No Photos Please!

A friend of mine was posting in a group on Facebook and apparently “Funeral Selfies” is a thing now.

Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like, taking photos of oneself at a wake or funeral and then posting it to social media for the world can see. Really. And I hate to think this, but in this land of you know you want to know what’s happening with me right this minute! instant information, it so feels so much like something some in the “millennial” generation would do and I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how anyone could be so incredibly narcissistic, at a funeral nonetheless, and think it is okay.

At the wake for my late-husband, Del, a cousin I had not seen in nearly a decade at that point, showed up in bright pink rollers and a scarf that was a joke of an attempt at covering them, so she was already pissing me off. I mean, who shows up at a wake in rollers? As I’m speaking with Reese, my late-husband’s cousin and best friend, I hear the familiar click of a camera behind me. I spin around and call out “No.” waving my index finger. It is Del taking a picture of a couple of friends/family near of the back of the room.

“It’s okay, he’s not in the picture”. She explained at my reaction. “He” being my late husband, aka the deceased that was laying at the front of the same room, and the reason why we were all there at that moment. I continued shaking my head and waving my finger in the negative, but Del lifted the camera preparing to take another picture. I remember thinking “Oh, you’re going to argue with me, the widow at her own husband’s wake?” instead what came out of my mouth was “NO!” at a volume that stopped everyone in the room. I had not even realized that I had taken the physical steps to beat her with her camera until I felt Reese restrain me. Whatever was on my face, Del and those she wanted pictures of were quickly going outside. Luckily, selfies as we know and use them now did not exist then. Because I know if she were truly taking a picture of herself at the moment Reese could not have held me back.

I find even taking photos outside of a funeral parlor or at a church where it’s obviously a funeral is gauche. A wake/funeral is not about you. If you yourself are not in deep mourning, you are there for the deceased and/o for those who are in mourning. That’s why it’s called paying your last respects. How are taking photos of yourself showing that respect? At the very least have the manners to wait until the repast for such.

If you don’t have pictures of friends/family members at happier events whose fault is that? Show up at a party, a BBQ, a wedding or family reunion. Or better yet host one to have people over so you can happy photos.

I think taking pictures at a wake/funeral/interment of the living or dead is so disrespectful enough. Turning around and then posting such on social media is a level of gracelessness I simply cannot comprehend.

“You look lovely, that dress is so cute! Where was this?”

“Oh thanks! I got it at the boutique. That was at Nana’s funeral last month.”

My immediate family knows “NO PHOTOS”. God help anyone taking pictures at my funeral. Just for spite, I am showing up in every photo as the creepy shadowy figure that doesn’t go away no matter how they try to crop or Photoshop me out.

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Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

The Forest Green

This gal was purdy, but mean at the Forest Green
That’s how the stories spin down at the Forest Green

Mere thoughts of his presence made her shake
With deep chagrin there at the Forest Green

“Send in the clowns! Oh never mind!” She’d yell
When he would walk in at the Forest Green

Yet he somehow opened doors she feared closed
Tightly locked within at the Forest Green

‘Till one day she realized she was just as taken
Just walking in the rain beyond the Forest Green

How he matches her in heart, mind and soul
Frowns turned to grins at the Forest Green

Thus with abandon she now gives her all to him
Aye how the Raivenne sins behind the Forest Green

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Today’s form? A Ghazal.

National Poetry Month – Day 22

Come Out Best

I’ve always come out the best
Except the carefree day
I gave my heart away

To he who put it to the test
For no other reason I could see
Than my pain kept his company

But my soul’s joy shall not be wrest
It would not allow this
Theft of my complete bliss        `

One thing I can attest
Even through heartache’s burn
There are lessons to learn

I learned to return the jest
That was made of my heart
Put back the pieces torn apart

And to walk away blessed
To know a peace so real
That no one can steal

Now his heart feels the unrest
While I do feel for his soul
He must find his own console

And again I come out the best
With joy my intact
Never looking back

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National Poetry Month – Day 20

Play Me One More Song

Brother, come and play me one more song
For my load is heavy, my sight bleary
My days are now few where once they thronged
And my thoughts they grow ever more weary

We knew someday this day would come
Brother, come and play me one more song
The path we traveled together at last is done
For we have traveled this road so very long

You have known me all my days
From boy to man in all my ways

Give me one more memory before long
For there’s little chance I’ll make another
Brother, come and play me one more song
It would warm this heart of mine like no other

For my time is done this much is true
And when I’m gone I’ll heed you to be strong,
But ‘till we meet again I ask this last thing of you
Brother, come and play me one more song

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At dVerse Jennifer Wagner asks us to write about brothers “from any angle”. Using what I’ll call a disrupted Quartern, my muse chose the final angle.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics : Oh Brother!

