It begins as a slow, muted staccato beat.
The intense reverberation increases when I am in his presence.
The rhythmic tempo pumps,
and lures me into its passionate song.
The hammering echoes off my rib cage,
playing my feelings like a xylophone.
~~
It begins as a slow, muted staccato beat.
The intense reverberation increases when I am in his presence.
The rhythmic tempo pumps,
and lures me into its passionate song.
The hammering echoes off my rib cage,
playing my feelings like a xylophone.
~~
This picture is my dad and I in 1970. Seemingly, I was as stubborn then as I am now! We were very similar creatures, my dad and I. Although we would have some “heated discussions” during our ever evolving relationship, there was always love at the core of our bond.
My dad passed away in March of 2006 and I miss him every day. I miss his silly sense of humor, I miss his charisma, his smile, and I miss knowing that he would be right there if I needed him. This is a poem I wrote a few months after he passed. He was a Councillor for our township and he was honored with a plaque that was place on a large rock in the local park and the planting of a tree. Happy Father’s Day, dad. We miss you. xoxo 🙂
~~
As Seasons Change
We give these gifts of nature in your name,
To forever keep you near.
To take root in a place you kept close to your heart,
And represent the things you hold dear.
Your rock will remind us to always be strong,
And to remain solid in the lives we love.
And follow in the examples you gave us in life,
As you look on us from above.
Your tree will remind us to accept the changes,
Of seasons that come and go.
As the tree becomes bare at times in our life,
New leaves will blossom in time to show.
That nature is beautiful and life has a season,
but all things do come to an end.
And with each change and leaf that is lost,
Family and friendships help mend.
Branches sway in the winds of time,
And your whispers will be heard in the breeze.
Your memory lives on in the nature around us,
The air, the rocks, the trees.
Today is my first day off in twelve days. I had envisioned being horizontal on my couch for a large portion of the day but an important task that I have continually buried in my brain has burst to the frontal lobe and changed my plans for the day.
Everyone collects things as they go through life. Eventually you begin to share your life and you welcome another person’s things into your collection. But sometimes those unions fail, for whatever reason, and after the division of that union some things get left behind. Today is the day I begin the process of no longer possessing those things.
My entrance way will no longer be a storage locker for junk. My plastic shed will no longer hide the numerous boxes that have since become apartments for families of rodents. It’s time to claim my space and make it mine again.
The bug jacket is ready and the 14 yard waste bin is in my driveway waiting anxiously to be filled and, although the mosquitoes may carry me away before I’m finished, I’m really looking forward to this cleanse!!
It feels like I’ve spent my life on the beach,
one tiny grain of sand among millions,
a nameless, faceless granule of existence.
The force of the water beckons and I sit motionless,
idly waiting for the tide to take me,
wanting to feel that rush of adrenaline,
but I never take that step closer to the shoreline.
I can’t keep hiding in plain sight,
simply watching the sun set over the horizon of my opportunity.
I can’t keep waiting for that water to reach me.
The only obstacle holding me back from adventure,
my biggest stumbling block
is myself.
~~
Written for the 100-Word Song Challenge at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. Click here to check out the challenge and join in the fun!
She sits in her cage,
singing because she finds joy,
she finds happiness in her solitude.
There is peace in her time alone.
Alone will never mean lonely,
and song is her companion.
She sings the notes
as they fill her heart.
~~
Written for the Gargleblaster Challenge:
And so we turn to this week’s ultimate question. There are a million reasons a caged bird might sing, both literally and figuratively. Maya Angelou gave us one in her beloved poem. That leaves at least 999,999 for everyone else to explore. Tell us:
Why does the caged bird sing?
Give us your answer in 42 words, but be creative. Don’t go where we expect you to. Don’t write down the first thing that comes to mind. Think, craft, edit, and craft some more. Give us your very best.
I have my window wide open today smelling the lovely fragrant scent of the lilac blossoms in my yard combined with the pungent odor of my freshly cut lawn. For me, those smells are the perfect storm of essences and I could sit peacefully and inhale those fragrances all day.
I poured a glass of wine and sat on my deck with my feet up. The sky wanted to participate in the sensory overload and this is what I got to see in different parts of the sky today.
Early morning walk with my puppy dog.
Interesting patterns during my drive.
A closer look at the different textures.
A deeper blue sky in the afternoon.
A lovely way to end the day.
I hope you enjoyed your Saturday as much as I did.
