The History of One Life

 

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Through many windows life looks out...
Through windows rosy with young dreams
      And windows grey with pain:
Through windows bright with hope's gay light
      And windows dripping rain...
~George Elliston

I often think of the history of one life, not from a text book but one that may have been a grandmother to the second cousin of the lady I just passed in the cereal aisle. What was her story? What came of her first love? Did she die of a broken heart or natural causes, or is that the same thing? A million questions flood over me like when it rained last April. Does anyone still speak her name? Will she be remembered? 

Sometimes I think that is the most tragic part of it all; the thought of being forgotten!

Everything reminds me of all the numbered midnights with my lost loves.

For life is surely a legend but death is truly famous and not just on Sundays!

So, I write love letters to the world with ink not on my hands but my heart,

saying, remember me!

 The little girl, the rain storm, and the old poet.

And each are the threading on the edges of my cotton cloth,

the one my mother was sewing long before I knew the colors I myself would choose to wear.

After years of dishes, problems that linger like fat thighs, and seeing more than I ever expected,

I find I view souls like books, enormous books with fine print and chapters that cannot be counted.

The world is a library of beautiful and tragic stories.

It just makes me sad to think that some were never even opened and read at all.

Fire, Landslides, & Bears

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List --The Return of Ellie Black

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“But to fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another.”

 ~Katherine Paterson

Seven days I worried long and seven days the wheel stayed true

my mind flipped and reeled down gravel roads

but knees and elbows stayed clear of any wounds

my eyes see a danger that this world says is just not there

my heart wants so bad to believe it

but my mind remembers fires landslides and bears

vulnerable and uncertainty are like papercuts with alcohol upon my hands

and I can’t forget the sting or the dash in all my plans

the plane flies too high and the ocean spans too deep

this life is full of risks and near misses

and its earthly gift is not one we get to keep

for seven days I worried long and seven days the baby never cried

maybe one day I will learn to see through faith’s maroon glasses

and take the bandana of fear off my nervous eyes!

I Will Never Forget Her

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List -- The Last To Go

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Beauty has no boundaries, no rules, no colors. Beauty is like a religion. You can include everything inside it. ~  Alessandro Michele  

My grandparents had a colored maid, at least that was the expression my Grandpaw used.  At the time, I thought she was older but I realize now, I was wrong. I am certain she was an old soul though.  She came twice a week to do what my Grandmaw couldn’t. She had a down to earth way about her, and had 7 kids, a husband that wouldn’t work, and no car.  She would take the bus and walk from the corner stop.  She had her own small closet in the dinette area, changed her shoes and put on an apron with pockets and began the many chores expected of her. All the while, she would hum and she always sang like there wasn’t a care in the world.  Her name was Miss Jesse, and she was beautiful in every way.  I once asked her why she was black and her face lighted up like a soft lamp as she said, “child, God made some of us black and some of us white".

I will never forget her.

There was more than one layer she wore of the truest beauty.

Each flowed around her like scarves in storm’s way.

And she carried them all close enough

but also gave them as ribboned gifts

to her children and to their children’s children.

Diamonds that sparkle and coals that warm like seasons within her eyes

except winter,

that she saved for just one man.

That bitter cold is why she learned to be tough!

Something she never wanted or planned on

but hunger drives us to climb, hunt, and borrow.

So, she became a totem of strength;

tall with a certain might that only the bearers of true burdens know.

Callused hands from scrubbing

 and a heavy heart from deeper worries,

yet she chose to love like a mother to the whole world

with a voice that was always lovely.

Her boys were her deepest of prayers

 and they were her inkwell of something more

upon a page like a scripture.

She memorized and sang them all by name

until they were as known to Heaven as the most worn page in a hymnal.

What If?

 

 Art by Oleg Shuplyak  a Ukrainian artist,

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List -- Hapax

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What If?

Life is like sailing. You can use any wind to go in any direction. ~Robert Brault

 

What if something was done differently and could have changed everything?

Something was given instead of taken away,

like planting many trees instead of zero!

I have seen the sway the wind makes

and how it can change the direction of everything,

like a kite in March and which way a child runs.

Every movement has a certain force that pushes at the passersby.

Each loving mother tends to have a kinder child,

and every hateful father leaves a brokenness

 that can pass through generations like a torch from hand to hand.

So, open your heart and let all that tears down scatter and be gone, like tissues at a funeral.

Only wave the flags that stand for love and life.

Rock the cradle gently, and teach your sons to plant chrysanthemums and not just build with bricks.

For what if something was done differently and could have changed everything?

Wise words were a gift instead of words of idiocy stealing what could have been.

Life is a Squiggle

 

Vee Speers

Untitled #1, Dystopia, 2017

Linking with the Word List at Shay's Word Garden.

