And now, our (optional) prompt! Today, I challenge you to write a poem about food. This could be a poem about a particular food, or about your relationship to food in general. Or it could simply be a poem relating an incident that involves food, like David Ignatow’s “The Bagel”. Still not convinced? Perhaps these thirteen food poems will give you some inspiration. Happy writing!
We had to put our doggie down today. My heart is broken.
During the blue hour before sunrise
when endings come, it’s easy at first
to explain them away – he really didn’t
love me, it was time to move on. Easier
than acknowledgement, a needle
inked with black, a road forged in
memories, cleansed in tears.
Each prick joined to the next creating
an indelible canvas ready for pigment,
deeply etched into tender soft skin,
first a wound, then a healing, finally
a brilliant map to somewhere fair,
all designed from an end point.
When death holds out her hand, I draw
her near to me for balance and plunge
into untried genesis with the rising sun.
.
.
.
Author’s Note:
I grabbed death’s hand much too often these past few weeks. From the passing of a child in my school, to the loss of a husband of a dear friend. The one-year anniversary of my father’s journey through the veil and several more, I am a bit numb.
And it is not just physical deaths that bit me. Loss this month in many other ways has, strangely enough, kept me balanced. I am learning that there will always be an end. An end I probably won’t see coming. But when the night fades into daylight, as it always will, just as the moon waxes and wanes, I can move ahead knowing the cycle will repeat itself and all will be well.
Surrender, release, being present in the moment, have been themes here for a while now. It must be the winter, the dark, a time for solitude, reflection, and rest so when spring comes, there will be clarity.
Namaste, my friends, you are the Light in this world. Shine.
Lexanne
P.S.
I’m turning sixty in May. The above image is of a tattoo found on a Serbian ice maiden who was found fairly well preserved. It is a powerful image for me. My Slavic genes find it stunning. I’ll let you know if I take the plunge into a new genesis.
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Oh, to be snowbound today
blanketed safe from the noise of living,
heavy quiet stilling daily chores,
calling to halt nervous chatter,
busy hands,
icing the burn of loss
I would sit in his chair at the kitchen
window, his lens to a world he once
imbibed, to see his view, one
he will no longer attend
I would watch snow silently lining branches
bend till boney fingers kiss the ground
weighed down by flakes so fragile
until too many rest
one on top of the next,
surrender, and finally,
release to Winter’s call
.
.
.
Author’s Note:
My dad passed through the veil sunday morning while I was away at Mass.
This morning, with the snow bearing down on the Eastern Coast, I saw his empty chair at the window he so enjoy looking out.
I miss him so.
Dad’s view of the world and the tree that brought him so much enjoyment.
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