Requiem–dVerse Poets, Erasure Poetry

Requiem

Bring me back the thought of you
as the sun comes to shine,
the grain, also golden,
hair, the color of gold,
the sound of a step
different from all others.

My heart is ready to greet you.
Only with the heart can one see.
But I shall cry.
(I shall cry.)

An Erasure Poem
Taken from the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Written and posted for my prompt at dVerse Meeting the Bar, where I’m offering up a prompt for you to write an erasure poem.

I had chosen one of my all-time favorite inspirational reads: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and opened it to a page that seemed to offer a fair amount of printed text (as you probably know, the book is illustrated with watercolors.) When I began to cull phrases, somewhat randomly, a theme emerged which is pure serendipity–next Tuesday is the first anniversary of my sweet mother’s death.

Please stop by the pub with a poem of your own, or even just to read. We are a welcoming community.

Photo: David Slotto–Taken in 2011, on the occasion of Mom’s 90th birthday.

 

Depouillement–dVerse

Depouillement*
A Haibun

Do falling leaves ache with the pain of letting go? Or do they revel in the freedom of floating and of the taste of earth? Did they boast of glorious colors that they wore in days before releasing their hold on life?

And the trees—do they grasp obsessively to their robes of glory, regret the day that finds them stripped, exposed and naked—vulnerable to cold and rain.

I am October now, buffeted by aging. I hurl my somethingness into the great unknown, one gift at a time. I face the imminence of winter, move beyond the sting of loss into the joy of unknown expectations. I am old but full of hope, in the springtime of new life. Beneath the soil life pulses.

Je suis depouilée
stripped bare like October trees
richness lies hidden

 

Photo: Victoria Slotto

*The French word depouillement means stripping. The verb depouiller is to strip. The first line of the haiku translates : I am stripped.

Happy to be able to jump in for OLN this week. I have tried to consider some of the wonderful prompts I have missed related to personal events–this one, especially, relates back to Kim’s prompt for Tuesday’s Poetics.

Miscarriage–dVerse Quadrille

Photo: Pondero.com

miscarriage
a quadrille

sun shining through these changing leaves
back lights a cloud of downy feathers
lining a never-used nest

a lonely ray slips through my shutters
reminds me of another empty nest

i couldn’t dry her tears
tear down the blazing memories
her hope still unfulfilled.

A second poem for dVerse Quadrille # 18–using the word Cloud.

The Comforting Scent of Roses–Sanaa’s Prompt Nights

Photo: Victoria Slotto

The Comforting Scent of Roses

Before the record heat slips in, I go into the garden to tend to a few chores—dead-heading the spent irises, thanking them for the beauty the shared with us this spring after five years of drought. The climbing rose was next, but on the way, I stopped to check in on our resident sparrow family, newly hatched in the bird house we hung in the ash tree. There on the ground, he lay, a tiny bird—featherless, struggling to upright himself. Mama hovered overhead. With my gloved hand, I lifted him and placed him back inside his nesting place, hoping that he would be accepted.

A few hours later, I saw his little head peeking out the hole between tree branches that had not survived the lack of rain. Sunshine backlit the beauty of the scene. I turned my back to fetch those pruning shears for the roses still awaiting my attention. When I turned around, a flash of blue appeared and quickly snatched the baby from its abode. I watched as he devoured the helpless creature.

nature seems cruel
downcast, I turn to my chores
embraced by fragrance

Sorry to say, this is a true story, just happened and thoroughly bummed me out. I understand an appreciate the concept of the circle of life, and yet to see it happen so clearly is disarming.

I wrote this for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights where the theme this week is take time to smell the roses. I recently heard that this saying was originally spoken by PGA golfer Walter Hagen in the 1950’s. As someone who pretends to golf, I think he must of been speaking to the little importance of a game of golf compared to the many more important things in life. 

Dreams–dVerse Haibun Monday

Dreams

On the bookcase, behind her, a photo showcases a twenty-year-old brunette—slim, shapely, with a mane of brunette hair cascading over her shoulders. She leans against the right fender of a 1930’s rag-top. Behind her sits her 1st Lt. Army Air Corps finance, wearing the uniform that would take him to the European theater—her fly-boy, B-24 pilot. There, he would die.

Today, she stares over her glasses, the clouded irises of her eyes registering little but confusion, the once-smooth surface of her skin bearing ravages of the many losses that have dogged her throughout her lifetime. “Are you happy?” she asks for the 17th time in the last couple of hours. I answer, “Yes, Mom, I’m happy. You don’t need to worry about me.”

I return my gaze to that photo, so full of youthful hope and happiness. Yes, Mom, all is well. You can move on when you’re ready, I think. I’ve told her that before.

For her part, she has dosed off again, perhaps returning to those dreams of years long-gone.

clearing out dead leaves
unearth patterns of remains
lace-knit life forms

Photo: Susan Judd, Used with Permission

Thank you to Susan Judd for allowing us to use her wonderful photography to inspire us today in writing to dVerse Monday Haibun prompt: beauty in decay. And thank you to Bjorn, for inviting Susan.