Words from Tomb Sweeper by Alexandra Chang

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“Being is not yesterday,

not tomorrow, but today,

which is the fruit of all past,

the seed and soil of future.”

~Cave Outlaw

Time, Love, and Hope traveled together to speak at a funeral.

Each had a message to share, with different photos of the departed and personal thoughts on the journey.

Time was quite busy and the details and remembrance would probably be reenacted by Love.

Hope was noodles about this because Love had been a major crush for Hope,

ever since they were arrested for standing together against Hate.

So, Love had a lot to carry on the way; bags of every category and brand, full with all that mattered and nothing fake.

Hope always walked in front, keeping a slight distance from Time since Time would stop for no one!

Love never worried about this distance thing, for Love had a deep instinctual sense that was a true gift. Time and Hope saw it as a true superpower on the entire journey!

The eulogy would be shared by them all, but Time would ultimately write it.

Strangely enough the memory of the years this soul had truly lived would write itself. Time would simply speak for itself and sign with a squiggle to prove that each moment is but a lovely curve and loop and quick end. 

Love Is Always Willing to Carry You Home,

 

There is no timetable for grieving —
      Grief is a snail
      It's a shooting star
      A walk around the lake
      It's eternity
      Or frost 'til bloom —
Memories coursing through the heart
It lasts as many heartbeats as it takes;
      sometimes all of them.
~Terri Guillemets

 

My feet are heavy with the weight of places my heart could not leave.

For it is a slow journey when loss comes along.

Memories stay with us like a canary in a cage.

Chirping and swinging on the same old perch.

Like the hardest of goodbyes, they never truly leave.

They remain right at the hip like a child whispering in our ear,

I am hungry.

Waiting rooms can still be sat in, and last words heard just as clear.

I want to hold each one tenderly.

Remember every smile.

Hear every mundane sentence than I once took for granted.

So, I let them stay up late and carry each and every one no matter how far.

You see, love is always willing to carry you all the way home.

So, I shall do just that.

Until we meet again.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #223

Deaf Girl in a Powerful Song

 

Khatia Buniatishvili at Piano

I found another world in my deep pockets.

I reached in my hand for my keys, and I pulled out a distant dream.

I was no longer the person I remembered.

I was a deaf girl in a powerful song.

I could feel and see the sounds like colors.

When I tossed my arms into the air the pinks and blues wisped up with me like scarves in the wind.

The more I kept in motion the more it was like a dance.

Time seemed to be frozen and moving soft and slow,

 for that moment was all there was to know.

I twirled and raised my hands

I no longer needed the words.

The rumbles of the beat were all I needed to hold,

but all who sleep soundly eventually do wake up.

Sometimes dreams are for sleeping and others are for living.

Now I blindly search for words to write to a song I have never heard.

***********************************

🎶Note:

I really struggled writing this week. Not sure why I am having such a dreadful dry spell, but the last few months have been brutal that way.  On a positive note, I am delighted we had such a wonderful response this week to the theme. Thank you everyone!

Have a great week writers!

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #222

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Full Moon In A Hungry Sky

 

Image Source ~here~

"She wasn't doing a thing that I could see,
 except standing there leaning on the balcony rail,
 holding the universe together."
  ~ J. D. Saliner

We cradle the precious things

and place them carefully upon our lap

the miracle of newness is like a sacred prayer

it is hands raised high and heads bowed low

yet always in that moment eyes opened wider

we marvel and bask in the wonder of it all

it is a full moon in a hungry sky

hope’s whisper of a million questions

before the answers will ever reach our lips

a blooming garden at our feet

a child’s hand clutching ours

yet still we walk too fast

as time brushes by.

 

 Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #213

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Some Shelters

 There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. ~Willa Sibert Cather

 

My first nightmares were always storms;

lightening, wind, and darkened skies.

The storms that blew from your eyes

and reigned on everyone!

Some shelters are just too weak

to hold up to all that blows.

A girl can end up broken

unless she gets the courage to get up and go.

Now I dream of soft places much like a mother’s arms.

Knowing that some shelters cannot protect you from the storm.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #212

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The Smell of Bacon Never Lies

 

 

"The Whitehouse Diner" Photo by Aaron Segreaves

I always dream in color but this time there was the smell of bacon in the air.  They say you dream about what matters to you most.  I shared this with my therapist, and he said this explains a lot!  We mostly discussed my forlorn love life, my ex, and why apple pie is not my friend. You see, one of the last times I saw my ex was at the diner downtown.  He said he was hungry for more than dating with no strings attached.  I was certain he was full of it! I ordered coffee no cream no sugar, he laughed and said “that figures!”

Sure enough, 20 stale dates and 2 months later, I caught him with the waitress from the Tangerine Tango.  I know a bad egg when I see one and some rump roasts are always going to be tough!

