Widowed Without A Manual

Some of us grieve longer then others. I will not be rushed out of my love, that still inhabits my heart.

Inside I Feel

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mama and rosa 1980 copy

This morning I lay in bed
under the weight of my feathers
eyes closed
enjoying the quiet
the warmth
then I felt the strangest thing
I was my mother
I could feel being her
strange, not a frightening feeling
I was her but a small me was inside her
like one mitt inside the other
not a child in her mother
two women in one
I could feel her thoughts
I could sense her mind
my hands are like mama’s
my face is like mama’s
strange yet wonderful feeling

My fingernails are thin
mama would trim and file hers down
I chose to bite
so many attitudes
I have adopted
my grandchildren not calling
creates terrible feelings
I feel vindictive
harbouring such thoughts and filing them
plotting retaliation
I detested this characteristic of my mother
yet here I am sitting with my shoulders rounding
my face transmuting into someone I don’t know
yet I act as she did
I also know that the second the phone rings
we both cast away every sad thought
we become joyous and loving
we give many presents
as a penance for even thinking such terrible thoughts
I know how greatly saddened she was
I feel such sadness
we are the same mitt
I look in the mirror and see her face
we wear our heart on our sleeve
that is why it gets hit and bumped and bruised
perhaps I should put it back into my chest
where it will be protected

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Familiar Sadness

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her sadness 

so intense
                                                                                        that it

left an imprint
on my flesh
                                                                                      my burning chest
when we held

my sister’s sadness
                                                                                       forever changed
etches deep in my flesh
I am consumed
my body
my mind
every memory
feels woken
                                                                                     wet and desolate
jolted from a placid state

a bandage ripping off a scab
exposing raw flesh

opening the dam
the heart’s intuition begins to flow
do i possess the strength
or am i just an
sorrow addict looking
for her next fix
am i drawn to a familiar sorrow
ever encompassing sadness
                                                                                  is there such a thing
is there such a thing?


Upon reading. Editing and adding words and lines, I felt that two things were happening. I was recreating my poem by adding these words and lines. By the process of separating them I realized that a second poem was being created 🙂 thus I left the added lines to the right. The poem can now be read in three ways.

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