Moving from Fall into Winter has brought up many questions and answers in my mind this week. Re-reading "Shades of Me", I realize that it might just be possible for that "Spring" to come again. That "Shade" of me has not died yet, though for months, possibly even years, its felt as though it had.
I've feared the "Spring" and have been content to remain in the "Winter", when all things have died or are dormant. I am still terrified of the "Spring" but I can see it coming now and despite the mixture of feelings it arouses, the season will change and I can choose to remain dormant or embrace it. I think I will embrace it and go with the flow of the seasons.
Thanks "T"
Shades of Me such as the seasons be
Ever changing hues of green to gold, from young to old
And as if Spring has come to stay, abruptly, it is swept away.
Contentment leaves dew turns to frost. I cry for a Spring, that appears to be lost.
Blossoms wilt and turn to brown. Will shades of Spring again be found?
Assuredly as seasons change fragments of the Spring remain.
"Shades of Me" was published by Rook Publishing in "Quothade an Anthology" in 2005 and is my all time favorite poem.
Pitch black roads, beneath starry skies, night after night I drive. Pink Floyd wishing you were here or Miley climbing mountains, whatever I can dial, I sing and smile. Prowling highways and interstates, hearing music for my inner state. Thoughts race sometimes or draw a blank, hypnotized by yellow lines and reflective signs.
New friends each day or for the week. This life is not intended for the meek of soul or mind but I've never been so "me" before nor had such ambitions of having more. No complaints by hotel staff, nothing to criticize on my behalf. When I walk through the empty door, the road calls my name, enticing me to journey further beyond thoughts I've never had before.
Attainable dreams upon the horizon; I hear them sizzle when they rise. My senses keener, smelling roses on the way and emotions of the distant bay. I am compelled to pause and touch the sky. Reflect upon the "crossroad" sign; contemplate what turn to make. A single stretch of highway possesses forging power; transforms the scenery of approaching days. Each curve, each turn, each hill I climb, illuminates the centered line.
I couldn't let the day go by without saying something about my own Father. He passed away in 2005 and being a "Daddy's" girl, it was very difficult and occasionally still is. The Father's day before he passed away, I honored him with a poem. I worked very hard on that poem, he was an Architectural Engineer for John Deere & Co. and to make it special, I researched architectural terms and their meanings to incorporate them into the poem. Unfortunately, he didn't live to see it published, or the award won for it.
So here's to you Dad! I miss you!
Construction Site
I've never felt the board's sting against rebellious skin, instead you took from me pleasures and privileges for Mom to return the moment you'd gone. This architecture of discipline, though un-engineered, imposed height to a seemingly small spire.
Whatever guided or misguided venture I constructed, you were a rigid structure of support. You encouraged me to challenge even the boys at their own games. I didn't care to "kick, pass or punt" but did because you asked and I swam for the love of it as I pitched and double played-- catching red-velvet rocking chairs.
I have gained wisdom from your vaulted mind that you may have thought gone unheeded. From your blueprint poured a solid foundation, albeit rough and unrefined-- I will wear a red brick dress to dine.
Behind your new façade of old adobe eyes and corbelled arch leans a pillar I stand in its shadow as I swim-- I. M. or butterflies, I dive into a pool of concrete and water from the widower's walk, mitered at your side. I am your cornice-- you have engineered that.
2005 - Ann Sherrick Award 2006 - Published "SAGA" Art and Literary Magazine, No 69A
Beneath a row of pines, on the left side of the silent road, rests the labyrinth. I breach the broken bones of limestone lines in search of a golden thread.
Instead, debris litters the pebbled path. Dead things lay beneath my feet, shed from trees above my head; leaves crunch, twigs crack.
Disoriented, I wander the maze as the center moves farther and farther away; lost in mounds of thought.
Abruptly I'm centered. A feather enchants my eye; from the marrow I'm given wings and vision. I see there is not a golden thread; I have not sown it.
No longer fearing the narrow path, I acknowledge the dead things. The obstacles seem quite small compared to the length of lines I've walked.
Murky attitudes rein today like the smell of wet dog Flogged and broken, thrown Out into the storm’s dreary forecast.
