Archive for loss

One Winter’s Night

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 28, 2009 by 1writegirl

One of these nights
When words are
Too heavy
When the darkness is
Too cold

Lay me down
Beside you
Flesh against flesh
Warm and tender
Under llamas wool

Let our dreams
Come and go
Like fingertips

Grazing temples
And souls

In the midst of breath
Between us

Loose
Unbound
And
Gentle

For the duration of
One winter’s night

One blue moon
One light in the shadows

From spellbound dusk
Till breaking dawn

Find reprieve
With me
In the silence

Of night

In the act
Of silent

Communion

Time

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 9, 2009 by 1writegirl

Where does
Redemption lie
If not
Within the heart

In the realm of
Second chances
Dawn to dusk then

Last chances

Faith in faith renewed

We’re given only
So much time
So many possibilities

Before what came before
Becomes that which
Overrides all hope
Of touching anything

More

Transcendence has
Its limits
Equal to the
Human heart

Finite in dimension
Despite immense intent

Restricted
By the darkness
Captured
Within the scope
Shot down
By the power

Of ticking
Treacherous

Time

My ’59 Ford Pickup

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 23, 2009 by 1writegirl

I’ve had cars that are
Fast and shiny
Spotless and flashy
With hi-tech devices

Cars that are sporty
With removeable tops
Leather interiors and
Turbo engines

0 to 60 in 3.9

Cars that are trusty
Dependable
Plain inside and out
That start up every time
No matter how hot or cold

But I gave them away
One by one
None of them had what it took
To fill my particular heart
With what it wanted to hold

Then I found it one day
When I wasn’t shopping
It caught my eye
And I never looked back

A 59 Ford pickup

It had a few dents
Rust in places
It had seen a lot of miles
It was black, my favorite color
With a rip in the driver’s seat

It only started
Every tenth time
I got in and turned the key

So I parked it in the shade
Of a weeping willow
And talked to it more
Than I drove it

I gave it baths
Kept it gassed up
Waxed it now and then
So that it would be ready
When it got ready
To take me for a ride

And on those days
When it started up
I’d roll the windows down
Crank up the music
Throw my head back
And drive till the tank was empty

I’d come home late
And go to bed
Tired but happy from my joyride
Remembering the sound
Of its purring engine
The feel of my hands on the wheel

I was crazy for that pickup
I never wanted another

I kept that truck as long as I could
As long as time allowed
Until one day it started no more
Its way of saying goodbye

It thought I should get a Ferrari

But I’d had enough driving
So I turned in my license
There’s too much risk involved
Too much potential for head-on collision
I figured I’d rather walk

But sometimes late at night
When my heart aches
And I just can’t sleep

I walk out into the yard
Over to the weeping willow

And lay my head upon the windshield
Trail my hand over the hood
Drape my body across the tailgate
And listen to the sound of a song

That I only ever heard

While driving with the radio off
In my 59 Ford pickup

Fainting Memories

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2009 by 1writegirl

El Toro Memorial Park
Bears no resemblance whatsoever
To a bull

Even in aeriel view

It isn’t a park
Though it has lots of grass
You can’t
Jog
Picnic
Walk your dog
Or even throw a Frisbee

Nor does it provide any memories
Merely remains
Which you can visit from
Time to time
If you choose

Bring your own memories

I went there to say goodbye
To my friend
Though I’d said it already
Since August first
Again and yet again

This time in the presence
Of others
In a court with
God presiding

I whispered and laid a rose
Into the vault of her ashes
Blinking hard to keep the tears
Behind my Jackie-O shades

Wobbling on my heels
Sure I would topple over
Faint from summer heat
Empty stomach, aching heart
And the ritual rhetoric
Entrenched in these affairs

And if I did, I told myself
I’d just lay there
Beside my friend
Flat on my back
No need to get up
No reason to rush away

Let everyone else
Trickle off
And leave us together
Alone

One final
Moment between us

But I didn’t faint
Nor say goodbye
It seemed a
Superfluous gesture

For she’s been to see me
More than once
Since she quietly slipped away
And I know she’ll visit again

Roaming the skies of my slumber

Feeding fainting memories
Of a life too soon withdrawn

To tell me
One more story
To ask me for a joke

To give me her leftover hope
Of no use to her
Anymore

To say
Now chin, chin,
Then grin

Letting me know
It’s okay

A Keeper

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 19, 2009 by 1writegirl

A Collection of Perceptions is going on hiatus for an indefinite period of time. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you all for stopping by to read my sometimes humorous, sometimes ponderous perspective on life. Those of you who have generously offered feedback have added a good deal to my repertoire in the realm of creativity. I hope you have enjoyed my company as much as I’ve enjoyed yours. I leave you with,  

A Keeper

There’s a motel in the desert of Arizona
That waits for me
For reasons I cannot explain to anyone

Least of all myself
Except to say that it is the last place
I can be sure I was loved completely

By the man I completely love

I will go there and I will pray
For the first time in my life

I will light incense and candles
And sprinkle stardust
I will consult with shamans far wiser
Than I

In the mysterious ways of the universe

I will pray for direction
For answers and guidance
To hard choices I know I must make

And I will pray that miracles really
Do exist

And that my heart
In the end
Is not blind

Or buried in the sand

But rather
As honest as it claims to be
When it tells me it talks to his

Faithful it its pursuit
Of that which it believes to
Be meant
Ultimately

A keeper.

Haiku #11: Broken

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , on March 10, 2009 by 1writegirl

We all are broken
To some extent, if we live
Long enough it shows

Love Cookies

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , on December 23, 2008 by 1writegirl

I baked sugar cookies with my son today. The only time he likes to help me bake is this time of year, when I get out the cookie cutters and we make tree and reindeer and snowflake shapes. The rest of the time I’m on my own, at least until it comes time to eat them, and then his willingness to oblige knows no bounds.

My mind wandered while sifting flour and measuring sugar to some little girls who, in seasons past, have been in my kitchen with me, ready and eager to cook, bake, clean up, anything. These little girls, offspring of a man I was in a relationship with for several years, are the collateral damage of break-up; the bigger part’s smaller parts that we hurt, lose, and miss by virtue of their connection to ‘the other.’ I couldn’t help but think of these little girls today with more than a twinge of sadness and wonder if they ever think of me anymore, and if they do, what remains of me in those thoughts. Or have they all but forgotten me in the six months – which is, after all, like years to an adult – that have elapsed since I departed from their lives, unwillingly and without advance notice to either them or me? Who told them they wouldn’t see me anymore, and what reason was given?

I glanced with tenderness at my own son, standing next to me blithely ignorant of my internal roilings, pouring vanilla into a measuring spoon. I would give and do anything to protect him from the dangers that lurk behind life’s hidden doorways, though I’m painfully aware that I’m helpless to protect him from almost all of them, especially as he gets older. I can’t shield my own child from harm, how can I shield someone else’s? He smiled at me and I was reminded of how much more resilient children are than their parents.

Later, my ‘new’ boyfriend called, to say one thing: I love you. I know as much as the next person that the novelty of a young relationship lends itself to extremes. I know the heights of passion, spontaneity and in some cases, even blindness, rarely last beyond a few months. But it isn’t just his newness that is different for me this time; it is the newness of his behavior. In my previous relationship, the one with the girls I became so attached to, not only did I almost never hear words of affection, I got to the point where I became afraid to utter them; it made my boyfriend uncomfortable, he said, to hear me speak of love: the implication of forever being too much an undercurrent he didn’t want to contemplate, let alone get used to.

So today my heart leapt when I heard “I love you.” It is no longer the equivalent of a bad word; it isn’t a weapon or a carrot or a source of embarrassment. It isn’t a stash to be hoarded, nor can it be used up. It is what it is: an expression of affection, affection that, for the time being, is powerful and honest and curative. I revel in the knowledge of its existence, in the momentary gift of its charm and the rebound of its echo hours later. Maybe I will be one of the lucky ones, for whom love doesn’t fade away as time passes and familiarity deepens. Whether I am or not, I think of those little girls, and hope the affection we shared together was sweeter than its loss was painful; I am grateful for the times I hugged them and kissed them and we said I love you back and forth; and I hope they, too, will be the recipient someday of a phone call to say I love you.

My Fur Coat

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , on December 15, 2008 by 1writegirl

I love you so differently than I have ever loved before, I confess to him. I am thinking, I want to give and give and give to you. It’s because this is the first time you are really loved back, he says.

I think of the other relationships I’ve been in, of Ken and Jake and Tom and Ben, and I wonder about each man in turn, and his level of devotion. Joe loved me, I am sure of it, however briefly, in a desperate, all or nothing kind of way, that went, not surprisingly, from all to nothing almost overnight. Ken probably didn’t, but that was my doing; I never gave him the chance, sabotaging any possibility of real intimacy from the beginning, in the way a very young and fearful girl will do in the face of doubt she could stay with any one person, when life is secretly beckoning her to run like the wind and not look back. Tom never loved me and frankly I didn’t care anymore at some point; I gave up wanting his affection and in doing so gave up the act of loving him as well. By that time I had a child to care for, a son to exchange love with in a forever, unconditional sort of way that prior to his birth was the stuff of fairy tales; now, understood without reservation or fear.

And Ben? I loved Ben a great deal, and in spite of the fact that he withheld his love from me in the steely way a miser will guard his stash of gold, I convinced myself that he really did love me. I could feel it, in spite of his desire to keep it confined, invisible, and unspoken. Whether it was his, or my own feelings reflected back onto me with the force of sunlight in a rearview mirror at sunset, I can’t say. I allowed it to blind me for four years until he told me he didn’t want me anymore and then the question of love or don’t love became a moot point.

Now, this new man – this wonder who has swept into my life with the force of a tornado and shaken my very foundations – is offering me the chance to love and be loved with all the redemptive powers of a presidential pardon or a Catholic confession: freedom to be accepted in all my torn humanness with everything showing that has come before, yet none of it mattering.

He is not an optimist, a glass half-full kind of man. On the contrary, he finds very little in life to wonder at, marvel over, or worship. The dark side of human nature is the bane of his existence, the weight of it great enough to usurp what is beautiful and eclipse what is light. It is not a resistance to joy that he sports, though it may seem that way at times, but a continual struggle to keep his head above the ugliness. What remains at the end of the day is not so much acceptance as it is tolerance. Once in a great while something moves him and he lets go, he gives everything while expecting nothing, yet wanting just enough to stave off what torments him a while longer.

How I chanced to wander into his path is a mystery, and how I could possibly be enough, I may never know. He wears his passion for me like a favorite old t-shirt, as if it’s the most natural and comfortable fit he has ever found. I wear it like a silk lined sable coat, reveling in its protective warmth, amazed by its softness, determined to keep it clean, supple and free of stain. Bewildered by the fact that something so beautiful is touching me, each time, as if for the very first time, and suffused with the desire to remain enough.

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.