Something is missing from my life:
the crack of the ax
winter’s firewood piled high
wood smoke rising from a chimney
the snapping from the grate
heat sinking into the bones
live fire, primordial comfort,
on a cold night, its golden, spitting light
shadow painting a picture of all we
require.
It used to be
a howling ambulance
made me hold my breath
waiting to hear if it flew to you.
Now you’re past their aid,
so I send a blessing
to the stranger in need
and into the sky in memory
of you
My father’s ashes are beside me. Once
Every day was Father’s Day,
Now every day he’s absent,
But every day he’s here.
Love never dies.
Devotion binds fond memories;
so long as we remember him,
it’s always Father’s Day.
I’m on a site celebrating my adopted culture
when someone asks which of us were exchange students.
Suddenly there are 50 comments:
their years, their homes, their hosts.
Someone writes to me from Australia,
“We were there at the same time. I wonder if we met?”
Imagine that.
A virtual rendez-vous decades later.
A tiny marble, this globe; we can
almost hold it in our hands.
You drive away after a visit.
“He got his licence back!”
“That’s great for 101!”
“No! He’s 105 now!”
“and blind!”
Oh, dad.
Thanks for stopping by
to make me laugh
in dreams.
Some prompt poetry today:
.
I remember
yellow days,
sun bright on daffodil hills,
air stained with smokey forest pyres,
golden nights.
I remember
empty room,
first promise you failed,
fear.
I remember
twinkling eyes
hope
belief in forever.
I remember
.
.
.
Prompts from my 123 prompts for Writers & Poets book, a yellow day, a moment that scarred you, someone you value.
I’ve forgotten your name,
but one glance at the back of a pear-shaped girl
in a tight striped top and jeans,
brought you sailing through the years.
Short, feathered hair.
Acne scars.
Knock-kneed shuffle.
Booming laugh.
Where did I know you?
Whoever you are,
I hope you’re happy today.
I hope your life has been all you dreamed.
Just like that
you were back.
A flash.
Years had disappeared.
Your hair glistened in the light of the theatre,
our laughter and the crunch of popcorn on the air.
A flash.
Grief seeped through me,
sucking me back to the day they said
you were gone.
.
.
RIP Lloyd. 1964-1997 No one is truly dead until they are not remembered any more.
I turn on the TV:
Hockey commentary.
I am ten again.
Dad’s in the family room.
Whooping
Groaning
Arguing with the ref.
I feel a rush of nostalgia.
Turn the channel.
This moonlit night,
snow glowing with
luminescent memories,
I stroll along the old paths
thinking of the mystery you
made of me.
Identity molded like play dough
childhood laughter
leaching from the cracks of yesterday.
I can’t say anymore
who I am.
.
(another character perspective poem about Lydia & Dustin)
