take care not to fill that cold space too soon left in the wake of a visit from death surrender to wafts of scent left behind departing remnants of life in a room savor the sweetness with each inhaled breath as memories of life shared fill your mind the world can spin on without you today turn off your phone, brew some tea, get some rest focus on you right now, grieving takes time for some days, months, more; there is no right way no reason or rhyme
Na/GloPoWriMo2022 - Day 16 Prompt: Write a Curtal Sonnet (see the description below). Since i am deep in the thick of it these days, taking full advantage of the Melancholy Muse who lurks in from the shadows to show her face in times like these.
The curtal sonnet consists of 10 lines written in iambic pentameter and a final line consisting of a single spondee (or foot consisting of two long or stressed syllables). Here's the rhyme scheme:
Line 1: a Line 2: b Line 3: c Line 4: a Line 5: b Line 6: c Line 7: d Line 8: b Line 9: c Line 10: d Line 11: c
death interrupts our planned existence in an instant
Death has visited my corner of the universe thrice this week. Firstly, taking our beloved old tortoise, Flash, who succumbed to kidney failure.
Secondly, it claimed a lovely pear tree ripped asunder by a wayward moving van who edged too close, depositing her beautiful limbs across the street, blocking traffic, tearing down cable lines and shutting down power for several of my neighbors.
And thirdly, while the city assessed the damage done by the felled tree, a block over police stormed the home of a poor soul whose demise was the likely result of an overdose. A neighbor, fearing the worst, reported his repeated attempts to contact them to no avail. Death is a disruptive interloper leaving sorrow and destruction in its wake with no regard for our well-planned routines. It does what it will leaving us to clean up the mess. I do hope it is finished with our little neighborhood for a while. Not that I would wish its arrival to anyone else’s neighborhood. But it is a sobering reminder of how fragile life is. A reminder to live each moment to the fullest. Live long and prosper my friends.
One of those Monday’s with few minutes to spare, and so, a few Minute poems (8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4/aabb, ccdd, eeff)for Jane Dougherty’s ‘A Month with Yeats’ – Day Twenty, Poetry Challenge inspired by the verse below from Yeats’ poem, ‘The Old Age of Queen Maeve’. The painting is IvanBilibin‘s illustration to a Russian fairy tale about the Firebird, 1899.
‘out of the dark air over her head there came
a murmur of soft words and meeting lips.’—W.B. Yeats
breath to death
in dim-lit sterile cells we wait
to meet our fate
the reeper’s sweep
our souls to keep
we rage against eternity
is but a breath
to peaceful death
it’s comes to ‘do you believe them?’
all the women
nothing to lose
who claim abuse
for if you side with privileged men
know in the end
you’ll share their shame
for selfish gain
it really does come down to this
you can’t dismiss
you’ll wear the brand
of where you stand
She was the kind of girl who lit up a room. Not in a flashy over the top sort of way. She had a calming presence, but it was more than that. Grace perhaps? It was something special, hard to describe. I remember the first time I saw her sitting along the far edge of a room full of boisterous people, heavy into schmoozing. She was deep in conversation with our host’s Labrador Retriever. Otis was his name I think. And Otis, well, he hung on her every word, just as I drank in her every move, breathless.
I underestimated her that first meeting, you know. Of course I made it a point to get to know her better. Wouldn’t you? She opened herself to me like an ocean, given to tidal swells of emotion, teeming with life just under the surface, fierce yet healing. I hadn’t expected to find a wild spirit beneath her calm demeanor, but it endeared her to me even more. Over the years I learned about wild things. Only one so confident, comfortable in their own skin can exude such grace. Only one so free could dance through the layers of suffering and cross over into death…and in so doing, teach us all…teach me, what it is to live.
light fading, flicker
death swept you away too soon
how graceful you were
dancing with death, like lovers,
your final breath seizing mine
For Colleen Cheseboro’s Weekly Poetry Challenge inspired by the words: Calm and Wild. Today’s offering, a Haibun/Tanka. I have only recently discovered this form and I’m really enjoying idea of marrying poetry and prose. Peace and Grace Everyone! ❤
I know it’s Saturday. It took sleeping on Friday’s Word of the Day to come up with a Haiku considering the bitter irony of its timing.
Fête is defined at dictionary.com as: In noun form: a festive celebration or entertainment; a day of celebration; holiday; a religious feast or festival; a fete lasting several days in honor of a saint; and as a verb: to entertain at or honor with a fete: to fete a visiting celebrity.
It came to us from the French, according to The Online Etymology Dictionary, in 1754, from French fête “festival, feast,” from Old French feste “feast, celebration” (see feast (n.)). If the date is right, first used in English by Horace Walpole (1717-1797). fete (v.) 1819, from fete (n.). Related: Feted; fetes; feting.
So the timing of the word makes perfect sense! France? Bastille Day? Ah hah! I get it! Of course!
Except…on Thursday, in my world, I was graveside at the funeral of the beloved husband of a friend and Friday? Well, Friday found me at the veterinary office saying goodbye to my 17 and a half year old rescue dog, Lucy.
So you can imagine I was in no mood for fetes of any kind on Friday, or so I thought at first glance. But then I began to embrace the word and found comfort in it.
I thought about the happy reunions that happened in clusters at the graveside on Thursday as family members and friends, separated by distance and time, embraced. And there were sermons and songs that promised the joy to be found by the departed in the beyond; a Fete of heavenly proportions and happy reunions with those who had passed before and would be waiting to greet him. Whether one is a believer in heaven or not, the comfort it gives those who do believe is lovely to witness.
Then on Friday, I considered how the joyous memories of happier, healthier times held me as I helped my little dog take her final trip “across the rainbow”, as they say, in peace and dignity. A life well lived is much to be feted! And Lucy was a diva and a queen while she lived. I smile to think of her, a 10 pound shitzu bossing around her 180 pound mastiff brother! She was a force! Her life was a fête!
So, this is your Haiku, a day late, for Friday’s Word of the Day. Maybe not what you were expecting, given it’s definition, but every bit as relevant to me given the circumstances of my real life week, kissed by irony.
joyous fêtes beyond the veil
welcome us in death
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