~

it is a storm approaching
not the tempestuous kind
of driving rain or whirling wind
but a storm all the same
a marriage of sorts
of joy and of tears
of hopes and of fears
of death and of life
of what has come
with what has not yet
where photos and albums
and letters and cards
are all we can touch
of what has gone by.
 
yet there's a tree to light
there are gifts to wrap
their are cards to send
to loved ones dear
when the hug that we wish
the one we most want
is the one we can't give
this our loss has tied us in knots.
for memories and laughter
their kindest words
their shouts of joy,
these fade away
yet they’re all that remain
these join us at the table
these call in the park
at Sunday Mass
and post office,
but especially the back porch,
when it is quiet and dark.
they join us at parties
where thoughts of our missing
joins the gay, happy greetings
and on Christmas morn
when our gifts lie unopened
their chair is empty still
at dinner there's a space
that no one else will ever fill
in its place is a candle
a scent we know well
a light we'll not extinguish
perhaps it is the closest we can get
to their presence we so miss.

the storm on the inside
one that no one else sees
as they stroll down the street
as they shop merrily
our hearts beat hard but quietly.
inside we are breaking
this storm threatens to drown
yet there is no one around
who can save us
who ever would notice
or even know how to care.
its the cry of our heart
that no one can hear.
our tears brushed aside
hoping no one can see
this storm it is raging,
raging wildly in me.

i looked for a card
my thoughts to express
but the cards in the store
say nothing like this
no words such as weeping
or anguish are found
no phrases with lonely or angry
in the Christmas card aisle
so just how to reconcile
my juxtaposition?
how can I quell
this sense of foreboding
that i know all too well?
truth is, i cannot
i must go through
with this marriage
and pray that some day
some day soon, I can hope
that i will awaken
to see sunshine again
and consider these memories
not nightmares, but friends.

~

post script.
"blessed are those who morn, for they shall be comforted"  Matthew 5:4

*these are so many among us who mourn, in particular at what are otherwise joyous occasions.  for these ones, Christmas only adds to the acuteness of their pain.  for them, Christmas is a storm they know is coming, a time when they must prepare for, battening down the hatches of their soul, so they are assured their grief does not leak out on the joy of everyone around.  my advice for us all- know who walks near you well enough to reach out to them, give them a shoulder to weep on, share your tears with theirs. assure them you have not forgotten.  repeat the name of their loved one, a name they long to hear others speak.  for most of us, this name is one you cannot say too often. speak in the present tense of their loved one for they are not lost, they are still present and very much a part of the grieving one's life.  as just one of many examples, remember... a mother who has lost her only child is still a mother.  it is a title that she still bears, coming with all the burden, yet without any future benefit, these having been stripped away. love her, hold her, be shelter for her heart in the coming Christmas storm.

wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm

with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him are scattered
and unframed verses his walls adorn

a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
his home already filled to overflowing
one wonders if there is room for more

he’s unable to sell them, try as he might
though each skillfully crafted is a work of art 
still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink as he pours out his heart 

down at the market where men sell their wares
poems fetch only a penny a line
he’s chosen a craft that a pittance pays
he’ll have to settle for a book of rhymes

his inkwell low he walks down to the store
where he refills his stock of whiskey and wine
exchanging his farthings for bread and butter 
and a chance at a glance of a fair lass fine

she, his inspiration, and fuel to his fire
yet she’ll ne'er know, she’s his psalm to be sung
so on marches time and their verse can't be written 
for his words flow on page, just not from his tongue

so the wax keeps running from his candle dim
the ink from this wordsmith continues to flow 
his daydreams he hammers over his anvil
but prose they might have written we’ll never know

~

her coast line feels endless,
her straits and her bays,
each curve of her coves
is guiding the way.
to his infinite tracing,
his breaths and her sighs,
leave their hearts racing,
gives breath-taking rise,
to views borne of heaven,
swept up and then falls,
to the beach where he finds,
her seashell that calls.
his answer she hears
in the voice of his tide,
his infinite strength
she draws to her side;
the laugh of his thunder,
the crash of his roar,
from the crest of his shoulder,
to the breast of her shore;
she melts as he touches
the warmth of her portal,
as she reaches through sands
for his heart and his soul.
an angelic witness
to a union held fast;
his body of water,
her terra firma in clasp.

~

*post script.

seashore imagery
clings to this mind...
must be time to take a trip
to the ocean with my love.

Days turn to weeks,
and months into years;
Our calendar filled,
With days that bring tears.

No longer with cheer,
There’s a birthday we keep;
A life sown in hardship,
Is now reaping grief.

His anniversary of leaving,
A dark smear on that day;
Its nothing to celebrate,
But it won't wash away.

Those days that we’re honored,
As his mother and father;
Special cards that he made us,
We receive them no longer.

A day for memorials,
Then picnics and parades,
The summer he loved,
A special hike on Labor Day.

The season to give thanks,
Forces us to remember,
All the years that we did have,
All those happy Novembers.

Finally Christmas comes round,
Full of time spent together;
All our family traditions,
Where he's missed more than ever.

Each day a reminder,
Every memory so dear,
Yet silence speaks loudly,
When laughter disappears.

Then it's time to repeat,
Time to turn a new page,
Time for new resolutions,
Time to hope for some change.

Maybe this is the year,
That the calendar’s our friend,
When peace is returned,
And we look forward again.

(How A Reimer Became A Rhymer)

boarding school
what’s a child to do
assignment from a forth-grade teacher
write a poem that expresses what you love

well, being a fifth of five siblings
(that’s six in all)
and never before
being ever asked
to express anything 
that anyone 
might listen to 
at all,
let alone about what he loved...

and what’s more,
teacher never told him
a poem didn’t need to rhyme all the time,
that free verse would substitute...
just fine for a rhyme
so again i say,
what’s a child to do... but write
(or find a rhyme that speaks his heart).

couldn’t write (or so he thought)...
so find a poem, an inspiration
he must,
to get his poet’s juices flowing,
but where, and how...
and so he asked his teacher.
“Ms. Vreeland, teacher fair,
to find my poet inside
where or where would a child look?
perhaps a script that i could read,
perhaps, perhaps a book... perchance?"
"here, try this," she told him,
"this will help to know the score,
read, indulge, become as one,
and let your inner poet soar."

so, read, he did... and find, he found,
a write that had the very bound,
the rhyme, the sound,
the symbol of a land he loved,
his own by heritage, though not by home,
the pride inside he felt,
victory his, the hand was dealt.
Alfred Tennyson, a Lord they said
his writing rich, his perfect words
this, the prize, a perfect guarantor
in just an instant chosen for
the frame, the whole, 
changes, two, or one... no more
and he’d be done, the perfect crime
did i say crime, no! i meant mine,
for would not *your changes make it thine?

and here his twisted thoughts he’d wound
became untwisted, crashing down
how and why? quite simply done
because all he changed was simply one
from one word, "azure," 
to one word, "blue,"
who, would think that this, would do?
no one, right? not even you?
not i, for certain, that’s for sure,
yet, it was i, 
the one who swallowed this dark lure!

so, here's Alfred’s version, and next is mine
don't you really love it's rhyme?

ALFRED’S
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

MINE
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the blue world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

and turn this in, he did
and heard from her, she wrote *”Very Good”
but, who knew she’d think that this deserved
an entry in a book of verse
who thought that anyone 
away back home where he was from
ten thousand miles away,
who would ever wonder, ever know?
yeah, you guessed it... busted!
his fingerprints so easily dusted
exposed, cover blown,
bad seeds sown 
came home to roost,
except...

that's not where this story ends
for he is me and that day was born
a poet no, but rhymer sworn
in name for sure, but so much more
for it was this, that opened door
to what he's become
has come to love
and this is when this Reimer
became a lifelong rhymer!
for what's a child to do, but...

