Again

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Day Thirty, the End

 

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I call it big water, the ocean.

It was a year ago today I walked
near crow picking out his mussel lunch
along the bight. Sand and shell
placed gingerly inside my empty coffee cup,
my way to keep a part of him,
remember he was gone.

I discover in loss
the hole, like that black round
left by moon in night when she is new,
cannot return to full as we once were.
Hollowness must replenish slowly,
in new ways, just as moon waxes crescent.

. . .

A sand-hued box tied with gossamer ribbon,
color of the growing gibbous moon.
Inside a woman sings,
Mother River, running her
song, flowing to ocean,
reminds me of my
connection here to there,
big water.

. . .

She hands me a calcite globe,
heavy, creamy yellow
as if full of moon light.
A memory stone to place inside
the blackened cavity,
to remember, to hold
in comfort, to illumine
when all seems lost.

. . .

Today I stand under
waning moon, attempt
to grasp, hear again his laughter,
catch his smile flash where sadness rested.

. . .

Our loop around that hot
bright ball tempered with
night and glowing light
that comes and goes
and returns again,
the river that runs to
kiss ocean tide and flow
to sea once more,
a broken heart mended scarred,
a refitted life begins anew,
all the rhythm of our dance.

 

Author’s Note:

To C.J. and Michael and Lisa

3 Schoolyard Ruminations

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Day 26

 

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1.
Fallen branches on the wrong side of the fence,
a pile of crab apple blossoms detached from their source.

I wondered of my disunion, would I fare the same,
a chaotic pile left to wither without worry.

2.
“It’s half,” she reported, confusion crossing her face.
“What is half?” I inquired.
She searched for words in her urban six-year-old
awareness, desperation growing.
Finally, “Worm.” A need for rescue, not for the worm,
but her place in line where she was to sit,
sidewalk still damp from last evening’s storm.

I wondered if myself halved, all that was left after
tempest, would dissolve someone’s tranquility as well.

 

3.
They stood on guard, circled under tree shooing
away curious littles. “I bet someone shot it.”
There it lay, iridescent black feathers
tightly drawn, eyes glossed, crow fallen. The janitor
brought a box, with gloved hand lifted the cadaver.

I wondered where I will be lifted once breath
has its final escape.
I looked down the road and wondered.

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today I had the choice of three prompts. My writing group met and I usually write a story from the prepared prompt. But I am writing poetry this month. I did not care for the NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo prompt. I just couldn’t see my way around it. Here it is:

“And now for our (optional) prompt! Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist? The object or site of study could be anything from a “World’s Best Grandpa” coffee mug to a Pizza Hut, from a Pokemon poster to a cellphone.”

At our writing group, we had a list of words to incorporate into our writing. Those did not sit well either. I’m usually up for the challenge, but not tonight:

benevolent, eclipse,  asshole,  magnanimous, hide”

Then came the prompt from the blind pile:

“92. Within the last five minutes, he’d seen three people die and had looked down the road toward his own death. The question was – how would he go?”

That was it, along with three events from the past few months.

Moving Day

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Day One

 

Movers heft a couch
one way, then the nextday2.jpg
to make it fit,
a place to sit
when one
is done.

Rain sustains
and softens dry
earth left
too often
under winter’s sun
as drops bless
each one while
they move
from truck to door,
and back again
once more.

On moving day
new beginnings
meet, again and again,
little neat
soldiers shown
marching off to
unknown precincts.

A new drawer to
fill with old, and still
the movers make
their way under
bold gray billows, to
and fro.

We start afresh,
a month, a home,
thresholds to cross at
each ingress.

Eyes wide
open, at least we
imagine, and
through we go
to sow new
seeds with
unblemished
inhaled breath
in accordance
with every
immutable
death.

Author’s Note:

From NaPoWriMo:

“Today’s interview is with Kay Ryan, whose spare, tightly-rhymed work makes each poem a small, witty, philosophical puzzle. You can find more background on Ryan’s life and work here, and read one of her poems here.

And finally, our (optional) prompt. In honor of today’s interviewee, I’d like to challenge you to write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.”

 

Turn

Day 19: Peace Poetry Postcard Month

 

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The day I died,
a bereavement of sorts,
I found myself dismembered.

Through shattered
insignificances
scattered all round,
I foraged to recompose
the whole of me.

I learned to leave
behind depletion.
Breathe in singularity.

As shard by shard
myself rebuilt,
a peaceful horizon
unfurled.

We lose in pain,
but in the gain
we find ourselves
transfigured.

 

 

And When I’m Old

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And when I’m old, waves folded over me,
I’ll rock on lime green rudder, banded pier.
Memories brushed with foam and washed to sea
as shadows stretch beneath sun’s hot veneer.
A giant’s head once cast on fine-grained sand
with shards of shell, each broken dream broadcast,
my hands, my feet, my soul, my heart now stand
bared all to you, imprinted fragments fast.
Through wisps of sea grass bent by breath from far
beyond my eyes and mind’s percipience,
I leave behind that which I cannot bear,
relief’s great sigh, my fate without defense.
As sunset fades from blue to blackest hue,
I close, sweet day, and reach my cherished truth.

.
.
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Author’s Note:

My trip to Orlando, Florida and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter brought such joy I felt like I was a First Year at Hogwarts.

It was a time to revel in the magic of places where good and evil clash. It is a place to remember where cherished ones are lost in noblest, as well as cruelest, of ways. It is life. That is the brilliance of Harry Potter. Love wins.

A trip to the beach while the “kids” were playing brought about time and images for me to try out a sonnet, my first.

There are blessings in struggle, releasing against the sea to become One again. To hear the sound. To watch the little crab. To be tickled by seaweed and warm water washing your toes.

I discovered once more that even though I am not of this warm ocean, I am of big water.

May you live each day in wonder.
May you smile at the smallest of things.
May you honor the Power of passion
in your life in all you do.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Munay,
Lexanne

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Elegy in Orange

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It slipped, tucked between pages
used for memories scribed in words

Transparent orange
recused in my palm
veins delicately lined,
too narrow for wings
a wisp of memory past

There were more

Tumbling from thumbed pages
not yet filled, a puzzle
asking to be stitched

As days press on, memory fades
What once seemed vital, pressing
Now something to emend

Free of past sin I see your face
in tiffany whispers,
a bittersweet elegy

.
.
.

Author’s Note:

This morning I picked up my journal. It had been a while since my pen kissed the page. Life got in the way. As I lifted it with one hand something floated out. I caught it in the palm of my other hand.

A beautiful orange crepe paper. I stared at it trying to remember. It must have been something I was passionate about to keep it tucked away. As I set the journal down, more pieces appeared and a familiar sense came over me. I saw myself placing an orange lily into the middle of my journal, blank pages, thick petals, wondering if it would flatten without breaking. A desperate sadness washed over me.

What was I to remember?

I carefully lifted each petal off the page and placed them gently on my desk. Yes, it must have been a passion to keep this flower. The stamens, each a separate filament of something that was once whole. Dried so delicately and perfectly transparent. But what was I seeing?

I took a little pause. Michael.

You were taken too soon, my friend. I miss you. I never got to tell you how much I loved you.

Tell those around you how much you love them. Time is short.

I love you,
Lexanne

 

To read entire post, I welcome you to join me at Journey/lex.