Book of Tears - Hello Poetry

Apr 2017

Helen

When all that is left
is feeling hurt
When it's the only song
you have ever learned
when it's the only tune
you have ever heard

Can you let it go?

Someone once said to me
Let it go, let them free
but they come back,
can't you see?

Should I let them go?

When I let them go
They still follow me
I tried to free them
but can't you see?

They came back to me

and I can't let them go

Oh no,
Oh no!

I won't let them go

Oh no

I won't

Let them go, let them go

Oh no...

When I'm the only light
they have ever known
The only place
they ever called home
When I'm the one
they miss the most

**I won't let them go

I miss my Son so much...

Mar 2017

Jonathan Witte

Expiration Date

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Mar 2017

Softly Spoken

Pacific

My daughter sleeps to the sound of the ocean
softly, gently rocked
forth and afar into dreams and nightmares
a soft static blanket
the assonance of water

My daughter sleeps
to the sound of an ocean that she has never heard
a loop of imagined waves that have
never wet her feet
she has never run screaming and laughing
from the imagined horrors of seaweed, foam
Tangaroa’s arms enfolding her

As my daughter sleeps, I cry
as salty as the swells she’s never seen
in this landlocked room
slowly falling from my cheek
to land on hers
a soft saline baptism

As my daughter sleeps, my thoughts fly
wondering how I can fill her
with the awe that something as elemental
something as capricious
something as beautiful
can exist in this tattered world

but still, my daughter sleeps

I grew up on and in the Pacific. It's wild and elemental, and I miss it dreadfully.. now my daughter sleeps to a loop of the sound of the ocean and it struck me as ironic that she dreams to something she has experienced.

#ocean #sea #children #sounds

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

craquelure

~

she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.

she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.

she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.

she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.

her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.

this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.

~

*post script.

cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.

this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss. for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it. we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer; pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix. unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it. yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

Her Love Courageous

A mother’s love runs deep, is strong,
Her child’s death it does not sever,
Instead their bond draws like a noose,
Her love becomes to her a razor.
Bruising, wounding, cutting deep,
Her beating heart she fears may burst;
Yet throw it off she dare not think,
For that would be a pain far worse.
So goes on her love courageous,
Burden borne her choice to keep;
Eternal flame within her burning,
‘Til she too finds her final sleep.

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

letting go

~

i remember the day
when first we met;
your face i can see,
i'll not ever forget.
hearing your cry,
i sang your first song;
i was just learning then
how to hold on.

off to the playground,
i think you were three;
while crossing the street,
you were clinging to me.
when pushing your swing,
i'd always say,
'i'm right behind you, son,
i'll keep you safe.'

for years we work hard
learning how to hold on,
and then in a moment,
childhood is gone;
no longer their fortress,
our arms they outgrow;
we find we're not ready,
when it's time to let go.

we took you to college,
we set up your room.
had we prepared you?
had we too much assumed?
driving back down the freeway,
hope wrestled with fears;
our struggle to let go,
became a battle with tears.

now at your graveside,
i've come here to weep;
your guardian no longer,
now you're watching me.
though heaven now holds you,
and though hope i yet know,
it makes it no easier,
its still hard to let go.

for years we try hard,
learn just how to hold on,
and then in a moment
this life is gone.
no longer their fortress,
our arms they outgrow,
we don't get to choose when,
it is time to let go.

i still find this painful,
it's so hard to let go.
i will never be ready,
though yes it's time...
time to let go.

~

*post script.

an exchange today with a dear, young mother and family friend about her daughter, growing up far too fast, brought memories of our own child rearing, and of this write from several years ago and originally posted in 2013. its been dusted off, with a bit of a rewrite, but stands, both in sentiment and in structure, relatively unchanged.

these words left in comment to her, i dedicate to each of you young parents... especially you single mothers. "such is the tension of parenting... hang on too closely and a child shows signs of coddling, let go too fast, too early and a child shows signs of parental absence or neglect. the fact that you are aware of the tension means you are far more likely to avoid either extreme; and don't even think about some utopian parenting idea... there is no perfect parent!!"

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

burn

~

i recall the ward,
smell of antiseptic
and new paint blended,
with the stench of
dried on bandages,
the smell of
rotting flesh,
the cries of men
too old to cry,
faces now, too
burned for tears,
could only wonder why.
the clang of
stainless steel
bowls that held the
closest thing to soothing,
unquenchably thirsty skin.
for these,
souls sent off to war,
though i was
but a boy,
my father,
was a preacher,
sent to save
these men from hell...
i knew already then
hell was...
a place already known,
seen and felt;
and flames...
these men had walked.
and when asked to pray,
believe you me,
pray i did,
that these images,
and these men...
would all go away.

~

*post script.

some chuckle when i, born in 1960, tell them i remember Vietnam. yet i still weep when i remember. Vietnam was to this young boy watching formations of fighter jets taking off for a battlefield he could not know; accompanying his father to visit with and pray for the GI’s in the burn ward of Sagami-Ono’s US Army Hospital near Yokohama, on the main island of Japan, a few minute’s drive from what we then called home. the sights, sounds and smells of Vietnam are etched forever, without having ever set foot on it’s soil. my five siblings have no such recollection, leading me to believe... either they were never invited or... their prayers were answered.

