"bereavements" poems
I may never walk anything more the same as him
In converse shoes slapping campus pavement,
Than taking down miles in memories
And mulling over trite bereavements.
If all we have left is muscle memory
Where summer grass stroked skin like hesitant fingers
Then I'll sink into autumn leaves
And worry my lip where the impressions linger.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
This is not all that I am
All that I can see
My eyes shut close and fade
Into nothing.
I can see you
And all my hinges all my twists.
My bereavements and edges
That I cannot take back
The light can take me
When I decide it is my time
But I am not done
I am not done living.
My feathers can burn.
Into soot
Take all of me that is left
That I can give.
But I am done giving up
What more
What more can I ha-------------
Mar 29, 2023
Mar 29, 2023 at 7:20 AM UTC
We held our mother’s funeral today
out back in the warm Spring rain.
It was supposed to be tomorrow but
Mother thought the forecasted sun
and flowers, a bright finish to
this dreary Winter,
Would **** the mood.
So to speak.
The earth was soft but the willow
tree roots fought back our shovels.
Mother sighed but said the small,
paltry hole filled with muddy water
would do for her ceremony.
But just the ceremony.
She sat in back,
the tail end of her own procession,
and intently ignored our furtive glances
to see if she was pleased.
She was.
Until the rain stopped, then
she called the dampness ‘silly’,
and left.
But we’d already had the guests on
notice, with bereavements ready since
Mother can be quite fickle
and at times unruly so
we held our mother’s funeral today
her tears and ours the warm Spring rain.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Dumbstruck that the news came
so impersonal, so matter of fact.
A text to say you were leaving.
Forever.
The usual spin on 'it's not you it's me'
Came my way, 'I need to find myself'
'I feel stifled' also got a shoe in.
I was impressed the text was not abbreviated.
When I think back people commented on how handsome
you were, was that a sly dig at me?
Whatever, it's passed now.
Time stands still for no man(so I'm told)
So time to stop grieving at your leaving
Begin anew, start breathing and thinking
for me. By the way thanks for retrieving
Your personal belongings from the flat.
People, you know friends and family
asked how I was, did I need anything?
I was stunned at their curiosity and
kindness, but, told them no.
Well, if you hear from him let us know,
if you want a chat we're here to listen
Oprah says break ups are like bereavements
No need to be brave for us honey.
They leave after getting their gossip
believing I was being stoic, grieving on the inside.
I wasn't, quite the opposite in fact
I felt liberated, unchained, free to be me.
That's what I did you see, became me
I had difficulty heaving your corpse into the garden
but those gym sessions you insisted I take paid off
As did the self defence class, one strike and down you went.
BTW Thanx for the txts, they is well good as alibis.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Don’t try to fit in,
in fact, try to be more odd
If you don’t see bereavements
as achievements
it’s your view that’s flawed
which explains why I see motivation where you see peasants
Why you see failure not experience,
Or a curse where I see a present
It’s all in attitude, your approach
how you perceive progression
You see scars, I see trophies, you see mistakes I see lessons,
You say life’s hell, I see heaven
They say reality is perception
that’s why Wasted time and money
look identical to a good investment
So when I see hard work pay off
You’ll just see it as luck and scoff
which I see as inspiration for you
but all you see is a loss
all you see is where you are, so where you could be is robbed
But if you can’t see achievement in bereavements it’s your view thats flawed
if you can’t see trophies not scars
Or lessons and not mistakes
then you’ll never get why I see u ****** yourself, where u swear your bein raped
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
Spun a thread of dust,
Caught a whiff of the sea.
Shadows of a canyon at dusk,
Bleeds into day-old tea.
A tapestry of bereavements,
Beached ashore a gulf,
Its waves, tepid and rough,
Rippled the sun, it reflects.
Aged wood, floating, covered in cloth,
Pushed to touch horizons, wet and vast.
Aimed to dissolve with the setting sun,
Steered by the stars he used to follow.
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 4:48 AM UTC
in the video about how to give my son
a bath
that’s
him
-
the woman beside me
takes her health with her
wherever
she goes
-
my wife prays
for a boredom
much like
the boredom
of the baby
Jesus
whose hair
my son
lost
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC