Tag Archives: death

They Won

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She locks them down deep in her heart
The pains that are much to hard to bear
Not knowing pains are living things
They too have a need of air

She paces back and forth
As her soul rips at the seams
The pains try to find a voice
But she suppress the urge to scream

The pains search in vain
Desperate for way to be heard
But not computer, pen or paper
Is touched to give her pains words

But pains are a force of nature
Pains finds a way to succeed
As she picks up a straight razor
And in little cuts starts to bleed

And but for a short moment
The pains do ease inside
Covers the cuts in long sleeves
A whole new way to hide

For days, weeks, months, on end
She and her pains do this odd dance
She suppressing the cuts of evidence
As pains sneak out when they gets the chance

And all the lies rapidly collected
To give her scars a blame
Only cuts deeper than the physical cuts
That can’t quell her personal shame

She refused to reach out
To those offering her their hand
But she just wasn’t ready
Wasn’t prepared to understand

That to accept help was not a weakness
On the strong who reach out survive
But in her head only pains say she’s living
That only the pains keep her alive

Over a year on a late summer night
The clock ticks about a quarter to four
And finds that’s she’s still cutting
Alone on the bathroom floor

And for the first time she sees her arms
The crisscrossing along her inner thighs
The fresh blood trickling from her wrist
And for the first time she truly cries

The avoided mirror reflects all her hurts
Only as painful as the eyes can see
At last her pains have found a voice
And now owned will not let her be

It suddenly felt like so many hands were on her
More than what could possibly be real
It was heart reaching out to all who touched her
Desperate for a chance to finally heal

For the heart’s not made to hold pain for so long
And her pains no longer had the patience to wait
Freed at last it gushed through every avenue
She’d finally reached out, but it was too late

"THEY WON" carved into an arm.

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Thursday Poets Rally – Week 65 

Poetry Picnic  – Week 30

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

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A week ago Saturday, I should have been repeatedly glancing at the time, waiting for 5:17 pm Pacific Daylight Time to make a call that would have rung in New York City at 8:17pm Eastern Daylight Time. For the past few days I should have been teasing my friend, on how I wish I could have personally seen the expression on her face when the man she had been living with for three years dropped down to one knee and proposed to her, in front of the family gathered for St. Patrick’s revelry while she and I were talking on the phone at 8:17pm EDT/5:17pm PDT. Why that exact time? Because the proposer was seventeen minutes late for meeting up with friends at a pub in San Francisco for St. Patrick’s Day, when he first laid eyes on her four years ago. As I was in California for the weekend, I thought it was a grand idea to call from the West Coast at that exact time tying the events together.

Instead, a week ago I was trying to get drunk so I could fake happiness for a party I had traveled to the other side of the country for, but no longer wanted to be at, because I received the news from the fiance-to-be the day before, that my friend was killed in an auto-accident by a drunk driver. The shock of the news put me in such a state, much to the worry of my drinking buddies who (when I did not show up at the dance Friday night an hour after I received the news), could not reach me through my self-imposed communication silence while I grieved.

Today we bury the body that died, then we will celebrate the life she lived. The past few days have been a whirlwind as I had chosen not to talk about it. Not talking about her is not an option today. For the past few days I noticed when either 5:17pm or 8:17pm struck and felt a pang. Today, tomorrow, a week from now and for several more weeks to come, those specific time markers will be a bittersweet memory; she would hate that.

Eventually, she will be a sweet memory and while she’d likely gag at the use of “sweet” as adjective in relation to her, I know she’d smile at that.

Yet I know as soon as later today, instead of tears of sorrow , it will be tears of laughter streaming down my face as we all tell our favorite stories about her, because you cannot talk about her and not laugh. She would love that.

>==========<

Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

A Lesson Deferred

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Moonlit justice
of an imagined sunlit crime
Swung from an oak
a cruel pendulum mark of time
Some eyes tremble
Some eyes leer
all wonder at the marvel
of what happened here

Emmit’s a lesson some can’t forget
Emmit’s a lesson some haven’t learned yet

How many more
Must there be
Why does it take a man’s death
for us to see

As we travel down the road of another man
Who will never travel the same again
Truck tires designed to ride him above
Much better used to drag him down in the night
For a crime no more sinister than
He wasn’t born white

James Byrd’s a lesson some can’t forget
James Byrd’s a lesson some haven’t learned yet

And sometimes a child is shot
For doing nothing more
The walking home in the rain
From the local store
Was it the clothes he wore?
Was it the color of his skin?
He carried iced-tea and candy
What was his sin?

Some fifty plus years between hence and thence
To be reminded how fragile the balance on the fence

Stewart, Griffith and Hawkins lesson some can’t forget
Diallo, Bell and now Martin lessons some haven’t learned yet
How many more names will be added before the lesson is set?

>==========<

Letting off some steam in the wake of another senseless killing and wanting to bitch-slap Geraldo Rivera even while a part of me understands the rational behind the unintentionally inflammatory statement.

Visit the rest of today’s Slices of Life over at Two Writing Teachers.

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

When Winter Cradles Spring

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12

According to the calendar, this is spring’s first day
I can just make out the tinges of green on its way
But one more winter’s snowfall has one last say
Making this day, just like my heart, somewhat gray
Those first hints of green are a melancholy thing
My love I miss you most, when winter cradles spring

The spring day we met, the ground still had snow
And like the seedlings underneath a love began to grow
And the years like sunlight increased it’s glow
But on a snowy spring day, you were taken so
Trapped in a time warp, my eyes start to sting
My love I miss you most, when winter cradles spring

It has been a few years now, since you’ve died
And I concede, the tears grow less, that I’ve cried
I would love to say my pain has turned its tide
But on days like today all would know I’ve lied
For me it’s a lamentation, the morning birds sing
My love I miss you most, when winter cradles spring

When I look at the walls, in the spaces somewhat bare
In my mind’s eyes, are the pictures of you, still hanging there
The seasons come, the seasons go, in their time allotted share
But this, not quite winter, not quite spring, holds bittersweet air
I tug at the finger that sometimes wears your wedding ring
My love I miss you most, when winter cradles spring

Sometimes I’m hit with pangs that my heart can barely stand
But they’re starting to fade, like the tide wearing away sand

Those first hints of green are a melancholy thing
Trapped in a time warp my eyes start to sting
For me it’s a lamentation, the morning birds sing
I tug at the finger that sometimes wears your wedding ring
Wondering if, no when, my heart will ease its painful cling
Oh my love I miss you most, when winter cradles spring

>========<

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

SOL - Slice of Life March Challenge 2012

* I wrote this poem eight years ago when my husband was very much among the living.
* Six years ago on this day, he became my late-husband.
* Two years ago this week I started this blog, referencing the above write, but somehow never posted it.
* Today I note, yet again, how time flies regardless of fun and I post and I remember and I smile and I give thanks again to all of you who have chosen to follow along with me on this path, no matter when you picked up the trail.

Raivenne

in public passing

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4

I reference Whitney Houston in the following as she has become the latest occurrence of that which has garnered my ire, but I mean this in deference for all troubled celebrities who pass…

Does any one remember “don’t speak ill of the dead”?

I don’t understand this vitriol that occurs whenever a fallen celebrity dies. I concede my interest in Whitney Houston of late began and ended within the length of whichever song of hers popped up on my iPod. I enjoy the beauty of her voice for however long I may (or may not) have the song on replay until I move on. She was a talented singer and that we my never her anything new from her again is a loss for those who enjoyed her singing.

Those of us that don’t find the humor of such disrespect (especially within minutes of the announcements of the person passing) and dare call the critics to task don’t know how to take a joke or are taking things too seriously. No I, like millions of other Houston fans, did not scour the Internet each day for all news Whitney. That did not make us any less of her fans or make her passing any less meaningful to us in our own little ways. The disrespect of the dead is bad enough and some also choose to also belittle the living who want to take a moment to offer their respects even if it’s only something as simple as a single line Facebook status.

Did she take a superstar career and blow it all to smithereens? Yes, no one denies that. Ninety-point-whatever of us in this world get to fuck-up in relative private and will never have our laundry out but to a select few. In this world of information overload, most celebrities don’t have that luxury and intentionally or not, Houston’s laundry was there for all to gander. Eventually, even she owned up to her mistakes. Yet, because she (and other celebrities) don’t get a chance to “redeem themselves” in the public eye, it justifies the internet critics carte blanche to spout whatever snarky bullshit they feel like in the guise of being funny. Why? Just because the dead and their grieving family will likely never read it, does not make it any less hurtful. It is not gallows humor, it is just mean. So no, I do not feel compelled to pat such behavior on the back.

Just remember whether you (the critics), become famous, infamous or not, some day you will die and someone is going to talk about you.

Let he who is without / cast…

Seven Days

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On Monday

Voice soft as the murmuring breeze, He whispers “Go.”
Thus the first scream begins the life she’ll know
A beautiful baby, that didn’t cry but so much
A godsend, whose parents will raise her as such

On Tuesday

Playing in the yard, one late evening with a friend
She tells of a stranger watching from the dark end
When asked, how did she so young, know what to do
Her answer is, a soft wind in her ear told her to

On Wednesday

White powder fresh on her nose, she smokes a joint
Ignoring voices of convention, but that’s the point
But even as she sits, in the dense herbal haze
She hears the breeze murmuring, there are better ways

On Thursday

Well aware without thesis papers, she’ll repeat the term
She stands with her fellow protesters, convictions firm
Even though the tight handcuffs are starting to sting
Susurrus comforts; she’s doing the right thing

On Friday

Her job, her spouse, her kids, her life
She questions the constant stress and strife
Palms upwards she wonders how much longer
Feels the kiss of a breeze making her stronger

On Saturday

Family reunion surrounded by many a grand
And a few greats who sits while she stands
Some family smirk, knowing she’s in her glory
Soft winds making fresh, her oft told stories

On Sunday

She lays frail in her bed, but she is hardly meek
Her years are many, but she often joked, “‘tis but a week”
And thus end her days, upon this earth to roam
Voice soft as the murmuring breeze, He beckons, “Come home.”

>========<

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub
dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight ~ Week 27

Death Be Not iPod

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It’s hard to believe this has only existed for slightly over ten years, but I remember when the first iPod commercials aired on television. It was waaaaay out of my price range for several years, but oh the possibilities of it could easily be seen. It was years later (a second-hand Generation 3 purchased in 2005), before I could finally get my grubby little paws on one, but once I did, yeah, I understood why everyone I knew who owned one felt so damned superior to all those still walking around with their Walkmans and CDs. Yes, there were (and still are), other MP3 players on the market, but none ever have or likely ever will touch the superiority of the machine that is the iPod.

My iPod is a necessary tool to my survival of the grind known of the daily work commute. It has spared me from hearing/listening to so much of the inane or teenage conversations, kiddie tantrums, babies screaming, subway beggars and would-be-Lotharios over the years.

Even when walking in the sidewalks, it has saved me. I often have the earbuds in, but do not have the music turned on. It’s so sweet to be able to ignore the lascivious “Hey baby”s, by pretending I can’t hear them due to my “music” and walking right past them.

In between diversionary street tactics, my iPod has been:
— an argument settler: “No, those are not the lyrics “Maude” – here listen!”
— a mood maker/changer: Whatever bad mood I’m in, I can find the appropriate playlist to sooth the savage (or sometimes sobbing) beast.
— a party maker: my Move playlist makes you want to do just that – MOVE!

Most of all, it was the one thing where I could listen to any and all of my musical tastes without judgement and/or commentary when I wanted to hear it (as long as it was charged that is). If I want to listen to Metallica at 8am, Pat Methany at 11am. Los Invisibles at 2pm, Reba MacIntire at 4pm, Ne-yo at 6pm, The Spice Girls at 7pm and Andrea Bocelli at 9pm, by God I could, and it was good!

When my late-husband wanted to blast something on TV or my (the young) sons wanted play games loud while I was on the computer – no problem. My love of Heavy Metal has happily shared the iPod stage with Country, Soul, Video Game Soundtracks, Trance, Classic Rock, 80’s Hair Bands, 70’s horns, Blues, Pop, Movie Scores, Show tunes, TV Themes and so much more.

Even when cell phones became MP3 player capable, I would not give up iPod. My smart phone is my smart phone, but my iPod is my musical heart. I accidentally leave my smart phone at home on ocassion (and sometimes on purpose), but I have never left my iPod home on purpose. I was once six blocks away from home when I realized I left my iPod and went back to get it. Two blocks after leaving my house again I realized I left my cell phone in the house when I went to get my iPod. I did not go back for cell phone.

My iPods have crossed countries and oceans. Over the years, my current iPod has somehow survived accidental drops, kicks, rain, snow, sleet and once being partially run over by a taxi. I pretty much thought the thing was invincible.

Then this morning, accompanied by the clicking of death, I saw this…

Yes, I know it is just an iPod.
Yes, I know even Apple products eventually die.
And yes, in all honesty, its replacement will be my hands by day’s end.

Still, this particular piece of machinery has served me so well over the years and I just had to give its due.

As posted I on my Facebook:

Since 2007, with only one factory reset in its tenure, this has given unparallelled service to my musical eccentricities until this morning. It was even gracious enough to wait until James Taylor was finished before clicking into oblivion.

In a nod to my geekdom, I have to admit that when I first saw the symbol my initial reaction was “I don’t remember downloading any X-Men videos to this…”, then the reality of its loss hit me.

R.I.P. good friend 😦

He Sits

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14

He sits
on a rock in the dark of night
Watching the nearby airport’s planes in flight

In the distance, city lights sparkle like gems
An hour ago, he stood among them

He knew he should have taken that first plane
But he was on a hot streak to leave was insane

His streak quickly went on a downward slope
Cashed in the plane ticket, a bus he could cope

“I believe just one more hand, and I’ll have it beat”
Now another person sits in his Greyhound seat

Resolute he tossed in the last token
Doomed, before the dealer had spoken

The wheel slowed to a pause, and he yelled “Stay gold!”
Worries over, he’d swear he saw heaven unfold
But gravity turned the wheel that one last click
Yes, fate had pulled off another cruel trick

He sits
on the rock, the eerie silence bliss
Shakes his head on how his life came down to this

Calm in this dark orchard of desert sand
Night creatures the least of his minds demand

Ordered to stay out of the Fool’s Paradise
God, how he wishes he had taken that advice

His brief streak ended, he couldn’t make book
Down to the last coin, his goose was cooked

He embarked on this weekend to have fun
Now he prays his wife forgives what he’s done

Wondering how is she going to cope
He’s taken every dime of theirs down the slope

He doesn’t try to run when the dark suits appear
Inside the loan shark’s mansion, he’s beyond tears

Not the first, not the last he falls in queue
As the suits do what they’re hired to do

So this is how it ends, the thought does occur
In the split seconds before the silencer

He sits
on the rock in the dark thick
Doesn’t even flinch, when he hears the click

 

 

Nice Knowing

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3

Semi-long day at work, I’m getting home two hours later than usual, yesterday evening. For the last third of the train ride I suffered through the shenanigans of a group of five late-teens/early twenties females who were being, well, the near stereotypical archetype of hood rats. The attempt to simply out loud them via my iPod was futile unless I was willing to risk hearing loss on my part, I wasn’t. Between way too much intimate detail of sex acts than what is proper for a subway during rush hour and the volume, I was really hoping the next stop would be the one in which they disembark.I really hoped that for several stops. As Murphy as his blasted Law would have it, I’ll let you guess at which stop they finally exited… Yes, the same stop as mine.

Grouse. Grumble. Grimace. Groan.

As I’m walking down the stairs from the elevated trains, a few steps ahead of them, I feel this odd tingling that stops me in mid step, but is gone just as fast, so that I barely break stride and continue. I can tell they felt it also because whichever one was cackling at the moment went silent and I heard another let out a “Whoa!”. Before I can even begin to fathom what that could have been, a mighty roar of thunder rolls overhead. If it was four seconds between the tingle, the stop in mid-step and the clap of thunder it was a lot of time. The bark of thunder was so loud, fierce and sudden that a couple of young women screamed in surprise. Every now and then my mind surprises even me with how fast it can extrapolate information, process it and come to a conclusion. The girls screamed; I on the other hand was, without an emoticon, laughing out loud.

Note to self: Bursting out in laughter in front of a group of ghetto girls that just screamed because of thunder — bad move.

Girl A: What the fuck are you laughing at?

Me (I turn quickly already knowing the answer): Are you addressing me?

Girl A: Yes, what the fuck you’re laughing at?

Me: May I ask you young ladies a question? Why did you scream just now?  (You know the saccharine was dripping quadruple time, right?)

Girl B: ‘Cause the lightning scar- suprised us. (I give this one points for catching herself before letting it slip that it scared her.)

Me: Was it the lightning? Any of you really see the lightning or was it the sudden thunder?

Girl A: Okay it was the thunder. Big fucking deal, ain’t sayin’ nuttin’ on whatchu think be funny.  (I know the expression on my face slipped for one second at the butchery of our native language; I know it did.Luckily, they either didn’t notice or more likely had no clue that was the reason.)