Is it just the day’s foreboding future, casting a dark hue On the water’s misty view? Pacing with a whore’s luck. I smell it in the deep of the basement Pulling on the chain.
Illumination never comes. Starvation eats, My jaw aches, from the gnawing on the leash.
by Elizabeth A. Hall
(I know it's a bit obscure, I'm not even sure what its about, I vaguely remember writing it...lol )
I feel your pain primate, (don't cry in front of the children). There are things that no one can relate to. I have so much fun and feel so alone. Its nobody's fault.
I wander about my home on the verge of tears. All the time is too much. I'm satisfied in all ways but one. I can put my finger on it, but it doesn't come up. My desires are stiffing; impaired beyond comprehension.
Not so much as a pill can fix what ales me. So I chill at night and pretend I'm fine. Though its not - and there is no repairing its absence. It goes beyond the realm of intimacy; existing in separateness. Behind different doors at different times.
No need to conceal secrets behind them. We think but never out loud. We understand quietly; in private. What would happen if we were to speak? I can't tear myself from the chair, I find comfort internally and in “Times New Roman”; unspoken words. Laughing is allowed.
Although this poem was written in the fall, the thunderstorms of spring have the same results. As it thundered and poured this past week and having my Grandson's here, I was reminded of this poem and thought it worthy of sharing. Losing ones power can be a fun and creative experience.
I wonder about the other 90 percent of my brain I hear my thoughts screaming to be found I see the good in everyone I want an external hard drive I am consequential, catching I pretend to be productive I feel success I touch emptiness I worry about my offspring and my significant other I cry at happy endings I am consequential, catching I understand no one is perfect I say everything happens for a reason I dream of being lost in the forest I try to be productive I hope to see it through the trees I am consequential, catching
Mother's Day for me will consist of visiting the cemetery. I haven't been in a while and feel as though I've been neglecting my parents. I don't get upset or cry on Mother's Day, my Mom and I weren't the close pair that I am with my own daughter. Although I did call her almost daily to vent and she was a good one to vent to. She never had an opinion, she would just respond "that's interesting", whether it was trivial or tragedy, she was a good listener.
Years before she died, my parents would snow-bird to Englewood, Florida. With each visit they would leave earlier in the fall and come back later in the spring. I wasn't able to call or drop in as often, so we seemed to drift apart before she passed on. When they were in town I would forget they were so close. I became accustomed to them not being here.
When they returned from Englewood for the last time and Dad had a heart attack unloading the motor home, ending up in the hospital having a triple-bypass, Mom ended up in a nursing home. My Dad had kept her decline a secret and when she called and asked if I would come over to spend the night because she didn't want to be alone, I learned, she "couldn't" be left alone. I stayed a week with her until I found a decent nursing home. (Nursing home shopping is a terrible task). From that day on, I visited her every day and prepared her for bed every night.
Dad's recovery was slow, ending up in intensive care twice. They released him to the same nursing home where he shared a room with Mom. I remember coming down the hall to visit and could hear them bickering as was their custom. After his release, Dad wouldn't visit with the same regularity, I was still up there nightly and on the weekends, sometimes twice a day. I think the only time I missed putting her to bed was when I took a weekend to go to Chicago for a NASCAR race and I felt like the parent, worrying and calling often to check on her.
Mom and I became closer during her time in the nursing home. Although she wasn't all there upstairs, she was more open and inquisitive; almost child like. It seems when she was in Florida the last time, she ended up in the hospital on Thanksgiving. Mom had Emphysema, congestive heart failure and COPD. While in the hospital they cranked up her oxygen to 6 liters and no one explained to her or my Dad that it shouldn't be that high for very long and it poisoned her. It was always a constant battle there after, with the nurses and CNAs, to keep her oxygen turned down.
We spent evenings talking about death (she was anxious to go) and the strange things that she would see. Often she would see butterflies and comment on how beautiful they were. Butterflies became an icon and a symbol of her, we hung them everywhere in her room. Dead relatives would visit, having a party in her room and she would say "next time they come, I'm going with them". She had always been an anxiety ridden person but her condition exacerbated it and I was sometimes called upon by nursing home staff to come calm her down. My Dad wouldn't listen to her ramblings, he didn't believe in such things.
