Today we come to the 21st letter of the alphabet. Our prompt is “under.” Still feeling the loss of my mother three years ago, I thought I was writing my poem for her. Instead, it appears I was writing it for me, a way to deal with the weight of the years her mind was held captive by this horrible disease. For all of you dealing with a loved one suffering in the same way, I pray you find the strength to get through it. And for my mother: Happy Birthday! You are missed and I love you!
UNDER BLACK, VELVET SKIES
For Martha Schoeffield 8/26/1920–9/3/2007
Dementia grabbed hold of her memory.
A blank, vacant stare gripped her eyes.
Recognition of loved ones around her
was lost under black, velvet skies.
Prayers for release went unanswered.
No hope for a speedy demise.
She lingered in chains from her bondage
in that prison of black, velvet skies.
When death finally graced her with freedom
from all that dementia implies,
relief mixed with unaltered sadness
for years lost to black, velvet skies.
Spark you creativity every week by working your way through the alphabet: one letter, one week at a time.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Prompt #20 - THING
We’ve reached the letter “t” on our trip down Alphabet Road. The prompt I’ve chosen for this week is: thing. This is a great word. It can take you anywhere. We all have a thing we like or we care about. My attempt this week is dedicated to all the poets out there who regularly exercise their muse. So write about anything or everything or just any old thing that pops in your head. The important thing is to just write something!
THIS THING CALLED POETRY
What is this thing called poetry?
What in the world does it mean?
And how do these people called poets
create such incredible scenes?
The poets from past generations,
with inkwell and well-sharpened quill,
from deep within found inspiration
and brought forth their verses to thrill.
But poems did not die with Shakespeare,
or Browning, or Barrett or Yates.
There are many a new bard among us,
unabashed by the need to create.
Though quills have turned into computers,
the depths of those talents remain,
whether sharing a treasured encounter
or an undisguised moment of pain.
So what is this thing called poetry?
What value is there to impart?
It’s a piece of our personal history
as defined by the words from the heart.
THIS THING CALLED POETRY
What is this thing called poetry?
What in the world does it mean?
And how do these people called poets
create such incredible scenes?
The poets from past generations,
with inkwell and well-sharpened quill,
from deep within found inspiration
and brought forth their verses to thrill.
But poems did not die with Shakespeare,
or Browning, or Barrett or Yates.
There are many a new bard among us,
unabashed by the need to create.
Though quills have turned into computers,
the depths of those talents remain,
whether sharing a treasured encounter
or an undisguised moment of pain.
So what is this thing called poetry?
What value is there to impart?
It’s a piece of our personal history
as defined by the words from the heart.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Prompt #19 - STONE
Welcome back! The A Muse Fuse Poem-A-Day Challenge is now behind us. It’s time to move forward with our regular weekly prompts. While the Challenge was fun, I’m glad things are back to normal. As we return to our journey through the alphabet, we begin with the letter “S” and the word prompt this week is “stone.” Next week marks the third anniversary of my father’s death. My poem for this prompt seemed to write itself and is my tribute to this wonderful man who I think about every day.
THE STONE STANDS THERE
For Dan Schoeffield, 3/27/1920-8/20/2007
The stone stands there to remind me
of the loneliness I have felt
since the day you were taken away
and the body blow I was dealt.
The stone stands there to remind me
of laughter I no longer hear,
of wisdom you shared with me daily,
of comfort to vanquish the fear.
The stone stands there to remind me
of happier times in the past
when I was embraced by you presence,
a time that escaped us too fast.
The stone stands there to remind me
of memories I still hold dear.
The pain of the loss never lessens
for the dad who is no longer here.
THE STONE STANDS THERE
For Dan Schoeffield, 3/27/1920-8/20/2007
The stone stands there to remind me
of the loneliness I have felt
since the day you were taken away
and the body blow I was dealt.
The stone stands there to remind me
of laughter I no longer hear,
of wisdom you shared with me daily,
of comfort to vanquish the fear.
The stone stands there to remind me
of happier times in the past
when I was embraced by you presence,
a time that escaped us too fast.
The stone stands there to remind me
of memories I still hold dear.
The pain of the loss never lessens
for the dad who is no longer here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)