the fire in me.
The storm is passing; I finally see its end.
Happiness smiles again and shakes me to my core.
I realize every time I lift my pen
My Grandma speaks once more!
Reflections of your love
Weave tapestries in time.
As a singing mourning dove,
Your words whisper in my mind.
So though you had to go,
You remain in your begotten;
As an echo of a soul,
Gone but not forgotten.
While watching "Name That Tune" reruns
I taste the garlic she used to put in the Beef Stew...
Thinking and laughing
about something we had done together...
Bittersweet mem'ries of days gone by...
She was my Mother, and now she's gone,
but she lives on in me.
Her mannerisms...her smile,
her eccentric ways of cleaning...
Her mood swings...laughter..tears...
Her struggle with alcoholism,
and my triumph over it.
I loved her dearly.
In loving memory of
Della Jeannette Ham
9/24/20 to 10/20/94
A Man Stood Part II Story/poem
A man was standing by his window on a cold winter day.
He was thinking about his past, when a phone call came.
It brought him back to reality. He answers and says hello.
the other voice says - hello, are you Ben? He says - yes,
but who are you? The voice said - before I answer. I have
a question. he said - alright.
Are you married? He said no. The other voice said - I'm the
blast from your past. For a moment, he stood quiet, than
he asked - are you my Lucy? The other voice said yes I am.
Suddenly the past has come back to hunt him. He reflexes
for a moment. Then he asks - where is my daughter? His
memorey has not left him yet. He remembers that he has
many questions he had. He wanted to know many things.
He found out that he had grandkids. His daughter was living
in another state, but his grandkids were very close to him. He
got to meet the oldest granddaughter and her kids that day.
He got to meet his daughter two months later.
All was going well, until he found out that his daughter was
not the perfect child. Their relationship did not go well after
that. Of course the mother was to blame. she had not raised
her daughter right. The mother is always to blame. all I can say
is that we do what we can in life.
I got to see him seven months later, after I found him. It had
been forty years. A lot can happen in forty years, people change.
He looked very different. He said that he had loved me a lot. The
thing is that he had a strange way of showing it. The relationship
with his daughter is not good. She don't talk much to him.
He still lives alone. I got to meet his cat. He never again got married.
He now has plenty of time to think. We don't know what the future
holds. All I know is that this is not the end. Life brings us many
surprises. When the past comes back to the present - what do we do?
Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo.
To be continued
The wind blew events all over the place.
Intense emotions and it gave chase.
Lightning lighting to show us the sky.
People try to sleep and not cry.
Wisping by the wind keeps us awake.
The time trying to sleep the storms take.
Chills in everyone gives all shiver.
The clouds surrounded by moonlight is silver.
Heavenly prayers that the rain will stop.
The flood stopped a car the person in it was a cop.
People have seen such devastation.
The road that people made was week in creation.
Rivers near by was over flowing.
Trees that were there was not showing.
By the hour it claimed many.
My father woke up and did not see any.
Floating by was a boat.
Keeping people above water and a float.
My father kept a canoe.
That some day we would use it, that he knew.
Time to paddle up and down the street.
The rain water kept getting on our seat.
It was so dark after the moon was behind the cloud.
Still the noise of thunder still covered the ears loud.
The smell of moist water never seem to go away.
My brothers seem to still sleep anyway.
My head was bobbing up and down.
I was so tired that I could not hear a sound.
The wind blew back and fourth.
It seems that my mom and dad paddle their worth.
Till all the people we saw with grace.
Help us out with embrace.
The time was so late at night.
Everyone was so sleepy and losing sight.
The fight with the weather was so hectic.
The feelings of energy was electric.
Losing to such natural disaster is hard to understand.
When people working hard to block the river with bags of sand.
With hard workers like my mom and dad.
They make things happen that is not bad.
Rough with weather they experience more than ever.
Leaders they are they are very clever.
From the night light of street lights to the morning glow.
The wind did not stop so.
Bringing in more clouds that ill.
The people who were still tired still had will.
The rush of water and waves blasting push the wall side.
Pushing and the force brought water inside.
The battle of our hour was getting long.
Backup people came to aid us was strong.
Rested they were to keep everyone with hope.
The people stopped the water with the strength of rope.
Heavy rain and loss of homes bring people together.
It is kind of sad that this was the only time to gather.
Chaos comes happiness how true.
This is why we are human that gives us a clue.
It is our nature to keep rain falling.
To know when it is time for our calling.
The winds bring such pain and sorrow.
That is why rain sometimes fallow.
I think that I shall have a drink
and toast to you and all you think
'bout love & hate & art & war &
what this life is really for.
Giving, taking, making, breaking
lonely hearts club band;
reaching, preaching, teaching, leaching
blood sucking beggars with outstretched hands.
I think that I shall have a stink
and tell the world before I blink
that all is well as well can be
So kiss my glass and bow to me.
Just below my drunken stem
Connected to my brain, my friend
You know the one that makes you bumble
and people laugh each time you stumble.
Down upon your royal spot
Licking your wounds with all you've got
Until you get right back up again
With a head that aches & pounds & spins.
And I think that I shall pour another
in honor of my departed mother
and dad as well who passed away
Here's to where they are today.
Be they high up in the sky
Or somewhere quite unfathomed
Beyond our wildest hopes and dreams
And the completely unimagined.
Where now I reek & no longer speak
from too much of this brew
where the ice is melting rapidly
on folks like me and you.
So one last toast before we're ghosts
and life was a sweet chardonnay...
Here's to those who brought us here
And all their love along the way.
She bought me one and then leave
On her grave I give".