"grama" poems
White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.
Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.
Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.
On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.
Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
Good job!
You went to church for Grama on Sunday
...And you texted the whole service
Good job!
You helped out and watched your siblings
...And showed them R-rated movies
Good job!
You wore a Bible verse T-shirt to school
...After buying it with stolen cash
Good job!
You got a purity cross necklace to wear
...Then "hooked up" that same night
Good job!
You got a brand new Bible
...And stored it under your bed with the rest of your " junk"
Good job!
You visited your church's website
...And bookmarked it right beneath *******
Good job!
You went to that Bible-study group
...And afterward, to a party
Good job!
You turned down a smoke while you were there
...'Cause at the time you were just thirsty
Good job!
You prayed at the dinner table
...To get your turn over with for the week
Good job!
You call out to God before falling asleep
...To blame Him for your problems
Good job!
You plan on going to church again tomorrow
Just don't forget your cell-phone
Good job, Christian
Keep it up.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
A raccoon, gray tail still intact, head askew across the highway
Left to decompose on the county road, under spring’s thawing sun.
A sadness swells my throat, a differing of points of view
Where wild used to be, the raccoon mistakes concrete for dirt
Headlights for predator eyes, glowing in the complete night
Crushed undertire, underfoot, underpaw—
Sweep his carcass off that once-grass gravel
The fields of wildflowers and sideoats grama
Given way to industrialism, to a streak of urbanization
So far out in the sticks that even the animals do not know
Where the country ends and the city now begins.
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 1:59 AM UTC
It was like only yesterday
you were able to hold me
but sadly now I am just a grown
teen, not a baby
It's a very scary feeling when u know
the biggest support could just disappear
and without you knowing
I can't stop thinking about it all
What if you are gone now I didn't get to say
goodbye let alone see me get married
NOO! grandkids no family I wish so much you
could be around but this feel this thing, I think
Are time maybe be up
It's just enough I can handle all this
bad new could the lord stop this pain inside
Cause it's hurting to now the out
come, with zero power to
Stop it, cause I just feel worthless
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 3:00 PM UTC
En los paisajes de Mansiche labra
imperiales nostalgias el crepúsculo;
y lábrase la raza en mi palabra,
como estrella de sangre a flor de músculo.
El campanario dobla... No hay quien abra
la capilla... Diríase un opúsculo
bíblico que muriera en la palabra
de asiática emoción de este crepúsculo.
Un poyo con tres patas, es retablo
en que acaban de alzar labios en coro
la eucaristía de una chicha de oro.
Más allá de los ranchos surge al viento
el humo oliendo a sueño y a establo,
como si se exhumara un firmamento.
La anciana pensativa, cual relieve
de un bloque pre-incaico, hila que hila;
en sus dedos de Mama el huso leve
la lana gris de su vejez trasquila.
Sus ojos de esclerótica de nieve
un ciego sol sin luz guarda y mutila...!
Su boca está en desdén, y en calma aleve
su cansancio imperial tal vez vigila.
Hay ficus que meditan, melenudos
trovadores incaicos en derrota,
la rancia pena de esta cruz idiota,
en la hora en rubor que ya se escapa,
y que es lago que suelda espejos rudos
donde náufrago llora Manco-Cápac.
Como viejos curacas van los bueyes
camino de Trujillo, meditando...
Y al hierro de la tarde, fingen reyes
que por muertos dominios van llorando.
En el muro de pie, pienso en las leyes
que la dicha y la angustia van trocando:
ya en las viudas pupilas de los bueyes
se pudren sueños qué no tienen cuándo.
La aldea, ante su paso, se reviste
de un rudo gris, en que un mugir de vaca
se aceita en sueño y emoción de huaca.
Y en el festín del cielo azul yodado
gime en el cáliz de la esquila triste
un viejo corequenque desterrado.
La Grama mustia, recogida, escueta
ahoga no sé qué protesta ignota:
parece el alma exhausta de un poeta,
arredrada en un gesto de derrota.
La Ramada ha tallado su silueta,
cadavérica jaula, sola y rota,
donde mi enfermo corazón se aquieta
en un tedio estatual de terracota.
