Your Poem From Me Request #2

The Giving Cause: Still, I Grieve . . .

I try to give myself grace,
to lend myself peace, but
thoughts of you stir about
in my head during the witching
hours, and I cannot find comfort.
I don’t know it. It doesn’t come
to my aid.

What more could I have done?
What more could I have given?
I am bone-dry and my heart
breaks every time I think of you.
You . . . my father. my love. my light.
I am walking in darkness–the days
are longer–nights are colder.
Do I still have meaning?

Every day without you is
a stab to my heart–salt to
the wound, but I’m trying.
I’m trying.
I know if you were here, you’d
guide me in your own little way–
you’d create a path for
my weary feet to follow.

I have to look for peace
from the stars. I have to lure
it in from the moon. I have to
search for it around every corner,
and still, I grieve . . .
I grieve . . . and I wish I didn’t
have to.


Thank you to Kim Smyth for allowing me to gift a poem to you. It has helped me too.

To learn more about the Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here. Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.

Your Poem From Me Request #1

The Giving Cause: Aging in a World of Uncertainties

Photo by Marco Del Pozzo via ReShot

As each year piles on–
Clinging to my skin,
Barnacles of the modern world,
I find myself staring death
In his face.

I walk into another year,
Carrying my past–lugging
Around decades of old
Habits and eons of new pain.
I fear the embrace of
The inevitable–the end of change.

I am supposed to move forward
In life, grateful for breath;
Thankful for air, but the demons
Overcrowd my thoughts, and the
Finality of life’s end is my
Own personal horror.

I open my mouth to scream–
Nothing escapes.
This is where I live now–
On the corner of the aged,
And up the street
From the dying.

I knock on the door of
The present, and no one
Answers.


Thank you to Matt Snyder for allowing me to gift a poem to you. It has been my pleasure.

To learn more about the Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here. Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life.

Holding on, or: Letting go

David, over at The Skeptic’s Kaddish (of a son) was so kind to host me as a feature for his Poetry Partners segment, and I love the poem he shared to accompany my words. It is an honor to share the same page with this awesome human being. I hope you enjoy the poem (s), lovely people.

Thank you again, David! What a great way to build community.

The skeptic's kaddish

Poetry Partners #33

A poem by trE of ‘A Cornered Gurl’

the depth of love carries a torch of light
it ushers in the kindness we need
and lures fighters whose intentions are bright
the heart a source not of stinginess or greed

we long for understanding in this world
our chances of finding it are slim
but we hold on to faith unfurled
peace will fill our hearts to the brim

A sevenling (I have recollections) by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’

I have recollections of lightheartedness, a
weightless innocence, but more readily remember
crushing heaviness. Now, my heart's mostly numb.

It has gained understanding, as it has come to
reject faith. Depth of love has been the primary
constant... So, I direct others down a different path.

'Yes,' I smile, 'Just believe in yourself.'



View original post

We Don’t Talk About Daniela

Musical Selection: We Are KING (or KING)|Hey

Flash Fiction: Narrated by Kay Bolden

Photo by Ellie L via ReShot

*Readers, the following story details murder and death graphically, abuse and neglect of children, and a family’s indescribable pain.

We Don’t Talk About Daniela Narrated by Kay Bolden

We don’t talk about Daniela. We don’t reminisce — don’t share our memories — don’t even flip through the plastic pages of our favorite photo albums. We can’t say her name. We don’t. We don’t. We don’t. But my sister Alexandria does. She chants it. She brings up the past. She draws in the days of old and begs us to dance with her. She shouts the name. She spends it around her fingertips and blows a kiss to us with it. She is enamored by it, dressed in it, locked into it, and we . . . we can’t get her to stop. We want her to stop. We want her to start. We don’t know what we want. But we don’t talk about Daniela.

We don’t talk about that night. We don’t look into the eyes of her sons and wonder what happened — why they lived — why she didn’t. We don’t ask for answers. We don’t wait for answers. We stopped looking for answers. But my sister Alexandria does. She spends hours on the phone with private investigators — works overtime to pay meaningless dollars to an overweight, flighty man who lives at his place of business — too focused to go home — too greedy to know home. She is submerged in the knowing — the yearning — the need to find answers. We wish she would stop. We hope she won’t stop. We can’t get her to stop. But we don’t talk about Daniela.

Alexandria picks at the paintings in my mother’s home — asks, “Who’s this? Who’s that”? and she knows every face. She knows our family — our dead — our ghosts. My mother does not respond. I stand statue-like, still in the presence of my sister who won’t let go. I want to be like her. I want to talk about Daniela — our youngest sister. I’ll try. I think I can. I think I can. Will you listen?

My mother has soulless eyes now. They have been drained of tears. She is hollow-boned and sunken — dry. Nothing moves her. We exist. We still exist. We are here, Mama.

Daniela was the reason for the word beautiful. She had golden eyes. Did you hear me? Golden eyes! Her voice was a velvety sing-songy lullaby. The smartest in her class. The light in every room. The undeniable work of art God created, stepped back, and announced, “It is good” . . . She was thirty years old when that night happened. Thirty years old. Thir — Alexandria was on her way to see her — she had all of their favorite snacks. It was a Friday evening and the roads glistened with the first sprinkles of summer rain. Luther Vandross’s Never Too Much played on her radio. And she sang along. She sang along. She sang along.

