To write a poem each day
requires a better memory than I have
A hole in the calendar.
An attempt at restitution.
Something
is not always better
than nothing.
To write a poem each day
requires a better memory than I have
A hole in the calendar.
An attempt at restitution.
Something
is not always better
than nothing.
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.
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.
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.