I enjoyed spending time with her there, I would giver her manicures, paint her nails, brush her hair; dote on her. We would sometimes reserve the conference room and have my family up for a Chinese dinner, her favorite. Her roommate was usually included in our gatherings. I got to know many of the other residents, some of which I had never seen a visitor come.
January 30th was our last Chinese Dinner in the conference room. At the end of the meal, my Moms favorite ritual was opening the fortune cookie. This night her fortune read "You are about to depart on a long awaited journey". My mom was beside herself with excitement. "Does this mean what I think it means?" She asked. My Dad ignored the question, thinking it to be non-sense or "hog wash" (his favorite term). All I could say was "I don't know".
Early the next morning Mom ended up having to go to the emergency room, she was bleeding internally. The Doctor said they could do surgery but it would be very strenuous on her body. My Mom, for the first time in a very long time was calm and insisted there would be no surgery, she wanted to go back to the nursing home.
I pulled the Dr. out into the hallway and questioned him as to how much time she would have if she didn't have surgery. "At the most, three days" he estimated and Mom went back to the nursing home. After settling her in, I returned home. Shortly after, I received a call from one of the nurses, Mom was having a panic attack.
After spending some time with her I realized that "this was 'it'". I asked her who she would like with her; she wanted everyone there. I called my family, my daughter and son, husband and Father. Once she learned Dad was on the way she relaxed and calmly fell asleep. When the last person arrived in her room, Mom went peacefully.
On January 30th, every year, we celebrate Mom's life and "The last supper" by gathering at a Chinese restaurant. Dad's no longer here either and it is my responsibility to carry on the tradition. However with my life having been in personal turmoil for a while, I forgot a couple times but as fate would have it, my son and I found ourselves having Chinese one day and realized it was January 30th. At another gathering we ran into my cousin and her partner sharing dinner at my Mom's favorite restaurant (I don't believe in coincidence).
I locked myself in my room, determined to write a poem for her funeral (neither of my parents were aware of my poetry passion) and the following is the result and also the poem that brought me out of the closet.
Happy Mother's Day Mom and Thank you,
Upon Wings
My image a canvas
painted by time,
weary and tired
I've left it behind.
Upon wings of a butterfly my essence now rides,
dancing on breezes
as they pass by.
You'll see me sometimes
on warm summer days
Among Poppies and Asters
You can watch me play.
Refrain from your sorrow,
you mustn't weep
for sweet nectar
I now shall eat.
Let us not say goodbye,
not bid thee farewell,
I'll be in the garden
just resting a spell.
(unfortunately I was unable to locate a photo of Mom on disc, so fittingly substituted photos I've taken of Butterflies)
2004 - 73rd Annual Writer's Digest International Writing Competition - Honorable Mention, Non-Rhyming Catagory
2005 - State of Illinois American Heritage Literary Award
2005 - Ann Sherrick Award
2007 - 34th Annual Mississippi Valley Poetry Competition - 2nd place - Humorous Category.
2009 - February Poem of the Month "Fields of Grass" Midwest Writing Center's "Poets Out Loud"
MY POETRY APPEARS IN THE FOLLOWING PUBLICATIONS:
2005 - Rook Publishing "Quothade" an Anthology
2005 - "The Lyric" Volume 85, No. 4
2006 - "SAGA" Art and Literary Magazine, No 69A
2007 - "Out Loud Anthology of Poetry" Volume II
2007 - "The Reader" No. 631, Volume 14
2009 - "Out Loud Anthology of Poetry" Volume III
Keep Politically Informed: (recommended websites per "Readers Digest" June 2009 issue "Keeping them Honest") Congress.org - Keep track of how your local politicians are voting. Sunlightfoundation.com - Texts of major bills, info on special interest contributions and where congressional contributions are going. Google.com - scores of sources where you can fact-check the claims of politicians. Citizens Against Government Waste - tracks government spending and flags abuses. Project on Government Oversight (POGO) - Monitors federal contractors. Cop.senate.gov - monitor the bank bailout with reports & details on how the money is spent. Consumer Federation of America - Connect with local groups working on issues important to you.
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