Llega el canto sin sal del mar labrado
en su máscara bufa de canalla
que babea y da tumbos, ahorcado!
La niebla hila una venda al cerro lila
que en ensueños miliarios se enmuralla,
como un huaco gigante que vigila.
1.6k
Ken a' these auld Scots words,
The wans that we've forgot,
Why are we no using them,
It's because we wernae taught,
At hame wi' mither an fathir,
Speaking all and proper,
First day at school,
Speech becomes a cropper,
All yir mates at school,
Coming oot wi' words like bowff,
Saying them in the hoose,
Yir fathir says watch yir mouth,
Rax me oor the poorie,
As ma grama said to me,
Asking her whit she meant,
Gies the milk jug fir ma tea,
Fab technology today,
Smert phones and iPad,
They missed oot wan thing,
The language o' my grandad,
Skype, that's a new word,
Sounds a bit like Scottish,
Was it tae clip you round the ear hole,
That word should be abolished,
If yir no Scottish,
Rabbie's words are a' daft,
All the words that came out o' him,
That was the man's craft,
Whit aboot these well kent lines,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Sorry aboot that Rabbie,
Stealing that was totally misplaced,
Oot o' bed on wi' ma baffies,
Tae pit them on I need tae sit doon
Sittin' on the chair wi' ma bahookie,
Missed the chair fawing like a loon,
When yir oot daein the gowf,
And yir breeks are a' in a runkle,
Dinnae be a feart tae tac them aff,
If you've got them in a fankle,
Deekin oot the windae,
Stramash on the doon the road,
Some folk getting a doin',
Ithers getting a carry code,
Polis got there quick enough,
Must have a been a hunner,
Saw the big yin there,
He was the heid ******
The rammy wi the radges
Was just oot side the offie,
Jings crivvens help ma boab,
Some went ben the bothy,
We're all **** Tamson's bairns,
We a' just want tae learn,
We can do it wi' the Scots,
It's a language that we yearn.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
bez ze mnie to tylko kurwy!
bez ze mnie to brak matk!
co ja? igrek w stonoge piękna pająk!?
o ty równasz ciepło... ty ciepło?!
ja więcej z grama węgla wydobie
dla mego nagiego ciała niż ty w
odzienie dotyku dajesz!
do arabii spierdu chytrością lisa ty!
no! już! dawaj!
Jan Paweł drógi prosi o odwarcie kałczugu
bounce bounce na immigrant i także sprzedarz!
taniej ty niż skóra wiepsza na butach
iskry, w raptem wosk wax o imie dziewicy ha ha
samogwaltu twego ojca;
to chyba piask w butach, surname Sahara,
a twoje imie Samara.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC
La frescura de lo que recién llega, huele a grama mojada por lluvia de anhelos.
Como un “te acuerdas” evoca la duda, realza una emoción y cautiva el corazón.
Las miradas provocan orgasmos, si sabes mirar;
Los besos enloquecen el alma, y el **** entorpece la decencia.
El amor transforma lo banal en perpetuo, la razón en sentimiento.
Recuérdame por favor la forma de tu cintura, aunque me queme las manos al sentirla.
Embriágame otra vez con tu saliva y tu boca, permíteme una vez más volverte loca.
Desnuda mis nervios, desviste los tuyos, y déjalos que juegen al son de nuestros besos.
Cuéntame dónde has estado, pero no pronuncies nada.
Entrégame tu lujuria, dibújala sobre tu piel.
Haz sonar tu voz, sin decir una palabra.
Regálame tu vientre, liso y sedoso.
Confúndeme, dime que no.
Emocióname, dime que si.
Baila para mi.
Curvas.
Baila sobre mi.
Cantos.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
GRAMPA THE SOFT BALL PLAYER
………by Jerry Howarth
5/26/16
Grampa is a legend in the softball world
He was voted into the Softball Hall of Fame
When ever Grampa was scheduled to pitch
It broke the attendance record every game.
Grampa was a fast ball pitcher
For the Perry Baptist church team.
He was having fun, just messing around,
But with every game Grampa picked up steam.