 

loss–dVerse Haibun Monday, Hanami

loss

When cherry blossoms
scatter –
no regrets

Issa

I slept last night beneath our cherry tree, its branches bare of blossoms after the early freeze—this loss, a surprise, much like the morning I awakened and you were gone. Life goes on, so the cliché would have me believe, but the void inside looms, ever-present, like the weight of snow this seemingly endless winter.

Am I to believe that love will return, much like the cherry blossoms I hope for in another springtime?

Will I be one with you again, once I follow you into the void? I reach for the soft assurance of the touch of satin, the flowering branch I culled before cruel winds doused my hope. I listen to silence.

hanami whispers
what appears lost shall return
do not be afraid

Today a dVerse Haibun Monday, Kansen Sakura invites us to consider the Japanese concept of hanami. What? You don’t know what that is? Come over to dVerse and learn about it.

My reflections on the Easter Season which many of us celebrated yesterday influenced my haibun–what do the seasons, typified here in the mystique of cherry blossoms, have to teach us about doubt and faith?

Photo: dautrich
Labeled for noncommercial reuse

 

 

Good Friday Dirge

Artist: Lesley Oldaker
Labeled for noncommercial reuse

Good Friday Dirge
an Octain Refrain

Upon the pond a cry of loons
begins its mournful, plaintive song.
I think of how it all went wrong.

Darkness still reigns ‘neath this full moon,
this early morn a mood forlorn
recalling loss, a cross rough-hewn.

And now in Belgium, hatred strong
prolongs the tragic cries of loons.

Written and Posted for my prompt at dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar. The form, developed by Luke Prater, is a High Octain, which I explain at dVerse. Tomorrow, Christians observe Good Friday as we deal with yet another tragic, cowardly act of terrorism. Because I was unable to join in for De’s prompt on Tuesday, I’ve given a nod to it here. Thank you for a great inspiration, De. I had no idea where that first line would take me.

Never Forget You are My Little Girl–dVerse Poetics

My Mother: Family Archives
Christmas 2014

I Will Never Forget
A Modified Trimeric

The way the sunlight played across your face,
the words you always had to comfort me,
the silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
the smile, the gratitude and grace.

Those words you always had to comfort me,
when darkness threatened to seep in, destroy—
I think of these and find the courage to go on.

Your silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
your touch, just so, to heal or to correct.
This quiet, heavy–touch, beyond my reach.

Your smile, your gratitude and grace—
Do these endure in shadows of your mind?
Although you’re here, you are no longer you.

Yet, sunlight plays forever on your face.
Each day you tell me never to forget
that I will always be your little girl.

Today for dVerse Poetics, we are asked to remember someone we have lost. This is addressed to my dear 95-year-old mother who suffers from ever-increasing dementia. She has always been my best friend. Even though we have spent most of our lives at a geographical disadvantage, she was there for me. I still call her, every day or two or three. The conversation is the same. If I try to tell her something off-script, she cannot follow it, But one thing she says to me each and every time is this: “Never forget you are my little girl.”

Those of you who have dealt with dementia, as I have my entire life as a nurse, understand the we lose our loved one an inch at a time. And yet, the wonder is this–somewhere inside is that person who always was, imprisoned, so to speak and totally living in the present moment. It is our job to provide them with one pleasant moment at a time.

Please join us today at dVerse.

is there not a correlation between the fragile and the beautiful?

Photo: Family Memory Book–V. Slotto

when i hear the sound of pouring tea
i remember her—
the beauty of a love well-lived
cached ‘neath cascades of wrinkle lines
and scars.

i think of loss and hope
held close within the pages
of a musty mem’ry book,

of yellowed linen
edged with lace
that smells of lavender

of all that might have been
if not for war.

Posted for dVerse Poetics where we are asked to write of beauty beyond the physical.

 

Blessed Are They Who Mourn

Blessed Are They Who Mourn

Photo: reddit.com

In the northwest corner of Iraq,
in a Kurdish stronghold, toppled,
in a drafty hovel,
a child, alone, whimpers.
for his parents
who will not return.

In a small country on the African continent,
in an isolated region near the coast,
in the ruins of a burnt-out shack,
a mother wails.
Her child, her lover are dead
bled out by a virus.

In a remote village of Ukraine,
in an unsettled township,
in a frigid home,
an old man shivers.
His world is shattered,
he wonders what comes next.

In a not-far part of my city,
in a homeless settlement by the river,
in a flimsy tent made of old blankets,
a family waits,
dreams of a recent past
before they lost their jobs.

In a southwest suburb of here,
in the warmth of a mansion,
in a world not known to us,
a childless couple grieves
the death of the dog they loved
for seventeen years.

In a corner of my heart,
in the waking hours of morn,
in the silence of my room,
these losses loom.
How can I comfort
so much loss?

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night. Please join us. Somehow, as I enjoy so much abundance, these realities seem all the more expedient. Sadly, this poem could go on and on…