The Peregrine


The Peregrine


Some things are Lost That You don’t Get Back. Thoughts are consumed by memories put on replay. An endless loop of hope filled Happier times.

One always grieves for what and Who is Lost.

Losing yourself is the most deeply felt. Rearranging atoms and molecules.


So many Thoughts went on in Her head as she sat by the empty bed. Sometimes at Night She would lay across his bed not so much for sleep as that had eluded her for weeks, but rather to absorb his scent which was slowly dissolving with passing time.

His bedroom now a divine sacred place where I shower altars with copious tearful offerings.

Fading like dissipated mist. And that bird. Not native to these parts. It first appeared two weeks before his transition. Warbling with all its heart it’s song brought a peace to my suffering child. Eased his pain. Interrupted nonstop seizures.

Comforting my Paradise child through his Souls transition from Time into eternity.

He once terrestrial in the blink of a moment became Celestial.

On the day of the funeral, a Gravesite service entire flocks of various avian species serenaded better than the most skillful singers.

The Groundskeeper


So Many Wrong Doors. Wrong Doors are open while Keys to the correct Doors are Lost.

The Repo man stole Her heart then Her Life. She was found among Laurel and cypress trees.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust. In a daze waiting for someone to wake her up telling Her that it was all a bad Dream. As the Funeral Director guides her through the motions She realizes that this is her New reality.

She is an open wound seeping blood and pus.

Heaven Gains More Angels.

While all Left to She and Her are gravestones marked with Names, birth and death dates. Only Her and She know the story behind the dash.

Yet lately I’ve heard a familiar warbling. A persistent chirp. A persistent breeze turning the spokes of his old bike not ridden in months.

A Vague flash of Angel Wings caressing face engulfing my being with his presence.

Mommy it’s alright now. It’s alright.


I Can Only Imagine by Mercy Me



After Edward Hopper


AM I THE ONLY ONE?


Isolation

Dedicated to Zoey and Cecilia who both lost their disabled children to the Angels of Death.

Seed among Thorns


N – Utero — Seed Among Thorns

The Unborn


Milk leaking from too full breasts

Breasts Longing for a Babe gone before birth.

A cold stone in Place of a Son.

A shooting star dissolved into a million Universes. Icarus too close to the sun. Sunset before Sunrise.

Poisoned amniotic fluid your River Styx. Extremities bubbling in wastewater.

Rachel wept for Her children because they were naught.


He hexed my Womb. Did he? Who knows?

Didn’t want to be a D.V. Child.

My son will never be a Pinball Wizard.

Hijacked by the Spermazoid Svengali.

Charmer. Bon Vivant.

Your initial false luster did me in.

Your handsome face set with marks of confidence, flecks of intelligence liberally sprinkled with jutting arrogance. Your voice once mellow and melodious became a Raging Storm. Clacking. Cracking.

Uprooting thousand years old Forest. Paving it over with sharp jagged rocks that produced poisonous suffocating vines.

Enwombed embryo sensed futures forlorn.

Traded gray and grainy for silver and gold.

Seed among Thorns.


So twisted that if you Swallowed a nail you’d shit a corkscrew.

Ours was a household filled with Madness and Mayhem.

Anger and Pain.

Your Anger. My Pain.

*D.V. Domestic violence


Thoughts Become Beings


Things Become Beings


Don’t Get Involved with Others Lips.

For Thoughts Become Beings.


Beings Who become small gods. Small gods whispering idolatry.

Beings Who take up residence within your mind. Illegally. Occupying your Brain. Then when you least expect it they Leap into predictions, projections predispositions and predilections.


Dressed up Fancy yet out of Place. Spaceship aliens conducting probes inside dark sweaty caverns. Pulling every stalagmite and stalagtite out of orbit.


Rearranging vines and moss. The vines settle spreading horizontally while the moss climbs entwined round thinly dombed cranium rooves.


She keeps going missing. Never knowing where She’s been.


At the Age of Ruin. In between desecration and Destruction.

She was called Ladyfingers for not partaking of wine or grace nor jute or hemp.

Was it Her Stiletto High heels or snuggly fitting Red dress who emphasized hills and valleys?

Molten Lava Peaks and mountains. Liquid Ashes sifted mining for Gold.


Soul shattered. Ashes Scattered in Paradise Valley of the Queens.


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Bearing Gifts of Silence


Bearing Gifts of Silence


The Lonely Carrier muffles his packages of grief, sorrow, pain, and despair in Passages of Lullaby ruminations.

Lining them up by the bed ready for delivery.


We share speckled eye Language so discreet outsiders cannot detect our kaleidoscopic prism of splashes and flashes exchanged within our voluminous Silhouettes.

Sometimes Sea spray. Other times Waterfalls.

Often the Ones who Shine Brightest are easily broken.

A Nod. A smile. A hand held comforter. A barely there gesture. We are Luminous Lunar who open not our Lips. Only our One entwined Ribbon Soul. We Dream of Gossamer Days and Pastel Nights.

It’s a Long Walk Home My friend. A Long walk home. But the pier is not far away.

Shorter now as We make the Journey.

For we have known thorny biers that draw blood feeding majestic Trees for future generations.


Ferryman awaits us at the piers edge for the Sweet Home going Voyage

Traversing Sands of Time. Docking our Ships in Tranquility.


Memories From The Heart


 

 

Memories From The Heart

 

Poetry Inspired by My Blogging Buddy Geetha.  Please Check out her most excellent blog for more poetry gems and jewels.

 

https://geethaprodhom.wordpress.com/2018/09/26/the-unknown-facets/

 

Fleeting memories as the sewing box plays, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Little I was and Little did I know that she would return to her beloved sweetheart husband in a future that played out too soon.

 

 

Opening my Grandma Eva’s Musical sewing box and seeing her all over and again. Returning to her apartment in Harlem. An apt that was huge to the 5 year old me. Hearing Grandma give a lighthearted scolding to her son, my Dad. Memories of a Great Day in Harlem with Grandma.

 

 

Each Memory is like a reflection captured within a diamond.  Precious. One glance returning you to a pleasant past event repeatedly Looped in Luxury.