Excuse me while I go make a BLT on rye.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #205

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I Buried Them Like a Coffin

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List #4 (Laura Nyro)

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Thank you Shay my friend for another amazing prompt!

I saw poems in your eyes

but I buried them like a coffin

for they were piercing like winter

leaving me frozen in mourning

they stoned sinners and religion alike

fearless like firecrackers

that went where they would

but they are words I shall never write

your lip’s silent confession

will remain

holy in the cradle of an empty embrace

captain to a ship that shall never sail

they are as gone as the train that passed at midnight.

When You Cannot Decide Write 3 Poems

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #189 hosted by the utterly amazing poet Shay who has graciously filled in for me.  Thank you my friend!

I somehow ended up writing 3 different poems.  Nothing magnificent, just what the image spoke to me.

What We Learn to Carry,

 

When you are troubled with worry at a young age

Your faith either becomes a mighty force

Or it grows small like the mind of a cynical old man

Always speculating what could go wrong

But somehow you survive

The storm passes

If you are lucky

The near crash never happens

The fog clears

Your heart finds love anyway

You learn that the wolf on your back

Can be a friend even as a foe

One that gives us strength to carry on with him

Or the might to hold freedom in letting him go.

******************** 

Don’t Attempt This at Home,

 

Somethings in life are foolish and others downright dangerous

Like giving birth at home,

chain saws and beer

 motor cycles on icy roads

Falling in love with your therapist

 Announcing at your father’s retirement party you are marrying an artist

Giving your brother old tuna sandwiches and hoping for the best

Walking in the woods alone when you are directionally challenged

Wearing a fur coat to a Sierra Club Convention

Smoking in bed

Living beyond your means

Driving with no insurance

Not reading the directions

Shall I go on?

********************

Purpose,

 

We hunt for things we cannot see

The warmth we never knew

The shade of something greater

A love that is true

Sometimes in the searching

The wandering that lost hearts know

We find meaning in the journey

And show others where to go.

What Hands & Hearts Hold

Linking today with the Sunday Muse for Muse #181  come join us!

 

Speech is a prank of Parliament,
Tears a trick of the nerve, –
But the heart with the heaviest freight on
Doesn't always swerve.
~Emily Dickinson

 

When my hands were small

I could not hold the heaviness of many truths

although my heart could carry every loss like a fire fighter

leaving a burning building with lives to save

 still I wanted to know what lied ahead

I wanted answers to every question

to know why God was everywhere

and my mother could not be found

uncertainty leaves a certain ache

not knowing the next move

nor what will happen next

has a way of moving us all

one way or another

 like pain can lead a man to drink

and yet love can do the same

I have come to know that there is movement in all things

in the gift of joy and the loss of grief

a bird swiftly flies to a higher branch

 yet his feathers slowly fall

each moving somewhere different than where they began

my hands have grown with time and callus

and I have held the heaviness of knowing many things

and still there are many questions

even though my heart has learned to hold too much

 like a bishop holds the sacrament

and a knight his mighty longsword

bravery only moves forward

and love is always brave.

Don't Speak

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #180

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“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”
― Sylvia Plath

 

I see your words like birds

Swift high and soon gone

Your lips a force of nature

Breaking hearts like an old love song

Beauty is like that

Strong yet it makes us weak

We long to kiss the lips

Unable to even speak

But your words are like missiles

Headed straight for the heart of France

I see the danger ahead

 yet still I choose the dance.

Doors Open for Many Reasons,

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #179

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But it was home. And though home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration. ~Charles Dickens

 

It is the welcome place and the goodbye place

the hand reaching out

with a grip as sure as an Oklahoma twister

I stepped upon that porch

unaware of the storms I would be sheltered from

and those that take place inside

years passed like migrating birds

I watched them from my window

where rooms became smaller

and girls’ hearts grow bigger

holding secrets louder than the creaking steps

 just down the hall

you see hope is a heavy suitcase

it stays packed right by the door

the one where welcome has long since lost its charm

and farewell is but an open door away.

A Strong Yet Tender Pull,

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #177

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There is no first or last in Forever. It is Centre there all the time. ~Emily Dickinson 

 

Life has a strong yet tender pull 

that can straighten and bend our path 

It leads us ever onward with wise and callused hands 

yet like children we pound the pavement  

Running hard to follow close 

With a crumpled map in hand full of Un legible notes 

So we lose our way and we pay the cost 

We weep from the hurt we speak of the loss 

Why is the journey so hard we ask 

As we scrape our knees on a gravel path 

It is like the gentlest of birds life says to our face 

That circles tangled branches to find its place 

To rest on a limb for a moment of shade or shine 

There is no rush life says, please take your time!