Category: Grief

12 Weeks

When I crested that hill,
rounding the bend on Route 32
a known road, a familiar road
it happened…
The curves and bends were foreign
as I spend towards home
uncertain, disoriented
the road became unfamiliar,
my brain waiting for it to click in place
where I was, who I was,
the purpose of my journey.
I found my footing
as I coasted to a stop
at that same traffic light in Rosendale
I’ve been stopping at for a decade.
But the fear lingered like a fine mist,
a cloud of agonizing reality.
We’ve always been four,
like the solid directions;
north, south, east, west,
stable and strong,
and now we’re teetering,
balanced on three legs,
a tripod of grief.
Even the landmarks can’t save me
their familiar shapes are ominous
as I wander among them ,
trying to find my place
without the fourth direction.
I’m so afraid of getting lost
but I’m already lost
there’s no finding my way
until I find you.

11/8/2017

19 Weeks

Time is as transient as air, as breath
It’s useless to keep tracking it
You may as well have died yesterday
or 100 years from now
or never.
I want to believe you’re talking to me
the skeptics are wrong
mediums can channel the dead
I wish I had that gift
I would give anything
to feel you near me
Wanting is the worst thing I can do

11 Weeks

I’m floating in a vacuum
resisting the gravity of real life
drifting, not caring about seasons
or passing days
I don’t understand these things
I have more in common with the dead.
The veil lifted and I’m stuck
seeing things for what they really are
seeing myself as dust, a flicker
in an endless arc of light
and I don’t care
I really don’t
My ego evaporated
I don’t want joy
I don’t want to leave a mark
I want to melt away
to unbecome
there’s no relief from my life
oh god, this life
I don’t care
I have no more illusions about today
and the goldfinches,
those bright fingers of yellow
pointing out the joy, the now
They’re not for me.

Burning

The candles want to burn
who am I to hold them back?
There is something perfect
about fire, contained
a calming sense of order
as the tiny flame hovers
quietly, solemnly
above liquefied wax
I feel my own sorrow
crackling like brittle wood
at fire, released
If I burn all the candles down,
every single one,
maybe it will release me
from clinging to dust and memories
the truth wants to be known, fulfilled
holding it back won’t stop time,
but it might drive me crazy
it might destroy me

Stillness

I catch each thought between my palms–
a tiny fairy with damp, burdened wings.
When I dry them off, setting them free,
the deep quiet of my uncluttered mind
frightens me, echoing the stillness of a grave;
bottomless and mute.
It wants me to see it, needs to be seen.
A place of solace beckons me
through the uncomfortable dark
where more tears and pain await.
Oh, but I’m so tired, so very tired
of the impenetrable black.
I only want to close my eyes
and see you.

My Endless Search

Are we the things we leave behind?
The faded jeans and coffee mugs,
and dark, silent phones.
Are we our data?
I don’t think so.
All this rational thought
is going nowhere,
and that’s a place I can explore.
Nowhere is the coiling and uncoiling of stars,
expanding and contracting,
like my grief.
Nowhere is the deck of a sinking ship
sliding below the surface of the water.
Nowhere is the space where souls drift.
Is that where you are;
Halfway to me and halfway gone?
I’m looking for a place that is no place
because you’re not here,
but nowhere’s wrong too.
Maybe you’re everywhere?

Lucid

When I fall from consciousness,
the fading imprint of the day
is waiting behind my eyes
I peer into that space,
hungering for the emptiness,
imagining you, a hair’s breadth away
But I can never find you
though I search until sleep descends
unmooring me with a cascade
of nonlinear thought
a false promise of freedom
from the heavy boundaries of time
as my brain reshuffles,
playing games with space and memory
I know my spirit is widest then
my awareness spread eagle
my arms, gone, yet reaching

Wood

If you sit outside long enough
you notice that the trees change,
the creek of aging wood,
the lichen on gnarled branches
even in death, the trees offer refuge
countless perches within exposed branches
a high vantage point to observe
the neighborhood cats
with their fat bodies and languid eyes
The abundance of my backyard surprises me
the tenacity of growth, as if my tiny plot of land
is on the cusp of being consumed,
swallowed by the encroaching mountainside
with its wild dazzle of swaying pines
and the tangled vines that choke
the hickory and ash
I wonder at the strength of trees,
how the wood wants to reclaim it all
this lawn, this house, this feeble garden
it’s likely to succeed

September Again

I brushed the moving seasons with my fingers
feeling the light grow heavier
as the weight of autumn pressed closer
and the moon sat lower in the sky,
squat and round and brooding.
I have no lightness left,
no light,
the terrestrial prison around me
holds no fascination
I am old, at once,
tired of missing you
afraid of bearing this grief forever
afraid of the fast turning days
afraid of my slow, inevitable decay.
I envy the dead.
If our spirits are eternal
than why do we forget?
Why do we come back?
I’m locked here
as lonely as the cold moon.

Connecting

No matter how tight our grip, sometimes
the world takes them
into a swirl of dark emptiness.
I hope that death is just the threshold
a wardrobe, an oak tree, platform 9 & 3/4
in a London train station.
Can she see me
as I grope and weep and rail at time?
watching from her place in eternity
maybe she’s laughing as I count the days
the seasons
which are connected end to end, a circle
I feel her reaching out
I smell her
I know the weight of her spirit,
as familiar to me
as when her infant self
was warm and safe in my arms.