Alexandria says, “As soon as I saw her house, something felt off. Something wasn’t right.” That’s what she said. That’s what she says. She got out of her car approached our sister’s home. Her stomach fell to her feet. Tears pummeled her eyelids. She couldn’t move. She wanted to. She couldn’t. She found our nephews tied up in their bedroom — removed the muzzles from their mouths, and listened to their screams. How does one cut their own sister down from a spinning fan? Her neck bruised — eyes bulged from their sockets — breathless. Who did it? Who did it?! Who did THIS?!


An overwhelming feeling to shelter our nephews — at the time, ages seven and four, tapped at her, and Alexandria guided them to the family room, closed the door, and called the police. She was advised to leave our sister hanging — to watch her sway — to not tamper with evidence. Is this right? Was this okay — to allow someone you loved more than the full-bodied moon to just . . . hover lifeless in your presence? It didn’t feel right to Alexandria. It wasn’t right. She took a chair from the dining room, placed it under our sister, and butcher-knifed the rope in half. The two of them fell to the floor.

She held her — smoothed her hair away from her eyes — rocked back and forth. Every tear was a testament to the days she would search for her killer. Every breath was etched in pain. She rocked back and forth. She rocked . . . The boys beat at the door. They kicked. They raged. They wanted out! She rocked . . . she rocked . . . She held onto our sister. She cried. She cried.

Sirens blared in the dark — the slick road announced the officers’ arrival. The hushed trees swayed in the distance — they announced the ambulance’s arrival. The sky opened up and showered down its heaviest rain. It announced the local fire department’s arrival.

Alexandria says, “It was the worst night of my life. It was the worst night of their lives. It was the worst night of her life.” Her being, Daniela — the name we don’t say. The one we don’t talk about. But I’m trying. I — I really am. When I heard my sister’s voice that night, there was a feeling deep in my gut that told me to be quiet — to just listen. I don’t know how she did it — how she told me every detail of that night after holding our dead sister. After embracing our nephews. After answering question after question and catering to authorities performing half-assed duties. I don’t know how she did it.

A suicide — that’s what it was called. Really?! Alexandria slapped the authorities with their own words. Our sister would have never tied up her sons or abused them or beat them in any way. She would have never managed to hang herself or physically bruise her own body prior to this. Who did it?! Look! Search! Do something, damn it! Question the boys. Ask them! Ask them! They know . . . They know . . . They know . . .


Someone had to tell our mother. Someone had to be the one. Someone needed to let her know. How do you tell a woman her youngest child is no longer alive? How do you tell a woman who nearly lost this child in month four — she’s truly gone now? How do you tell a woman she is a mother of two — not three? Someone had to tell her. Alexandria drove to our mother’s home after our sister’s body was removed from her house. The boys sat silently in the back seat. In hushed whispers — intermittent tears fell. She drove faster. She drove faster. She had to get to our mother.

Mothers know. They always know. Alexandria says, “When Mama saw me covered in Daniela’s blood — her sweat wrapping my body — the boys’ tears staining my clothes, she knew.” How Alexandria thought our mother would react was not how she reacted. She sat stoically on her couch, smoothed the silk pajama pants she had on — cleared her throat — closed her eyes. Alexandria told her. She told her. She let her know.

The boys stood by her. They clung to her. They let the woman who birthed the woman they called mother love on them. They allowed her to hold their hands — kiss their cheeks — ease their pain. And it has been like this for the last five years. It’s that way. This is the way. It’s her way. And why we don’t talk about Daniela.

We don’t talk about Daniela. We don’t reminisce — don’t share our memories — don’t even flip through the plastic pages of our favorite photo albums. We can’t say her name. We don’t. We don’t. We don’t.

But my sister Alexandria does. She does . . . To her, Daniela was what we wished for — our shooting star in a land of fallen stars. She will never stop talking about Daniela.


Originally published in The Junction via Medium.

YouTube

The Day After New Year’s Day Is A Puddle of Regret And Lost Memories

rains falls–
beats the windows
like they stole
something
I walk the dog
in inclement weather boots
I’ve had for
eight years
we rush to
one side of the
neighborhood
then, to another
my head is a fireball
of indecisiveness
I want so much
yet I can’t remember
what those things are

a friend of mine
contracted this overgrown
virus that we’re all
so extremely tired of–
then, her mother,
her toddler . . .
same week, my cousin,
and another and another,
and . . . when will this
all end
I ask myself
the dog perches
on my lap
astonished by the
morning darkness
could this be an
oxymoron

the day after
new year’s day
is a puddle of regret
and lost memories
and I didn’t think
I’d wake up feeling
this way, but . . .
I woke up
didn’t I
I’m supposed to be
grateful–I better make
a short list
of the things I shouldn’t
have, yet I do
I better remember I’m
still here while
others took their
final bow earlier
in the week
I better get my
head in the game of
life and gear myself
up for the bullshit
that will surely come
so I can say
I made it through
this is my testimony
I made it through