National Poetry Month – Day 14

Straight Up

As I am walking back from Starbucks I see this guy in The Commons, casually walking opposite me, heading towards my direction. A natural ginger, his hair was a thick curling ombre of dark russet at the roots, to the much brighter near strawberry blonde tips where the sunlight touched. The overall effect was that of an ochre nimbus of sorts as he strolled.  But that was not what caught my attention.  Was he attractive? Yes. Oh yes. Not in the he could be a model vein, but definitely eye-catching and holding. I smile behind my grande whole milk, low foam, no water, extra shot, dash of chocolate, but nothing complicated chai cup, watching a couple of college girls turning their necks in an Exorcist worthy near 180 degree twist as they notice him pass.

What really struck me about him was his stature. He stood, or rather walked, very straight.  Not the tight gripped; stick up the arse kind of straight, either. Most of tall adults I know, male and female, walk with a slight curve to their shoulders and backs from years of ducking doorways etc.  Not him. His stride is confident, shoulders relaxed and straight.  Yet there was a definitive uprightness to his posture.

“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s not polite to stare?”

I was not aware of staring, but clearly I was as he stopped right in front of me with his teasing chastisement. Caught by surprise I simply said exactly what I was thinking.

“I was admiring your erectness.”

“What?!”

He blinked, looking at his crotch and then back at me incredulously. Only then did I realize my wording. Crap! So that’s what that feels like from the other side! Such Freudian slips are so rarely accidental from me that I caught my own self off guard.

“Your posture! I meant your posture! Your posture is very straight for such a tall guy. Oh Jiminy Crickets!” I nearly spit out my chai, fumbling over my words and laughing, making a concentrated effort to keep my eyes on the head I can see.

“Good save!” He grinned. “My chiropractor, proctologist and I thank you.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” I laugh walking away. “You enjoy your day!”

“I most certainly will now.” His fading chuckle reached me.

I bet he’s still laughing.

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Slice of Life Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers

Slice of Life - Two Writing Teachers

Ravenous

 .
.

His eyes line with mine
And I devour their mysteries

As I hold his gaze
And play with his mind
As he eyes my prize
The mystery revealed
Behind the long stemmed promises
The curved mocha silk
Of my open thighs

My lips on his mind,
As our bare bodies intertwined
I know
He wants to intoxicate himself
Just from the scent
Of my womanliness

Up and down,
His eyes take in all of me

Down and up,
I measure the depth
Of his love…making…my heart flutter

The ground beneath me vanishes
And I sink deep
Into his mercurial ocean
Swim in his sapphire sea
Drown
In his eyes

And am resurrected
By his honey-coated lips
My desire drips
Moist off of fantasy

 In my mind’s eye, I see his eminence
And all things that make him a man
In my arms he fades
he submits

Weak from his control, his slow motion
Body and thoughts worn
Watching him from afar
My eyes drawing him again
Into my lust
His smile melting the core of my femininity
His raw hands sculpting
The wonton I’m happily to become

And he advances towards me,
Eyes still lined with mine,
A sly smile playing across his lips
A smile that tells me
Everything I feel, he feels
Everything I want, he craves
Everything I am, he needs

And right now I am

Ravenous

 

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National Poetry Month – Day 1

Good-bye

She hears someone
ask a question,
but ignores it
only having eyes for the man
lying before her

Fingers
once plump with life’s bounty
are now long and slender
the joints so pronounced
In her hands his grasp
is now a far paler shadow
of the bone-crushing grip they once bore

The last vestige of thicker memories
his hair, in its continued unruliness,
belies its current state of thinness
as she gently pushes it back from his brow
Just as she used to do
in much younger days

Like his fingers,
his once round face
has been redrawn
into an austere beauty
She ignores the breathing tube
resting against the now sharp lines
of cheekbones and jawline

She looks up at the nurse
finally hearing his question
Yes, she nods slowly, she will be okay,
eventually
Then with a violent shake of her head
belies that
and feels her husband’s arms
quickly surround her
when the tears flow
as she looks back once more
at their son

The pain gone, his eyes
are amazingly clear
as they no longer stare back
into her red rimmed ones
until she reaches up
and gently closes them

Forever

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It’s Open Link Night | Week 145here at dVerse ~Poets Pub. My now three day old mood has clearly affected my muse as well. I’m out of town for the weekend, hopefully a different scene makes a better attitude.