He began to experiment releasing the ball,
making it curve left & right, drop and rise,
He even learned to make a slow pitch,
Making it difficult for the batter’s eyes
Grampa had a favorite trick he loved to play The crowd thought it was super great!
The ball started out fast then changed slow
“How slow did it get Grampa?” “So slow
the batter swung three times before it crossed the plate.
Well Grampa’s pitching became so well known
The major leagues began competing with many others,
Offering Grampa Millions of dollars.
Grampa developed a fast ball so fast that…
“How fast was it, Grampa Parson?”
It was so fast it was beyond measur’n.
Now Grampa had what he called his
Roller coaster pitch that no one could ever hit
It was such a crazy pitch, he had it patented
So no one else could copy and use it
Grampa was now playing on a professional team, making over a million bucks a year,
His agent made a deal for $20,000 a game
Every time he pitched a no hitter
Every game he played was a no hitter,
Thanks to his patented pitch
At $20,000.00 a game
Grampa was getting really, really rich!
But back to Grama’s special pitch,
It was greatly irritating to every batter
They were determined to knock that ball
Right down Gramp’s kooka-defrater
Hear the crowd yelling, whistling, and clapping
Coming up to bat is the world home run king!
Here it comes, that, fast, slow pitch
The home run king gives three mighty swings.
Three strikes an yer out, the rules of the game
It’s the first time in the history of soft ball fast pitch, that a batter strikes out on
just one pitch
This poem cannot end without a mention
About Grampa batting power
That’s right, Grampa hit a ball so hard,
It sailed about a thousand miles or so
It broke out a window in the Trump Tower.
YEAH It did! And broke Donald’s favorite champagne drinking glass.
Well this is enough humble bragging about
When Grampa G. E. Parson was a Grandson
And I hope the reading of this poem
Was a lot of fun !
-Grampa G.E. Parson
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
Patas macias acariciam a grama há muito não cortada
Enroscam-se em espinhos
Tropeçam em ninhos
Tão perto da estrada.
Seus narizes são ímãs
Indisciplinados e impulsivos
Um alarme rosado de caos
abrasivo.
Alaranjada, repousa na faxada da rua
Seca, bronzeada
Nua
Sua.
Três patas e uma planta
Nada ela sente, silenciada por dentes
Mastigada, digerida, excrementada
Por fim
Em adubo virada.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
He bebido del chorro cándido de la fuente.
Traigo los labios frescos y la cara mojada.
Mi boca hoy tiene toda la estupenda dulzura
de una rosa jugosa, nueva y recién cortada.
El cielo ostenta una limpidez de diamante.
Estoy ebria de tarde, de viento y primavera.
¿No sientes en mis trenzas olor a trigo ondeante?
¿No me hallas hoy flexible como una enredadera?
Elástica de gozo como un gamo he corrido
por todos los ceñudos senderos de la sierra.
Y el galgo cazador que es mi guía, rendido,
se ha acostado a mis pies, largo a largo, en la tierra.
¡Ah, qué inmensa fatiga me derriba en la grama
y abate en tus rodillas mi cabeza morena,
mientras que de una iglesia campesina y lejana
nos llega un lento y grave llamado de novena!
1k
Apago el cigarro
Y enciendo otra botella,
Los pensamientos
Vienen en olas cansadas,
Mar sin fondo
Cielo sin tapón,
Las nubes distraídas
Me pintan imágenes
Que me persiguen
Como sábanas en la lavadora
Vuelta y vuelta
Ciclo interminable,
Pero no importa
Cuanto lave,
La grama sigue
Manchando
Verde como jade
Creciendo
Entre las fisuras
De las piedras
Imposible de matar
Con simples químicos,
Solo la muerte
Esperará
Ver el fin
De esta mente
Atado a un corazón
Con un lazo
Torturado
De amor...
APAD13 019 - © okpoet
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
Vientos del pueblo me llevan,
vientos del pueblo me arrastran,
me esparcen el corazón
y me aventan la garganta.Los bueyes doblan la frente,
impotentemente mansa,
delante de los castigos:
los leones la levantan
y al mismo tiempo castigan
con su clamorosa zarpa.No soy un de pueblo de bueyes,
que soy de un pueblo que embargan
yacimientos de leones,
desfiladeros de águilas
y cordilleras de toros
con el orgullo en el asta.
