I’m returning to days now -
Monday
I think in grief, to return to simplicity is the only way to seek restoration, to find healing, to cope, to comfort one another.
The sound of your loved one’s steady breath,
a clock as it flicks mutely in the dark,
a bed that is our own.
I’m thinking that with these earrings and my red suede pumps and a little black dress, this bookish bracelet will be the icing on the perfect New Year’s outfit for a party downtown? Oh yes. And since it’s Cyber Monday, now would be the perfect time to buy it all for me, right? [Hubby, are you reading this?]
book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective
Today’s poem was written by Write Practice blogger Joe Bunting, and we’re bringing a little bit of the Write Practice process to Writes & Rights. This is Part I of a two-post dialogue about what makes a poem good. Tomorrow I’ll share a new poem I’ve written over at Write Practice, but for today, we’re looking for constructive criticism on Joe’s piece. So share your thoughts- what parts of Joe’s poem stick with you, resonate and tap into your innermost thoughts? Or does it? What parts of the poem are effective, and what parts need work? Do the imagery and message behind it speak clearly through Joe’s language? Join the conversation about good poetry.
~
Where are you?
Do you see that white bird
in the red branches of the shrub?
Joe Bunting heads up The Write Practice, a blog of writing prompts for people who don’t do writing prompts, where he considers himself the community editor. As a day job, Joe is a ghostwriter and canopy tour guide. (seriously. he hangs out in trees all day long.) Follow him on Twitter. Woohoo!
“Good poems tend to incorporate some story, some cadence or shadow of story… You could, without much trouble, commit these poems to memory and have them by heart, like a cello in your head, a portable beauty to steady you and ward off despair.”
It’s late and I’m exhausted. I am soul tired and bone tired and trying hard to grasp onto the good things and face reality, such as it is. Mom sleeps next to me, here in our own quiet room of a fifth floor oncology wing. For a few hours this evening she was coherent, ate a small bowl of soup and her headache was gone, her fever was down, her levels looked good. A glimmer of hope.
I don’t know what to think about anything. I don’t have a lot of words to say. And for the first time in a month, I don’t have a paintbrush in my hand.
I have memories, good ones. I have prayers. I have a whole host of angels that call, text, tweet, message, and show up live and in person to love on us and ease the pain. And I have these little links of happiness that have made hard days a little brighter. I hope you enjoy them as I have. If you found a good link this week, do share.
And a random comfy chair I’d love to curl up in right about now.