An Extravagant Place

The Mag #299

It is an extravagant place where this memory resides

like a precious relic on a velvet display at a museum that

 only I

can enter and truly view

my footsteps alone echo upon the halls

again and again

to see you once more

feel your touch

my breath upon your skin

our public display of affection

that only true lovers know

it was and in essence

 is

the longest of kisses

my greatest longing

it is an extravagant place

I suppose

long kisses always are.

What Remains

 

Google Images

 

I originally posted this 5 years ago.  In observation of Mother's Day and my birthday, I wanted to bring it back to life again.  Happy Mother's Day everyone. :-)
 

 

Linking with Imaginary Gardens for the Tuesday Platform. :-)
 

 In search of my mother's garden, I found my own. ~Alice Walker

 

 

  

 

 

Time burns her memory like a building on flame and my heart keeps re-entering to salvage what could be lost soft cuddles pushes on the swing thoughts shared all return to view I cradle them out of the wreckage with the tenderness of a mother yet fervor of an explorer certain I will retrieve something new that had been once consumed by time's tarnishing way

one vision at a time relinquished like a photograph taken out from underneath the protective glass yet they still fade tattered at the edges and dust in between reflecting the weakness of my memory to capture every moment like a camera but I will carry on with the recovery holding on to each one like a child's hand afraid of losing them out in the open streets for I am the guardian and sole heir of them all and I will carry them with me in homage.

 

 

 

I turned 47 this year; the age my Mother was when she passed away.  I never realized at that time how young she truly was.  She never saw us kids grow up, attended our graduations, had the pleasure of participating in our weddings, or held her grandchildren in her arms.  Now I am very aware of the blessings that I have to see my grown children, and have the opportunity to watch my grandchildren grow up.  When I look at myself in the mirror I do not see the many wrinkles, or all the grey hairs, that seem to accumulate like dust on a picture frame.  I see the reflection of my mother's smile, and her heart that lives on in my life.

 

 



Like Bullets Ricochet

 

The Mag #223

 

 

 

 In a dream you are never eighty.  ~Anne Sexton

Like bullets ricochet so do memories within our nightly dreams
they shoot blindly at our heart and then bounce out into lights gleam
All the lost agendas and acts that got stored onto a tape
rewind in awkward segments like a movie that won't erase.
Sometimes they are a message of a path we should not cross
while others are a film of recollections that once were truly lost.
They are an obscure journey that ventures deep into the mind
where life's hidden plots and mysteries unravel for us to find.




I have always believed that our dreams hold a deep meaning yet at times they are simply just an unraveling of the day and days gone by.  Sometimes you get obscurity and other times a clear message, but either way you get a morsel of truth for thought.  To me it is like a movie inside my mind.  When I was 15 years old, I had the BIG dream of writing a book that would be made into a screen play.  So at night sometimes in my dreams I would dream a story that played out, and at the closing, I would say "the end", and I would wake up.  Yes, it sounds a little crazy, but it is true.  Okay I am crazy, but that is another story.

THE END :-)

 

Broken Records

Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther

The Mag #153

"Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened"

~T.S. Eliot

The song of old regrets plays like nostalgic records inside my broken heart and weary mind.

I carefully place each one on the player and replay each song until I have memorized every line.
Then I dance with each lament like lovers close enough to keep whispering in my ear.
So the breath of one hundred aches and grievances sing softly yet they sing clear,
with the cadence of a blues song it is an elegy and never rings with glory like a hymn.
All the records play only sad songs that speak to my heart a penance for my lost sins,
and I keep them deep in a forlorn place where my heart slips down into sorrows like too much wine,
for the dance of life has awkward steps that fall short of perfection each and every time.




I am generally a positive person and do not dwell on my mistakes and regrets as much as I probably could, but when I finally do it is always a dance of grief inside of my mind....ruminating the undone and should nots like old broken records stuck on a certain line.  Somehow, this photo just pulled that out of the heart of me and, place it upon the page. 

Light Weight Like Paper Heavy Like Words

Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

The Mag 132

"There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes." 

~Emily Dickinson

Some memories pierce through my mind

 like winter's morning light

 through a window pane

 moves through a big room

then like weary guests

 from a long journey

 others sit at my table

with the weight of old regrets  

together we relive the past

walk the halls

of torn down houses

remembering the laughter

trying to forget the loss.

The Empty Room

This poem was written many years ago by my stepdaughter Amber.  She lost her oldest child when he was merely 2 years old, but his smile lives on in our all our hearts, and in Heaven.

What good is a bed where no one will sleep?

And an empty room where one person weeps?

What good is a shirt that no one will wear?

Attached to memories of someone not there.

What good is a toy with no one to play?

Where laughter once was, but did not stay.

What good is a book that sits unread?

Filled with words that are no longer said.

What good is a picture where no one smiles?

As good as a mother without a child.

By Amber Whitworth
Written for Seth