Nunca medraron los bueyes
en los páramos de España.¿Quién habló de echar un yugo
sobre el cuello de esta raza?
¿Quién ha puesto al huracán
jamás ni yugos ni trabas,
ni quién al rayo detuvo
prisionero en una jaula?Asturianos de braveza,
vascos de piedra blindada,
valencianos de alegría
y castellanos de alma,
labrados como la tierra
y airosos como las alas;
andaluces de relámpagos,
nacidos entre guitarras
y forjados en los yunques
torrenciales de las lágrimas;
extremeños de centeno,
gallegos de lluvia y calma,
catalanes de firmeza,
aragoneses de casta,
murcianos de dinamita
frutalmente propagada,
leoneses, navarros, dueños
del hambre, el sudor y el hacha,
reyes de la minería,
señores de la labranza,
hombres que entre las raíces,
como raíces gallardas,
vais de la vida a la muerte,
vais de la nada a la nada:
yugos os quieren poner
gentes de la hierba mala,
yugos que habéis de dejar
rotos sobre sus espaldas.Crepúsculo de los bueyes
está despuntando el alba.Los bueyes mueren vestidos
de humildad y olor de cuadra;
las águilas, los leones
y los toros de arrogancia,
y detrás de ellos, el cielo
ni se enturbia ni se acaba.
La agonía de los bueyes
tiene pequeña la cara,
la del animal varón
toda la creación agranda.Si me muero, que me muera
con la cabeza muy alta.
Muerto y veinte veces muerto,
la boca contra la grama,
tendré apretados los dientes
y decidida la barba.Cantando espero a la muerte,
que hay ruiseñores que cantan
encima de los fusiles
y en medio de las batallas.
963
Integration of spirit and body, is a reason for being mortal for a while
for some
secret reason
known only to the initiates,
the Melchisidekean
Priest hood, known by believers to be Jesus, Pre-existancy
Avatar thingy do.
Ah, but Lucifer and he were bros, y'know. The rub, that nagging urge,
get up and move the wagon, why lie
there comfy in your bubble
believing not all spirits are from God, but
some are. Try the spirits, if they can preach the good news
the angels brought:
God and the disconnected reconnected, Joy flows to the world.
Alleluia, right.
-- note: no list of do/don'ts save common sense.
Plugitin plugitin a bean in y'ear, a bean in y'ear
about as big as a yeast
beast.
Leaven, y'know, comes in flavors. Like proteins,
most leavening things leaven only one thing,
however,
word borne leaven leavens
everything,
and we ain't speakin' even-jello-ic jiggle of crystalizatio,
we talking boomin' gaseous gluten intro-learyant
beans, beans, beans po'folk beans
leavenistical
words witcha maya hoid yo grama say
breathe. Be leaving all your lies and tries to us as we
dare to cast our care
wind words, net let out, starboard,
un-error-o-matic
good new net. Wait.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.
Grass. **** broccoli, burrito, stink, *** skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.
****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.
Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
shoes.
Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims
in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
Bebo del agua limpia y clara del arroyo
Y vago por los campos teniendo por apoyo
Un gajo de algarrobo liso, fuerte y pulido
Que en sus ramas sostuvo la dulzura de un nido.
Así paso los días, morena y descuidada,
Sobre la suave alfombra de la grama aromada,
Comiendo de la carne jugosa de las fresas
O en busca de fragantes racimos de frambuesas.
Mi cuerpo está impregnado el aroma ardoroso
De los pastos maduros. Mi cabello sombroso
Esparce, al destrenzarlo, olor a sol y a heno,
A salvia, a yerbabuena y a flores de centeno.
¡Soy libre, sana, alegre, juvenil y morena,
Cual si fuera la diosa del trigo y de la avena!
¡Soy casta como Diana
Y huelo a hierba clara nacida en la mañana!
