empty poetry

Empty.

 

It’s utterly empty.

There are no emotions to fill it. It can’t

 

Get in here. Not that I wouldn’t let it,

It’s just void. I’m not

 

Sure when it happened.

After you left, before he left

 

Me to sort out the nonsense in

his life. It could be that it was empty

 

All along. It has been stripped bare before.

It’s always healed. Words hurt it, hits hurt it,

 

Tears hurt it, but mostly, rejection hurt it.

It’s not healing now, it’s raw, and sore and

 

So aware of what’s not here anymore. I

think that the missing is the part that

 

That causes the most suffering. I know

I’m not the only one. Why do you have to say

 

It like that? So sarcastic. I know, but

I’m the only me. It’s the me part that’s

 

Empty.

Creative Challenge #46

Using the phrase or below as the theme (you don't have to use the exact words) post a poem, story or photo in your blog that has been created by you.  Please leave your link -HERE- so we can all enjoy your Creative Challenge and don't forget to leave your blog open to everyone so we can all view your creation(s).

Please be sure to visit the other challenges when you get a chance (that's part of the fun)!

The phrase or word this week:
hanging in the balance

 

She was hanging in the balance

Suffering the tirade of his hurtful words

Feeling the blows as he pounded away at her soul

She finally stood - finding she could gain her equilibrium

She found a form of balance in her unbalanced life

Because

They were hanging in the balance

Three cherubic innocent ones

Crying out for chance to grow

Needing a solid foundation to build a life on

Questing consistency, reliability and love

That a confident new She could provide.

Creative Challenge

Creative Challenge #45 - "Oh, how I miss it."

Have some creative fun. Using the phrase or word at the bottom as the theme (you don't have to use the exact words) post a poem, story or photo in your blog that has been created by you. 

Please leave your link here in the comment section so we can all enjoy your Creative Challenge and don't forget to leave your blog open to everyone so we can all view your creation(s).

The phrase or word this week:
"Oh, how I miss it."

I wrote this poem 10 years ago. I so much wanted to show my children the things I loved as I grew up taking this route to my grandmother's house. When I saw the challenge, this piece immediatly came to mind. I hope you enjoy it.

It Wasn’t Supposed To Be Like This

I wanted to take my children along the route to my grandma’s house.

Twisting and turning along Lake Huron.

I haven’t taken this trip in well over twenty years.

 

The store in Standish is gone, as if it was never there.

Where can we stop and buy pickled bologna, Colby cheese, and Ritz crackers?

Who sells grape Nehi or giant dill pickles out of wooden barrels to the tourists now?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

The beautiful blue handrails that marched along Main Street in downtown Oscoda are gone.

Now it looks like every other small, downtown area, very plain, very generic.

How can my children daydream as we drive through, of ghost conversations held along the weather worn blue handrails.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

Paul Bunyan is fenced in and gated now.

A "For Sale by Owner" sign hangs on a rusty wire that blocks its entrance.

Who can market the memories made of children, scampering up, up, up, to the very top of Lookout Tower where you could see forever?

My children will never see forever across the back of Babe the Blue Ox.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

What was called Domkey Zoo is now called Dinosaur Gardens.

The paint that once adorned this mysterious adventure-land is peeling, mottled, sun-dried and unkempt.

The statue of Jesus holding the whole world in His hands has corroded, leaving a hideous sneer on His face.

How can I explain to my children how this statue once engulfed my spirit and allowed me to feel divine in its presence?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

The ice cream store that only sold frozen custard with chunks of real frozen cream now sells regular Dairy Queen wares.

My children will never know the extraordinary experience of frozen custard melting on their tongues.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

The Wal-Mart and K-Mart, Wendy’s, Burger King, all the conveniences of life fill the land that we tromped over as youngsters.

We looked for the newest adventure to fill the day.

We found the newest treasure to fill our imaginations.

How much imagination will my children take home from McDonald’s?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

The grinding stones are gone off the beach, and a grassy park replaces the mountain of discarded stones.

How can I show my children how to balance on a huge round whetstone, when the Grindstone Mountain cleared out long ago?

Now my children get to walk along the beach on a straight, smooth sidewalk.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

Grandma doesn’t live here any more.

Now she lives down the street, behind a set of wrought iron gates, a headstone marks her address.

The children never knew her.

Grandma passed on when last I made this trip.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

From the backseat, on our way home, I hear giggles and whispers from my children.

"Wasn’t the Bridge awesome?"

"Did you see the seagulls eating out of our hands?"

"I never saw such a beautiful sunset in all my life."

"Swimming in Lake Huron at mid-night, can you believe it!"

"I loved eating that pastie thing!"

"No, skipping stones in the moonlight was the best!"

"No way, going to that Mystery Spot was the best!"

On and on the conversation flew between them.