 

Springing for More Snow

♫ ♬ On the first day of spring Old Man Winter gave to New York City, more freaking inches of snow! ♫ ♪

Yo Demeter! Give the curmudgeon his exit papers already!

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Let’s see how my fellow Slicers are doing on the 20th day of the challenge:

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Verbal Diarrhea Diaries: Don’t Believe Me Just Watch

A friend of mine posted this fun video on her Facebook page…

Fully aware of the very likely end result of my even attempting such maneuvers, this was my two cents on the subject:

If I tried that I would be on my behind in no time flat. It would be more like:

🎵Stop! Wait a minute! Gettin’ off the floor ’cause my butt hit it*. 🎶

*The line between the musical notes sung in tune to a line from the song that is playing.

So go right ahead and insert all the puns on the extent of my current forms of strenuous of exercise such as run my mouth, jump to conclusions, jog my memory et cetera right here…

Because yes, while I admire Carson Dean’s impressive free style dance moves on the treadmill as a form of exercise, I am quite cognizant of where my physical capabilities lay, and that is down, as is lay down, not dancing on a treadmill – unless it’s turned off. And even then, with my two left feet, with nine toes on one of them, I am proof positive that not all black people can dance, not that it stops me, but trust me, you don’t really want to see that.

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Let’s see how others are getting their Uptown Funk on this 18th  day of the challenge:

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in my ears and in my eyes

A little over a week ago I learned an online friend Elaine Banno, passed away. A post from her sister on Lainey’s Facebook page is how the news was broken to us. Actually, that is not quite accurate. Those who got the news first could not believe it, thus a couple of hours of has anyone heard from Lainey? type posts happened on her page before the inevitable truth was accepted.  Through our various groups we had a general sense of where we stood physically, emotionally etc, still she and I had not “conversed” one-on-one in a long while. I had come to her page that day to message her, to say “hi” ask about the blog she had not posted in a long while. That is how I learned the news of her passing.  I read through over forty-eight hours of posts (from her last post to the time I came in) on her wall in disbelief.

Lainey was not the first death I’ve gone through on social media. However, she is/was the first of someone I cared for, yet had never met in person.  This odd global village that is the internet indeed makes strange bedfellows and friends. Having “met” in an online forum and being mutual members of various online groups since, our quick wit, combined with rapier tongues made us fast buddies. Hers is a voice and a beauty uniquely her own. That’s not to say we did not have our disagreements – oh we did and the private messaging that went on behind the scenes between us were doozies at times – still whether we came to agree to disagree or have a mutual understanding after considering one or the other’s viewpoint, unlike most tenuous online relationships we always came away still speaking.

Another mutual friend created a Remembering memorial type page for those of us who want to honor, remember and grieve for her away from the family nonsense that tends to flare up during such times. I’ve barely been able to browse through it, only popping in once of twice to peruse the posts. I have perused posts on her blog and in other places to read her words. I also done so with this blog where I remembered she responded the posts, just to read her words and “hear” her voice again. I feel her loss, I really do. Yet not enough to try to make arrangements to attend her funeral. I thought about it. I considered who I could ask to get to and from the various points it would take to do so. It would not have been easy for me to arrange, but not impossible. Yet I chose not to and feel just a small sense of guilt because of it.

In this techy age we have never Skyed or Facetimed. To my semi-defense, I don’t Skype or Facetime with anyone else either, but I could – perhaps should, yet I haven’t so far.  All of the interactions between Lainey and I have solely been online, either through direct emails or the various groups we both where we were both members. We have exchanged gifts and cards. We have laughed and cried. We have checked each other. We have encouraged each other. We have shared secrets and gossip.  Aren’t these the basic things that most friends do? Yet we have never hugged. We have never shook hands. We have never broke bread together. Then again, we have never truly tied to always thinking on that someday. Perhaps it is those missing links in our connection that is the invisible barometer of where I was not comfortable/willing to make the extra effort to give her my personal good-bye, I do not know. As I tried to explain to a good friend who, like I, is also taken aback by Elaine’s passing in her own way,  it’s an odd sense of limbo.

The Beatles Penny Lane popped up on my iPod this morning.  It is listed among the classics of  “misheard lyrics” of its time and now.  Even though I know the correct lyrics, I still thought “And Elaine is in my ears and in my eyes…” which for the past few days very much holds true because I do miss you Lainey. It’s been over a week and I’m still having a hard time accepting you won’t be regaling us with tales of your cats, later on today.  That we won’t have your always perfectly timed scathing snark or cracking wise or soothing encouragements. It still won’t compute.

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Let’s see how others or crossing the limbo of this halfway point of the challenge: 

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