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Never Forget You are My Little Girl–dVerse Poetics

My Mother: Family Archives Christmas 2014

My Mother: Family Archives
Christmas 2014

I Will Never Forget
A Modified Trimeric

The way the sunlight played across your face,
the words you always had to comfort me,
the silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
the smile, the gratitude and grace.

Those words you always had to comfort me,
when darkness threatened to seep in, destroy—
I think of these and find the courage to go on.

Your silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
your touch, just so, to heal or to correct.
This quiet, heavy–touch, beyond my reach.

Your smile, your gratitude and grace—
Do these endure in shadows of your mind?
Although you’re here, you are no longer you.

Yet, sunlight plays forever on your face.
Each day you tell me never to forget
that I will always be your little girl.

Today for dVerse Poetics, we are asked to remember someone we have lost. This is addressed to my dear 95-year-old mother who suffers from ever-increasing dementia. She has always been my best friend. Even though we have spent most of our lives at a geographical disadvantage, she was there for me. I still call her, every day or two or three. The conversation is the same. If I try to tell her something off-script, she cannot follow it, But one thing she says to me each and every time is this: “Never forget you are my little girl.”

Those of you who have dealt with dementia, as I have my entire life as a nurse, understand the we lose our loved one an inch at a time. And yet, the wonder is this–somewhere inside is that person who always was, imprisoned, so to speak and totally living in the present moment. It is our job to provide them with one pleasant moment at a time.

Please join us today at dVerse.

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When Winter Comes Early–dVerse OLN

Image: pixdaus.com

Image: pixdaus.com

when winter comes early
a trimeric

the day after the storm, white
paint splashes on mother earth,
leftover leaves, ankle-deep, clutter the yard.
i curl up beneath a downy quilt to read.

paint splashes on mother earth,
white and gold and orange, even green,
left over from the late autumn freeze.

leftover leaves, ankle-deep, clutter the yard,
soggy, no crunch beneath my footfall,
covering sagging shrubs and roses.

i curl up beneath a downy quilt to read,
to cull the warmth of words. ideas
swirl inside me, as another snowfall approaches.

Written and linked to dVerse Open Link Night where you are invited to share any sort of poem you like. I blended a few previous prompts: mine from Tuesday on weather, Mary’s on the trimeric form and  Bjorn’s on enjambment. Please stop by and enjoy the company and work of your fellow poets.

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I-395 North to Reno

Photo: C. Campbell

Photo: C. Campbell

I-395 North to Reno
a Haibun

Plans cut short, I leave Southern California two days early, leave my mom to her dementia fog, to her perpetual present moment. I have no desire to drive half of my 500 mile drive in the midst of a promised snow storm heading in from the Northwest.

The drive is glorious—a cloudless cerulean blue skies flanked by snow-covered mountaintops to the East and West. Mono Lake and Topaz boast still turquoise waters at a low level because of the drought. Our thirsty earth throbs with hope for the forecast of an impending wet season. Walker River is but a trickle.

When I arrive home, I see a wall of darkness in the distance. Trees in an assortment of fall colors whisper in the wind, greet my descent into the Great Basin. I breathe a sigh of relief that I am safe and find my husband and dogs waiting for me. The chilling temperature does not impede the warmth of their welcome.

a heavy gray pall
creeps in like a stealthy cat
promising first snow

Today, for dVerse Poetics, I’m hosting a prompt, asking you for a current weather report from your corner of the world. This drive is, for me, so wonderful–leading along the Eastern Sierra, past Mt. Whitney, Mammoth, Mono Lake and Topaz Lake and so many glorious views. I feel so blessed to live where I do…for more info on this road trip check out this article in Via–a publication of AAA.

Now, how about joining us with your own weather report. The Pub opens at 3:00 PM Tuesday. I’ll be glad to mix you up a drink to fit your current weather-based needs.

As I write this, I see it is snowing outside (Monday 11/9/15 at 1600)! Large, fluffy flakes.

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Dis-Moi, Vincent–dVerse Haibun Monday

Image: Wikipedia Commons

Image: Wikipedia Commons

It’s all about perspective, isn’t it, Vincent? You view that church from across a field of golden waves, as though in getting too close you may be hurt yet again. As though that icon of faith would bring to mind the abysmal (apparent) failure you experienced in your ministry to miners. Am I correct?

So many years have passed now, and from my perspective, oh-so-much is more transparent. For you, it seemed failure dogged you your entire life—failure in love, failure in your passion for painting, failure to be accepted—even by your family. I know better. You never did.

Do you seek balance?
Blue that speaks of such sadness,
but yellow for joy.

(dis-moi is French for tell me, using the familiar form of the verb dire.)

Linked for dVerse Haibun Monday hosted this week by Bjorn. We hope you will join us! 

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To You, My Younger Self

Photo: pexels.com offered for non-commercial use

Photo: pexels.com
(offered for non-commercial use)

You sit for hours
before rising/setting suns
and wait for life to happen
day by day.
Time passes by.

Or like the flurry of a gander
touching down upon the pond
or egret taking flight
you leave the now behind
to hurry through each day,
those tasks unfolding
till the years catch up to you
to slow you down.

Now, you remember.
and you know what counts,
and I forgive that wasted time,
(so-called) that were but steps
along the way.

Come along to dVerse Poetry Pub. Today Kelly is asking us to write a letter of forgiveness to someone from the past who is no longer here. I know; I twisted the prompt a little, but the reality is, we can’t recapture youth. Invite your poet friends. We would love to welcome some new pub crawlers.

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the rooster and the hen–dVerse Meeting the Bar

the rooster and the hen

the rooster was a cocky sort;
he loved to strut and preen
and flaunt his feathers so to court
a lowly, ugly hen.

his brilliant colors—orange and gold—
were truly to be noted,
but mrs. hen thought him too bold,
his ego, way too bloated.

but when she saw him walking fast
across the busy road,
she knew his vanity’d not last,
thanks to the semi’s load.

she felt regret when it went down
amidst a spray of feathers,
but still she caught one with her beak
and stuck it in his “nethers.”

I’m hosting today at dVerse Meeting the Bar and thought it may be time for a bit of humor, since autumn seems to have brought out the melancholic and spooky. Please drop by for a poem or ten, bring one of your own and enjoy some laughter. I have no idea where this one came from…unless it was the tin sculpture on our fireplace mantel.

Image: the-chicken-chick.com

Image: the-chicken-chick.com

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Un-Hallows Eve

Photo: V. Slotto

Photo: V. Slotto

Un-Hallows Eve–a Haibun

The new-moon night reeks of gardenias, a scent that belongs to spring in California, not October in Maine. Gardenias—memories of a funeral, of a long-ago autumn night, much like this, when her mother shot her abusive father and then put a bullet to her own head.

Alone, as always, Emily pulls aside the musty drape and peers out into the yard. Bare trees cast shadows, like skeletal fingers, stretching, reaching in her direction. The thrumming of her heart beats louder and louder, quickens its pace till, of a sudden, a chill pervades the air.

At a distance, a lonely figure approaches, its footfall echoing on the empty street.

restless spirits roam
seeking to find empty souls
to make there, their home.

Linking to Toni’s spooky prompt over at dVerse Poetics. Please join us.