.
returning
to the place he died…
weathered
.
weeds growing neatly
between pavers
in this footpath
.
in the morning sun
a spider checking taut lines
– wish we were camping
.
this pawpaw tree‘s fruit
– needing support
.
wooden fence
heading back to nature
.
I really wanted to set this poem out differently. Let me know what you think.
To read poem in pdf format: did you hear her
I’m never sure if I should post poems like this. I wrote it Tuesday. It was Isaiah’s birthday, he would have turned three. I found myself thinking about MY loss and not really about him. Then snapping out of it, I again realised how ridiculous the process of grief can be and where the mind wanders. A psychologist told me that if the model of Adam and Eve in a perfect garden (all perfectly created) is our origin then we were never created for grief. We weren’t given the proper capacity to handle loss very well. Perhaps that is why it is so awkward and painfully emotional. Scribbling the emotions down has certainly helped the process of grieving for me and I hope you don’t mind me sharing it.
.
self-indulgent grief
is a sticky film
the memory likes
to touch
feeling the tackiness
fingering the sorry feelings
wallowing in
memories
hopeless sadness
pain
sorrow
to feel their tackiness again
.
like touching the sticky photo
of my brother’s engagement party
I’m standing to the side
an empty shell
still in shock
from the night before
wondering what I’m doing there
my Uncle’s voice plays in my head
“….you’re unbelievable
to be here”
but not coming
would be worse
and I play the tape again
to feel the emptiness
.
C.S Lewis
describes it:
a ‘bath of self-pity’
‘the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure
of indulging it –
that disgusts me.’
.
and suddenly
you awaken
and notice your memory
fingering the
grief
.
tearing your hand away…
.
“Happy Birthday Isaiah!”
“How are you little guy?
You are three today.
You would be running around
with your brothers
skinning knees
kicking footballs
riding a new tricycle
down a big grass hill
.
Have a great birthday
where you are,
skinning knees
kicking footballs
riding a new tricycle
down a big grass hill
we love you mate
Happy Birthday!”
.
I fell over
on level ground!
Clutz!
Perhaps my son
in heaven
just turned two
and a half
hit the button
rotating earth
the other way.
.
We know a few families who have had their children suddenly snatched from this life. This poem isn’t about us or anyone imparticular but probably a combination of all. It is written from an outsider’s perspective looking in. It is such a devastating situation. Highly emotional, painful, raw and so awkward for those on the outside to watch all the grief and pain happening.
.
Too many Tears
Too many tears from so few eyes
Blue days become their retched skies
Broken lives in huddled weeping
Bellowed cries make restless sleeping
But how each day do they arise?
Will he check out in death’s demise?
As she breaks down without goodbyes?
Watch love’s torment slowly reaping
Too many tears
Packaged attempts to sympathise
Plainly will not relieve their cries
Compassion knocks with eyes seeping
“Passing by… how are you keeping?
Please carry on but don’t disguise
Too many tears”
pied hill prawns 