This Eulogy

Wanting
To sing the Heavens
Before learning the songs of earth.

Note To Self II

Enraptured, a lily opens; frozen in this frame, a jewel of sorrows forgetfulness. Life, breaking dawn; promises only death.

Note To Self I

Don’t live life like we come into this world.

Instead, remember, we come out of this world an expression of the whole.

Forgotten Seasons

Something made me think of this poem today so I thought I would share.

I wrote this last year for a Poetry Challenge, based on my memories of this moment of my life and my analysis of ‘Yesterday’ by the fabulous W.S Merwin, affectionately written in this style of his… so simply worded, so very confusing!

I have been kind… if you look carefully, you will see I have given a clear clue.

Forgotten Seasons

Kaylee he said
Ali he said
Yes it’s me, Ali I said
I’ve never seen you before!

Kissing my cheek he proceeded
by giving me a gentle squeeze
He doesn’t understand he said
this didn’t comfort me
I felt an unnatural chill in the room
creeping up my bare legs

He’s just a little confused he said
he’s been gone a long time and…
He just thinks I’m stupid he said
where did you go?
he doesn’t I said defensively
he loves you

I was three
the sterile scent of the hospital
filled my senses, numbing me
I could still hear the rickety-rack
trees and paddocks whizzing by
as the train shuttled along it’s rails
I could still feel the dip my stomach took
as the airplane sped down the runway

I had peered out the window
sitting on my feet
feeling much smaller
than my three years
watching mountains like little lego blocks
wondering somewhat in awe of what awaited
He reached for my hand
it startled me
I shuffled out of reach

Don’t be scared he said
come close so I can see your pretty face
Go, it’s OK he said
I toe over toed a little closer
I could smell death
turning to him, dark velvet eyes
pleading to leave
he nudged me forward with his gaze

Cold worn hands grabbed my cheeks
a lifetime of regrets slipping over my skin
crying I ran out into the garden
and sat watching bumble bees
pollinate bouquets of colour
I didn’t go back

My father said, it wasn’t my fault
it was his fault
He died the next day