As we stopped at a brand new Arby’s restaurant to eat roast beef sandwiches for dinner, my children asked,

"Can we do this again next year, huh, can we?"

 

And I thought, "Yes, it was supposed to be just like this."

 

©tjs'99

After A While

After A While

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open.

With the grace of a woman,
Not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans,
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After awhile you learn that even sunshine
Burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth,
and you learn and learn...
With every good bye you learn.

Veronica Shoffstall 1971

I have an online friend who when I read this, I thought imediately of her...and me. We are so similar on our individual quests for free spirits and forgivness. But I have found that the most difficult person to forgive in this big old world is me.... When you read this my friend, know I send only good wishes and strong convictions your way, and hopefully one day the minutes become hours and turn in to weeks and forgiveness reigns the forever after.

love me later~tj

silent scream by tjs 9/5/07

silent scream

is this the sound oF my essence careening?

waiting

the wondering

the pondering

scheming

tick-tock time is the healer oF all wounds so the saying goes

upon waking From my FitFul dreams

perplexing

when time that healer oF all would Find it's way to healing my hurts?

not proFound thoughts just a moment alone with my blind mind

like waking up aFter a long sleep and perceiving that

this is your liFe

it is

all that you know

and all that you have been given

and you scream

a

silent scream

as

you listen to everyone's striFes and everyone's wishes and everyone's dreams and everyone's wonderments and everyone's sorrows and everyone's discontentments and everyone's joys

spend a liFetime seeking that inaccessible goal that one dream of a liFetime

where is it?

what is it?

simply a diversion oF what we hoped and wished

people are reproductions oF our assumptions

liFe is a Figment oF my creativeness

i exist you exist we exist until we reach the completion

or

until destiny arrives

i am today

will i be tomorrow?

people Formidable people placed helter skelter throughout my years

placing inscriptions leaving marks creating mars embedding wounds causing grieF

writing my liFe's experiences in indelible ink

this moment i sit

and see

that what i thought was wasn't

a prelude perhaps

to

what will be

waiting For tomorrow to begin again

tjs 9/5/07

Entry for September 01, 2007 - Am I Over-Analyzing?

Roald Dahl (1916 - 1990 / Wales)

Roald Dahl wrote classic children's books - his writings include - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach (My Childhood Favorite!) and Matilda. He is also an accomplished poet, as you will see below. What made me do this post was the comments below the the poem. Over analyzing or what? LOL Enjoy the poem 'THE PIG' for what it's worth! and I am laughing my ass off~ love me later~tj

The Pig In England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn't read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend: He simply couldn't puzzle out What LIFE was really all about. What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round. Alas, no answer could be found. Till suddenly one wondrous night. All in a flash he saw the light. He jumped up like a ballet dancer And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!" "They want my bacon slice by slice "To sell at a tremendous price! "They want my tender juicy chops "To put in all the butcher's shops! "They want my pork to make a roast "And that's the part'll cost the most! "They want my sausages in strings! "They even want my chitterlings! "The butcher's shop! The carving knife! "That is the reason for my life!" Such thoughts as these are not designed To give a pig great piece of mind. Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland, A pail of pigswill in his hand, And piggy with a mighty roar, Bashes the farmer to the floor; Now comes the rather grizzly bit So let's not make too much of it, Except that you must understand That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland, He ate him up from head to toe, Chewing the pieces nice and slow. It took an hour to reach the feet, Because there was so much to eat, And when he finished, Pig, of course, Felt absolutely no remorse. Slowly he scratched his brainy head And with a little smile he said, "I had a fairly powerful hunch "That he might have me for his lunch. "And so, because I feared the worst, "I thought I'd better eat him first." Roald Dahl

Comments about this poem (The Pig by Roald Dahl) Click here to write your comments about this poem (The Pig by Roald Dahl) 1. Here is a pig with an enormous intellect: 'He's worked out sums inside his head. There isn't a book he hasn't read.' His powers of reasoning are superior, indeed, a master of his mind. But there's one thing he hasn't mastered, and that's his own unruly passions, his deeper, irrational self. This is a sobering truth. No matter how advanced man becomes, he is still a slave to himself. He still cannot control his own heart and its autonomous will toward self-destruction and survival. Roald Dahl often misses the mark with his poetry, but this one of his stronger pieces, by far. 2. Kudos to Roald for a bloody interpretation of a horrific reality. Comic at first, though his kinda misanthropic elements is what makes this lovely pork an excruciating answer towards human lust. 3. Roald Dahl is more of an author, not really a poet. i adore him and his books! i have read james and the giant peach, the adventures of charlie and mr willy wonka, george's marvellous medicine, the witches and all of his books.(i too lazy to write them down.) and i finished these when i was 8 years old! now i'm ten, going to 11 on 29 oct 07 4. Smart pig. Interesting conflict between the 'meaning of life' and 'survival of the fittest.' Well done!