745
Cordero tranquilo, cordero que paces
tu grama y ajustas tu ser a la eterna armonía:
hundiendo en el lodo las plantas fugaces
huí de mis campos feraces
un día...
Ruiseñor de la selva encantada
que preludias el orto abrileño:
a pesar de la fúnebre muerte, y la sombra, y la nada,
yo tuve el ensueño.
Sendero que vas del alcor campesino
a perderte en la azul lontananza:
los dioses me han hecho un regalo divino:
la ardiente esperanza.
Espiga que mecen los vientos, espiga
que conjuntas el trigo dorado:
al influjo de soplos violentos,
en las noches de amor, he temblado.
Montaña que el sol transfigura.
Tabor al febril mediodía,
silente deidad en la noche estilífera y pura:
¡nadie supo en la tierra sombría
mi dolor, mi temblor, mi pavura!
Y vosotros, rosal florecido,
lebreles sin amo, luceros, crepúsculos,
escuchadme esta cosa tremenda: ¡He Vivido!
He vivido con alma, con sangre, con nervios, con músculos,
y voy al olvido...
705
meus pés se aconchegavam entre a grama verde,
e vinda de longe, ouvia-se uma canção,
a canção do poente.
e no topo das montanhas,
o vento soprava e me dizia o mistério do mundo
a natureza cantava doce pra mim,
a maresia me trazia um sentimento novo
e me fazia nascer de novo.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Non è Amore. Ma in che misura è mia
colpa il non fare dei miei affetti
Amore? Molta colpa, sia
pure, se potrei d'una pazza purezza,
d'una cieca pietà vivere giorno
per giorno... Dare scandalo di mitezza.
Ma la violenza in cui mi frastorno,
dei sensi, dell'intelletto, da anni,
era la sola strada. Intorno
a me alle origini c'era, degli inganni
istituiti, delle dovute illusioni,
solo la Lingua: che i primi affanni
di un bambino, le preumane passioni,
già impure, non esprimeva. E poi
quando adolescente nella nazione
conobbi altro che non fosse la gioia
del vivere infantile - in una patria
provinciale, ma per me assoluta, eroica -
fu l'anarchia. Nella nuova e già grama
borghesia d'una provincia senza purezza,
il primo apparire dell'Europa
fu per me apprendistato all'uso più
puro dell'espressione, che la scarsezza
della fede d'una classe morente
risarcisse con la follia ed i tòpoi
dell'eleganza: fosse l'indecente
chiarezza d'una lingua che evidenzia
la volontà a non essere, incosciente,
e la cosciente volontà a sussistere
nel privilegio e nella libertà
che per Grazia appartengono allo stile.
720
Me pidió que le abrace,
me dijo que ya no quería más guerra.
Me dijo que estaba desintegrado,
desmoronado,
desmigado,
desecho,
triturado,
destruido,
que se le habia desintegrado el alma.
Que su alma estaba en pena,
que penando se pasaba de barra en barra,
barriendo toda la tristeza que le alberga,
entre tragos que no le embriagan,
y que solo empinan sus dolencias.
Me pidió que lo que lo abrace,
que no me desprendiera,
que no le soltara,
que no le abandonara,
que no le hiriera de tal manera,
que ya la soledad estaba haciendo patria sobre su vida vacía y seca.
Me pidió que lo abrazara.
Me pidió una mariposa de esas que hacen alegrar la pansa.
Me pidió un beso como pide el fusilado un último deseo.
Le dije que respirara. Me tire con él a la grama.
Le pedí que me mirara.
Le asegure de que la guerra había cesado.
Le bese en la frente paulatinamente, mientras,
le contaba la triunfante historia de la mariposa que se transforma de oruga en realeza.
Lo abrace hasta que vi el espíritu de tristeza brotar de su cuerpo.
Lo abrace hasta que el niño asustado tomara confianza.
Lo abrace como si estuviese desahuciado.
Lo abrace hasta que sentí las cadenas que lo ataban..romperse en mil pedazos.
Lo abrace hasta que se sintió hombre de nuevo.