become a poet... i suppose!

creation 
never forgets,
its destiny 
ever fulfilled...
a lesson beheld
in the seedling 
bursting through
the midst of
a garden adorned; 
nature undeterred
by the squirrel's
forgotten love affair 
with an acorn.

though oft beyond
our given years,
in its own way
nature fulfills,
always rewards,
life cheating,
outliving death...
a Picasso returned
from coveter’s theft,
a truth uncovered
for children bereft,
and calm that follows
the fury’s storm.

for spawning salmon,
for migration’s bird,
on Serengeti’s plains
the herds return;
the lover’s heart
longs for home,
to know fulfillment,
to taste once more,
the fruit of promise,
a table replete,
hope restored,
a circle complete.

~

t'is some sorrow that cannot fade.
its inner sadness shuns the sun;
as hydra thrives in northward shade,
yet turns thy tearful drops to love.

she thy dark night's dew,
and from thy burning rain,
thy weeping cries of pain,
bears in brilliance, sunset hues.

attires her blooms in violet blues,
in soil giv’n she finds the way;
from alkaline, in colored sprays,
her floral pink she displays.

in acid of thy heavy tears,
she bears the blues of all thy fears;
and burnishes thy greying eyes,
with dazzling flame to lift thy sight.

she shows the inner strength that flows,
'neath bitter current lies resolve;
from teardrops come thy rainbow,
and morning dew in love absolves.

queen of mournful sighs,
she coronates thy dark of night;
from bitter groans she hope unfolds
she bears thy tears in floral jewels.

~

*post script.

(the hydra, more commonly, the hydrangea,
she rearranges her jeweled bouquet
based on her soil's pH.)

a beautiful post by Naimh, brought tears and this. i gift it to my dearest Becky, whose sorrow knows no bounds. and post it here dedicated to Naimh, apart from whose recent daily, i would not have known her sorrow. may it momentarily lift her sighs. and to the countless others, those i have come to know here, who share in this sad common bond... a mother’s loss; you have my deepest appreciation and concern for your ever-present tears, your unending sorrow... and your undying love!

please read Naimh's beautiful post, my inspiration, here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1637667/the-lost-rose/

~

this tide of clouds is rolling in,
iridescent crimson, tangerine,
her swells in shades imagining;
walk with me upon this shore,
tide pools of the night explore,
’til the tide returns once more;
her color palette, crashing wave,
troupe de ballet, all ablaze,
this sea of memories engrave.

~

*post script.

this inspired by a particularly
color-filled sunset last night;
it resembled an incoming tide;
yes, of course i photographed it!
knowing that i cannot resist
a beautiful sunset, she asks,
'whatcha gonna do with
all those sunset pics?',
i respond, 'i suppose like
all good memories,
i just plan to hold them..
close.'

(three in the morning)

~

the words flow with ease
in pictures and phrases,
but the cascade won't cease
till his book's out of pages.

now its three in the morning,
it’s not sheep he is counting;
the words still are flowing,
his frustration is mounting.

its an overdue balance,
this tossing and turning;
like a debt that he's owing,
yet for rest he is yearning.

then in sweaty exhaustion,
the night he is lighting;
in hopes of salvation,
turns his thoughts into writing.

words tumble in earnest,
in assembly of verses;
in a nocturnal skirmish,
with a mistress coercive.

yes, dreams are his master,
each night is his foe;
only daybreak his answer,
to this poetry flow.

~

post script.

(a bit like the last one)
while I am certain there are
plenty of exceptions, 
you who experience this mistress...
you know who you are and
you know her siren call.

funny how days, weeks, sometimes months
can go by, and nothing... just a dry river bed...
and then... bam!  the dam breaks! 
and ****, there goes one’s sleep...
out the window and down the river!
it's as if someone is saying, 
“forget sleep, silly boy...
you wanted poetry,
now write!”

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.