In My Mother's Garden

My mother's garden is a place of peace when the blooms spread their fragrance and the dew drops on the magnificent colors. My mother tends her garden everyday. She's 69 years old and nearly every day from the spring thaw to the first flake of snow she tends her flowers. I wrote a poem about the legacy she gave me in her love of flowers once. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. It sounds like a cheap country song or a Hallmark facsimile. I'll leave it here, maybe you can help me put it straight... but this is about the peace my mother feels when she is amongst her flowers. Bugs bite her, sweat pours from her, chemicals irritate her, but she continues until she sees coming out of the ground what she knew was hidden in a crude bulb all along. She delights in the way the stems lift up toward the sky. She inspires those bulbs to be the most beautiful in the ground. She talks to them, cajoles them and then lovingly places them in the earth. Then she waits and watches. "See Tammy? I knew it would be the most beautiful one!" She tells me this as we go from flower to flower. Over and over I hear, ahhs, and ohhs, and see? Over and over again I see the enchantment in her eyes. The twinkle that was put there by a flower. I love my mother's flowers. They bring joy to her. They give her peace. They make her more beautiful, if that is even a possibility. The Iris Mother's hands tended flowers When they were oh, so very small, Grandma's hands would guide her, Showing her flowers, Loving them all. Out of Grandma's garden grew, A most amazing sight, A flower proud and beautiful, Of pure, angelic white. It was this snow-white flower, That Grandma loved the best, She tended this flower most graciously, No one would ever guess, That in this unsung flower, Many would recall, A shared and joyous moment, Watching spring nod off to fall. Years went by and seasons died, At heavens gate a daughter cried, To see her mother pass inside. Yet, a gift was given, And it was to be identified in... My hands that tended flowers When they were oh, so very small Mother's hands would guide me, Showing me flowers Loving them all. But, set apart from all the rest, Was the flower Mother loved the best. She tended this flower most affectionately, Guided by love, she might confess. Secret hands help tend this flower, Hands from heaven above, Unknowingly, together the flower Grows with love. Years went by and seasons died, At heavens gate a daughter cried, To see her mother pass inside. Yet, a gift was given, And it was to be identified in... The hands that now tend flowers, They are oh, so very small, My loving hands guide her, Showing her flowers, Loving them all. Together, we grow flowers, With eagerness and zest, But in a special corner grows, The one I love the best. It is this special flower, My daughter will come to know, As a friend, close and dear, While it flourishes and grows. The hands that tend the flowers Are oh, so very small, And they are drawn to one flower, That is the finest of them all. It holds within its petals, A shared love of women gone, And whispers of secret tomorrows, Of which will be her own. She holds this majestic flower, Up to the heavens above, And star lit eyes gaze down upon her, Filled with wonder, Filled with love. Years will slip by, and seasons will die, At heavens gate a daughter will cry, To see a mother pass inside, But, a gift will be given, And it will be identified in... The hands that tend the flowers.

love me later~tj

Entry for May 13, 2007 Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day

This is for the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers
in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry
Kool-Aid saying, "It's alright honey, Mommy's here." Who have sat in
rocking chairs for hours on end soothing crying babies who can't be
comforted.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their
hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween
costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And
the mothers who took those b abies and gave them homes. And for the
mothers who lost their baby in that precious 9 months that they will
never get to watch grow on earth but one day will be reunited with in
Heaven!

This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hanging on
their refrigerator doors. And for all the mothers who froze their buns
on metal bleachers at football or soccer games instead of watching from
the warmth of their cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see
me, Mom?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the
world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children can eat.
For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year.
And then read it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their
shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted
for Velcro instead.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their
daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when a little
voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring
are at home -- or even away at college.

This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach
aches assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to
get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick
them up. Right away.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the
words to reach them.

This is for all the step-mothers who raised another woman's child or
children, and gave their time, attention, and love... sometimes
totally unappreciated!

For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their
14-year-olds dye their hair green.

For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, and the
mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school,
safely.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to be peaceful,
and now pray they come home safely from a war.

What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad
hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a
shirt, all at the same time? Or is it in her heart? Is it the ache you
feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street,
walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you
from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the
back of a sleeping baby? The panic, years later, that comes again at 2
A.M. when you just want to hear their key in the door and know they are
safe again in your home? Or the need to flee from wherever you are and
hug your child when you hear news of a fire, a car accident, a child
dying?

The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts are for
young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep
deprivation...And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers.

For foster mothers and family memebers who suddenly became someone else's 'mother'.

Single mothers and married mothers.

Mothers with money, mothers without.

This is for you all. For all of us. Hang in there.

In the end we can only do the best we can.

Tell them every day that we love them.

And pray.

"Home is what catches you when you fall - and we all fall."

and I am smiling....

love me later ~ tj