Passionate kisses,
lingering in your memory,
long after lips reluctantly parted,
long after skin had grazed skin,
long after the hand had caressed your cheek.
Passionate kisses,
leaving subtle images in your mind,
bookmarking the first page of romance in your story,
creating a smile that will give away your wish-filled thoughts,
leaving the rest of the pages open to be written.
Passionate kisses
that were the beginning of a wistful romance.
Kisses that would dapple the remaining chapters
of a grand story of love with their depth of emotion.
Passionate kisses
that would tell a tale like no other.
~~
Written for the 100 Word Song Challenge at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog.
Growing up, the smell of bacon always made me recall the nights my father insisted we have Liver and Onions for dinner. My mother would try to mask the smell with bacon to fool us into a false sense of security but we were on to her very early. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned to associate that smoky smell with far more pleasant and savory tastes.
It made me ponder how a single smell can elicit such powerful memories. The olfactory bulb switches on at a moment’s notice when a familiar scent touches an odor memory that has been etched into our brain. Smells are one of the best ways to reconnect with our past. During the cold January nights when I am forced to stand outside because my dog has yet to learn how to use the toilet, the smell of that bitter, cold winter air takes me back to the ski hills at Alpine in Collingwood. I’ve lived in Muskoka for most of my life and experienced some extremely biting temperatures but, still, the memory that is brought to life is that of being a kid at a familiar cabin on a busy ski hill.
My mother’s purse, laden with the essence of Spearmint gum, the fragrance of a certain perfume or the whiff of something as simple as a laundry detergent has the power to create such sentimentality. We are transported back to a glimpse of something from our past that has left such a lasting impression. It may not even be a conscious memory but something about that lingering scent brings to mind a time that has long since passed.
I was given a bottle of white wine recently that I haven’t tasted in years. When I opened the bottle and that first aroma hit my nasal passages I was immediately transported to an apartment that I haven’t seen in decades. The scent of that Verdicchio took me back and the flood of nostalgia overwhelmed me.
Smells, feelings and memories become so intimately and easily intertwined that a person can be overcome with emotion. Odoriferous messages flood the senses. Good or bad, we are ferried to an alternate dimension of our own reality and held as a captive of our experiences. For the past few wedding seasons I was a cake maker. I loved the artistry that I was able to create but, better than that, I loved the smell of the cake baking. The aromatic smell of chocolate cake will always be the smell that reminds me of my house. And though I don’t create those cakes anymore the smell of unscheduled cupcake baking sessions transports me to a happy place.
Of all of the senses that I am blessed with, smell seems to be the front-runner when it comes to reliving a sense of the past.
What smell takes you back in time?
Yesterday was a beautiful day. The sun was shining as a light breeze tickled the newly formed Spring leaves and collectively we gathered to share stories and memories of my mother. The service was just as she would have wanted. There were funny recollections, there were heart-warming memories and 18 butterflies took flight as we all remembered her kind spirit and loving heart.
The tablecloths were a lovely shade of pink, arrangements of brilliantly colored flowers were on each table and the atmosphere was anything but morose. It truly was a celebration of life.
My mom did not want a somber occasion to be the last tribute to her life. She didn’t want those she knew crying because she was gone but, instead, she wanted people to remember all of the good moments they had with her when they were in her presence. And that is exactly is what we did.
There was no rushed planning of funeral arrangements and hastily written eulogies. We allowed ourselves time to grieve in our own way and spent two months putting a great deal of effort into a truly personal send-off, one my mom would have loved. Sure, there were tears, but the majority of the time was spent sharing happy stories of a woman who genuinely affected people in such a positive way. We were able to overcome the initial raw pain of loss and gave ourselves permission to really enjoy the memories and pay tribute to her in a way that she deserved.
Mere words can only scratch the surface of how many lives my mother touched with her smile, her generosity and her love. She will be missed every day but her memory will live on in each of the smiles of those who take time to remember her.
Today, the loss is so much more real because now there is no distraction to take away from the reality that she is gone. We must now hold dear to the multitude of moments she left an imprint on our hearts and use those moments to heal the scars created on our hearts when she left.
There is only one way to go, and that is forward. Everything else in my earthly path of existence seems to disagree, but I forge ahead, ignoring any warning signs.
Life is a contradiction in terms.
I pick and choose my meanings.
~~ Written for the Gargleblaster #162.
Which way to go?
Give us your answer in 42 words. Don’t go where we expect you to. Don’t write down the first thing that comes to mind. Think, craft, edit, and craft some more. Give us your very best.