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

hope’s song

~

when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.

do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.

i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.

your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.

you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.

~

*post script.

approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes). the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail. if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last. remember, a song is amazingly powerful. it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

mourning glory

~

in drops and drips
her palette tips,
a mem'ry full of
kaleidoscope tricks
its tumbling skips;
this is morning glory
at their best.
once at attention
she stands now
at color-filled rest,
unfurling her glory,
tell her your story;
she’ll drink in your weeping
sharing with others
in manifold colors
all of these losses,
your sorrowful world,
spreading her palette of tears,
colors a'running astray.
those tears can't really
be wiped away;
there's more where
that came from, dear...
a boat load of color
to drown in and smother;
beauty-filled dripping,
til finally the
balance is tipping
the other way;
and for just a bit
there as she sits
the river that ran
in colorful brilliance
is dried up,
and *******,
and only then is she
able to stand up
another day.
she is mourning glory!
still here on earth,
her feet firmly planted,
but awaiting the end
of her color-filled story,
and wondering...
will she ever
again
find that treasure
she once held so close,
this side of heaven?
she may have to settle
to weep with the flowers;
passing her hours,
one sunset closer
to her forever;
her bouquet of scent
drifts away... spent,
one flower fading
slowly is trading
at color-filled dusk;
she’s mourning glory,
her colors returning
to dust.

~

*post script.

this, these lines, are not quite as they started out,
not what i thought it was meant to be...
but then life... it never is, is it?

"with hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=OfQ4TlYh3ik

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

’tween these lines

~

her tears flow easily
on the shoreline,
with each swell
their bitter rise;
she weeps between
the crashing waves,
carried...
with the ripping tide,
sobbing...
with each heaving crest.
’tis on these rocks
her heart was torn,
her thirsty soul
here cries unquenched,
clinging to
this coast forlorn...
this churning,
salty brine,
where nothing
stills the beating,
not the bleeding
of her heart,
though her blood
has all run dry;
nor the cracked rib
’neath her breast,
though its piercing shards
erase her cries.

i lie here weeping
’tween these lines,
her nightly tears
and sleepless sighs,
white-capped sheets
her stormy bed,
churning shoulders,
tossing head;
for hope seems lost
when hope is best
an ocean’s grave,
a watery rest.
life's minutes counted
’til they’re gone
will only cease
their restless throes
when heaven’s gates
o'ercome her foes.

~

post script.

*her smile... ’tis a thin veil o'er a razor's edge
that conceals a mother’s bleeding heart

the month of his birth
and the month of his departure...
despite the twenty-five years between,
follow in such close succession.
like a Holy Week all her own,
each step, each word, each task,
each i-remember-where-i-was-
when-i-heard-the-news,
relived in painful remembrance.
Lent... Holy Week... the Easter season...
with all its rich and meaningful traditions,
now includes our breaking bread and
drinking wine in our heartfelt
communion of his memory and
helps us to better understand
the heart of our loving Father above

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

magnolia lullaby

~

he sings to her
in floral bloom,
melodic language
all his own;
his magnolia
blossoms heralding
the rays of warmth,
his utterance to come.
its shyly spreading pink,
and softly budding green,
proof enough
to her aching heart
that winter's cold
cannot for long contain,
within its icy grip
any life that
from their union came.
for deep within
these roots,
yet he lives again
in breathing form;
that every year
til him she holds,
winter's loss
must yield to spring.

she beholds
this heralding;
as with slowly,
warming heart
she tilts her ear,
listening;
waiting for
this dearest voice.
for to her ears alone
and to her heart only
a rising medley,
tender melody,
a lullaby returned,
to her...
for her...
he begins
to sweetly sing,
unmistakably,
recognizably...
his magnolia lullaby.

.

~

post script.

*inspired by a dear friend's photo and accompanying caption...
"Logan's magnolia showing her first winter bloom."
a remembrance of her title bequeathed at his birth;
a reminder of his legacy that has not, will not ever end.

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

remnants

~

remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.

~

post script.

"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.

*for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere

Feb 2017

SE Reimer

the razor’s edge

~

her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil
o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal
her bleeding heart;
for it is not
in well lit fables,
in clichéd phrases
or muttered answers trite,
that the flame
of life burns best,
but in the gritty spaces,
between the rocks
and hardened places,
in bruising shades
of blacks and blues,
when it's tongue
of fire
shines brightest;
it is here
the pinpoint light
points deftly to
reveal its sight,
the truth it bares
to spite the stares
from dusk to dawn
slowly, surely,
ever so
devours the night.

~

post script.

*grief, like a wound that needs the air to breathe, the light to heal, if allowed to run a course of its own accord is indeed a gift, it will right the soul; but when it is not permitted, when it is relegated to only the space and time that others choose for their own comfort, it becomes a festering sore, a cancerous mess, eventually an ugly sight. it is with great sadness that i say, our culture does little to help the grieving, asking these to suffer in silence, to hide in the shadows. i am still learning to weep... to grieve well. and, i have faith... knowing that one day mourning will turn to dancing!