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.

Some Memories

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Some memories:

shoot through you like a lightning bolt
leaving your veins full of apple blossoms
your skin electrified with memories of kisses
your eyes a movie projector
playing thoughts, words, music

Some memories:
are so dense that you can’t breath
so compact that you can’t move

Some memories:
leave you in the forest 
with no compass
no ability to find north or south or east or west

Some memories:
leave you orbiting the planet
a satellite floating alone
so very far away
no contact, no feelings

Some memories:
are the departing gift that keeps giving
a gift that has you smile in a crowd
lost in your own happiness
oblivious to the world around

Some memories:
are not so lovely
trapped in that last breath
hoping he would inhale one more time
so you could rest your lips on his
and take him in
to let him continue to live inside you
two as one
if only you could

Some memories:
ay…

Photo on 2017-04-24 at 10.28 AM

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Time Is Running

Dear Fogo Island

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pale greys
blanket the sky
worn through patches
exposes the deep blue
of what could be

I see you
across the water
faded, alone
no one living in your home
your eyes show me sadness
no sparkle or reflection in your glass
I wish I could walk through your front door
bringing with me many days of more
washing you with love
exposing colours that once was
I see you

almost
I can reach across and touch you
there is tall grass
deep waters
wall of rocks
to climb
can you wait for me
will you survive another storm
wishing I could comfort you
to give you hope
to share with you my dreams
your chairs would be painted
the colours of the evening skies
your eyes would be bigger and brighter

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feeling
a knife tearing through my skin
reaching my heart
looking at you so far across the bay

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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 

                                                                                           was
so intense
                                                                                        that it

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

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

a bandage ripping off a scab
exposing raw flesh

opening the dam
                                                                                     flooded
the heart’s intuition begins to flow
do i possess the strength
or am i just an
                                                                                   overwhelmed
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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GOODBYE AND HELLO

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I have been busy with researching sexual abuse for a play my friend wrote and directed. After reading her script and attending a rehearsal I plunged into the pool of turmoil attempting to swim through all the horror and not get caught in the tentacles of an abusers mine.
Three hours of reading and sketching in the solitude of a coffee cup I allowed my inner child to speak. Followed by five intense days of painting I was now exhausted, my mind empty. After recuperated for three days while I slept, watched H.B.O. movies and drank barrels of tea. There was nothing left in me. As if my blood had been drained from my veins, being replaced by tea none the less.
I have just completed two weeks of nail biting car research for my trusted friend the van was on its death bed. This is another part of my life that will be without Bruce. No more can I drive around and remember him sitting in the passenger seat with his sketchbook on his lap. No more will I think of his wheelchair sitting in the back empty like a ghost. No more will I chant ‘just bring me to him and bring me back home, that is all I ask’

I did not name my van, perhaps I should have. It served me very well and was my home on wheels for so many years. My van carried a lot of boxes and sculptures and was always with me during all of my  sculpture restoration contracts.
I should have named him, should I not?
I feel that he was not so much my friend as my godfather, always looking out for me. Rarely getting deathly ill. I did give him all the medication the mechanic prescribed. He had his regular check ups and transfusions.
He was my godfather.
When I left him in the parking lot of the honda dealer I thanked him once again and kissed him. I believe he smiled back at me and then went to sleep forever. He had a good life of service and dedication filled with devotion and love.
Now I have an adult Honda Fit. She is six years old and is so lovely. I went to the dealer to test drive a Toyota Matrex but when the salesman opened the door I could not enter the car. The energy that lingered was anger mixed with frustration and no love. Sadly the car had an evil spirit in it and I could not bring myself to sit behind the wheel. I did sit in the passenger seat but quickly got out. Then like a shining light in the forest I saw this flicker of violet. I asked the salesman Joseph, What is that? He opens the door and I jumped in then said I will test drive this. After my nephew checked her over and gave me some pointers on negotiating a better deal I did and am now the owner of Aveline [which means loyal , little bird] she has happy energy. She is beautiful and will hopefully become a long time friend.

 

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What Feelings Are Stored In Our Minds

Today while eating breakfast
the smallest of egg
did go crashing down my air pipe
within a micro second
the projector 
that resides in my mind
started playing
Not something lovely
but a repeat of events
my love choking on his food

So vivid are these playbacks
the clarity in details
every horrific sound
images of so many tears streaming
down his beautiful face
he looks up to me with his eyes
floating in pools of water
red and frightened
I can’t do anything to help

These are the images that continue to live in me

The sadness that I feel
is like a boulder on my chest
I can hear the squeaking of the movie reel spinning backwards
till my eyes fill with tears
all I can think is
I’M SORRY,,,,,,, I’M SORRY,,,,,,,,,,, I’M SORRY
that you had to go through this

If I loved you much less
I would be free of these movies 
that spin in my head
If I loved you less I would not feel such sadness when I choke
If I loved you less
_______
I would not be the person I am today
loving you beyond life itself
has made me a person
I like to spend time with
I love who I am
I am better for loving you my sweet departed love
my husband my soul mate

Till I choke again,,,,,,,,,

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Second Look

Many Doors To Open

Sometimes looking back after a couple of months is a good thing. The creative high has settled and the realistic eyes have emerged. Most of these works of art I have not stretched  on wood. I am thinking more and more that I will keep these as if I had painted them in a sketchbook.

Often I feel that selling quickly due to the never ending need of monies we or I loose sight of that first glow of creative juice for a piece. Then it almost never comes back. How do you out there deal with this, if in fact you have felt this?

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This treasure I found washed ashore at Tilting on Fogo Island. I wish there were a dozen more. I was completely captivated by the material, the size and the hinge. The edges are cut and worn by the sea.

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My walks were never just a walk…

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