Me: Okay, you are all younger than I so I am going to presume you remember more of basic science than I. What comes first, thunder or lightning?

Girl C: Duh, lightning! Light travels faster than sound, so most of the time you see lightening before you hear the thunder unless it’s like right on top of you. Then it looks and sounds like one. (Plus points for the NYC edumacation system – yay! Minus for the tone of voice that was obviously proud of knowing something most primary schoolers learn by first-grade and thus missing the entire point of my snark).

Girl A: And the lightning hadda be like right ova our heads to be all loud like dat. We gots all dis metal ’round us we coulda like died and shit. That ain’t funny.

Girl D (obviously not wanting to be left out of the conversation: That’s why it made me yell.

Me: So those of you that “yelled” did so because you thought you could have died? Right?

Girl A: Yeah and?

Me: If you hear thunder and you have enough time to scream about it, however close it was, and I agree this had to be right on top of us because we all felt a piece of it, that means we survived it. (I literally see the epiphany dawn in Girl C as I speak.)

Me: You screamed because you were thinking “Shit! I could have died!”. I laughed because I was thinking “Shit! I survived!” See the difference? (Girl C and the up to now silent Girl E nod.)

Girl E: See (Girl A’s actual name)? Lookit you all ’bout to start some shit and the lady ain’t even thinkin’ ’bout ‘choo! She just happy she ain’t dead. Now let’s go ‘fore it start coming down.

Me (turning to go): Goodnight ladies, stay dry!

Two of them, I think Girls C and E respond. I hear one say (Girl E?, presumably to Girl A) “Don’ hate, ’cause you know you wrong”.

Weather wise, while other places were pelted with hail, we didn’t get a drop of rain in our area last night. The entire storm for us existed of that one hell of a bolt of lightning that we felt but didn’t see and the ensuing thunder. I personally think the entire exchange was a message from the universe to the two of us (Girl A and I). Girl A and I felt the exact same tinges of current and heard the same loud thunder, yet we had two very different reactions to it.

Of the two mindsets, I have to say – it’s nice knowing where my head space is at these days and I like it !

For Amy

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The first time I heard Amy Winehouse’s voice was on the Soundtrack of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, with her mellow, but nonetheless beautiful cover of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.


I loved her then, strictly on the merits of her talent. It was a good year before I learned about Winehouse’s first LP Frank, cementing my love of her voice even more.  Then came Back to Black. I had You Know I’m No Good on my personal replay the way every one is now currently loving/bitching on Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. Amy was somewhere in a world only Janis, Billie and Ella could touch previously and people had taken notice. Amy could have taken that talent anywhere. Regrettably, as it seems with so many of the really great ones, she had her demons and they took her first.

Learning of her death Saturday gave me pause. I have learned, for the most part, not to read the comments section on most online editorials. Somehow, the shock of it made me temporarily forget and I was quickly reminded why I avoid such. The public never fails to disappoint in how vicious it can be at such a time. For every heartfelt RIP there were numerous “well no surprise there” type comments. And I have no words that would fully encompass the anger felt for the anonymous douche(s) that chose such a time to lay blame to Amy’s parents for not doing enough and to riff on “Rehab“.

Was the way she died a surprise? No. Was still a tragic shame? Yes.

I read various online articles. I was a little dumbstruck by it at first. I was waiting…for the retraction…waiting to read that it was a mistake, a hoax.  I really expected to someday relatively soon to read, hear that she was getting better.  That she was in the studio recording. That her new single/CD would be out. I was waiting…

From my Facebook, after I read the news, on Saturday:

Oh Amy, I was really pulling for you to prove all the naysayers wrong and come back swinging. May you now rest in peace in the afterlife that you were not able to find in the too short 27 years of your life here on earth.

I really was waiting for her to take that one cleansing breath. You know the one, when you know you’ve hit rock bottom, it can’t possibly get any worse, so you just breathe. In that breath comes a clarity that gets you to do nothing more than take another breath, but that first breath is the cleansing breath of hope that says you can do this/get through this as long as you’re breathing.

Alas, days later, I sit here with my iPod, breathing through various Winehouse singles, duets etc shaking my head at the loss of the woman, the talent, the potential that could have been Amy, who I will still love tomorrow and I can’t help but think…

Just one more breath Amy, it might have been the one …