Luego hicimos el amor, como lo hicieron Adan y Eva cuando descubrieron
sus hambrientos y desnudos cuerpos en su nirvana.
LeydisProse
6/6/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
todos aqueles que escreveram as músicas que eu amo estão mortos. enterrados sobre grama e concreto em diferentes partes do mundo. os artistas que pintaram as telas que me alegram dentro e fora dos museus também. já não há mais fotógrafos do the post espalhados pela cidade que captariam uma foto do nosso beijo na times square. no fim, cabe a mim escrever e representar a arte dessa jornada
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
No quiero no, no quiero serranías,
ni la ola marina y su jactancia,
ni el fondo verde y oro de una estancia...
Quiero pasar, verano, aquí mis días.
Cerca de aquí y de tus niñerías
y de tu lealtad y tu constancia,
adherido a tu piel a su fragancia...
Que te enojes, que hables, que te rías.
Abandonada, así, sobre la grama
mientras yo te contemplo, distraído,
con la profunda distracción del que ama.
Revuelta de cabello y de vestido,
retorcer el marfil como una rama:
tu cuerpo descubierto y escondido.
591
Eastern Montana prairies struggle
Too little rain,
Too much wind
Too much cold and heat.
In dire extremes
Living things have learned
To live a life of second chances,
Save some seeds from sprouting,
Produce more than can be used,
Find a quiet shelter from the wind to grow,
Never stand too tall against incessant wind,
(There's certain strength in being small)....
A cactus revels quietly in scarcities,
Flowering briefly,
Concealing water in a leather skin,
Resting in spiny clumps
Of resilient solitude.
Blue grama grasses
Curl toward the earth,
Decline the luxuries of height
To put on seed,
And stand in wiry toughness
Moving beneath sun and wind.
A weathered look befits exposure to the elements;
Gnarled branches speak the will to live;
Grasses, brown and speckled mark desperate thirst;
Frays and fissures delineate wins and losses
Against passing time.
Patience endures the ravagers' scorn.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
in the car
sat next to my mother
sweating along to the country songs on the radio
my toenails scrape against the bottoms of my shoes
as i scuff the them against the worn carpeting
the car smells like very berry hibiscus
and black coffee that reminds me
of a place before they were gone
at the cemetery
it feels wrong to be alive
and i make sure not to step
directly onto the headstones
because the horror movies always warn
me of hands coming up through the dirt
but i can’t
help but to think of how nice
it would be to be held by my great grama
one last time
even if i got dirt in my eyes
it would be nice to see her again
i’m sorry that
i didn’t go near her coffin
i remember his funeral too
though i don’t know how many years ago
it happened to be
i cried the hardest
and i remember at her funeral
how my mom and sister were talking about how
proud they were that neither of them cried
like i did
and i felt small and weak and childish
but also
painfully human
i find that
it is easier to think of the cemetery
as more of a library for the dead
because most of them are as old
as the dewey decimal system
and i’m just pawing through the card catalogs
looking for a hand to hold
your parents are
under the c category
c for classen
c for caring
c for compassion
c for clarity
c for cherished memories
c for come back
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
Honey Bear came home today.
I am still in awe that somebody who was so big in my life and in my eyes can be made so small.
The box that she came home in is on her bed with a piece of bacon, a card, and her paw print.
I can’t bring myself to write happy poetry about her.
It’s still too soon.
Dear god, it’s too soon.
I need my friend, my confidant, my sister, my family, back.
Bring her back.
You give her back.
You vulture.
I know that she was sick.
And in pain.
But it’s still so hard to let someone so dear to you go.
That **** dog.
We’ve all cried as much as we did at Great Grama’s funeral.
Every day I am greeted by her empty bed.
I still expect her to come limping into my room, nudging the door open and laying down.
I have dreams where I stand at the door and call her name over and over again.
I wait for hours for her to come back.
But she never heeds my call.
Though, she never was good at listening.
And I think that maybe, if I get mom to call her name, she will come.
And I think, maybe, if I help mom search for her, we will find her, happy and healthy again.
Because moms can find anything and everything.
But what happens when she can’t find the pieces of your heart that Honey Bear took with her?
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC