For OctPoWriMo Day 5 the Prompt is based around the word denied. According to Merriam-Webster, “denied” has several meanings: 1. Declared untrue; 2. Refused to admit or acknowledge; 3. Gave a negative answer to, refused to grant, restrained from gratification of desires; 4. Refused to accept the existence, truth, or validity of.
Also combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘s Saturday Mix Prompt, using two sets of homophones: jewel– precious stone and joule– unit of measure, with grill– to sear or cook, and grille– an iron gate or door.
Denied the cobbled roads that lead, to where?
To lands I’ll never lay my eyes upon.
To hills I’ll never have the heart to climb.
Denied because I’m ripped apart inside
Tendrils and dust, ashes and rust;
What’s broken can it be fixed?
Laid across the grilles, tired of being grilled;
But each little chip, each fault line,
Means what once was ideal, will never be again.
Will never be perfect and new.
A jewel cracked, a diamond smashed;
No joules enough to fix the fractures.
Perhaps it’s age, or mere survival?
Taking a step back, finding space to breath.
It’s just that somethings shatter forever;
I haven’t figured out how to reconfigure diamond dust.
A few months ago a dear friend passed away at 98 years old. She was a grandma, my great godmother, and in these last few years, a genuine friend. I miss her very much and writing her letters to mail with a poem or small story. It was our thing and I visited her as much as I was able. The last time I saw Evelyn we visited a few hours in her room. Then, I was leaving and I couldn’t get out the door to reach the elevators. Finally, I got to the elevators went out the front time and stopped.
I looked back at the wonderful care facility she’d been staying in these past three years. She was in her own home until she was 95. I had this strange feeling that I woldn’t see her again. I gazed back deciding all I could do was hope that in a month or two, she would still be alive and well. I do wish one more visit might have been possible.
She was a wonderful, outgoing, and opinionated person. She demonstrated great care with people and her hospitality is/was famous. She even drove big trucks and was a mechanic in her day besides working at the Woodwards Department store for many years. For much her life, she was a single mother. Evelyn had many talents, her cooking, her unpredictability, and a spirit that kept on shining and pushing through life’s miseries.
R.I.P Evelyn. I’ve been trying to finish this last poem for you for a few months. It’s taken me awhile to get right! I’m so happy you are with our Heavenly Father and no longer suffering in any way.
A monument falls, crumbles,
Although, she was strong.
An impenetrable force,
A spit-fire, a trail blazer.
You can press your hands against thick steel, rock, or concrete,
Wonder how such monuments are designed,
Buildings of beauty, fortified through time;
How could they fall?
Then you realize that soft skin isn’t stone,
And a woman isn’t a superhero.
When you gaze into the past, into beloved photographs,
You see how smooth marble crinkles,
As fine lines, directions on a map.
The most elegant calligraphy,
Words muted in the unforgiving sun.
And photographs appear in memories,
The warming light of conversation,
Over hearth: satisfying food and laughter.
Yet, still I attempted to see how her puckered lips,
Were once plump, young, and beguiling.
Long gone are her cherubic child’s lips,
Nearly a century ago.
And flawless cream skin is marked,
Lines settled in, can be followed,
A pattern of an Autumn leaf.
No monument left to be seen, no eyes sparkling,
With a smile uniquely hers,
Never to be repeated;
Only in whispers of genealogy.
A monument stood and —
She was significant.
Someone who was seen and not afraid to be,
A grandma who paraded around,
In forty two pairs of shoes — probably more.
Her body could be strengthened with steel,
Knees and hips better off with fabrication;
The real ones worn out.
Do stone monuments feel the pain of lost children?
Of polio’s grasp, sucking the life out of a small boy.
Of a little girl who passed away a whisper.
And of one child who survived,
A reader, a teacher, a traveller, a builder.
One who is imperfectly perfect as her.
My godfather with his wife,
My godmother, both I adore.
Yet, the stubborn cheerfulness,
Of this monument lives on in her family,
In her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren,
And beloved relatives and friends;
Partners who marked her life, always leaving early.
Sisters and brothers, marrying others becoming new brothers and sisters,
How she adored and missed all them all,
Passing away before she could blink.
For the most part, she was unsurpassed in years,
She mourned her family and friends gone first,
But reunites with them now.
And when she fell, the monument’s pieces scattered,
Although all feels lost,
She needed her relief in heaven.
And no one ever thinks that day will come,
Until it crashes upon those left behind.
Monuments fall, it happens every minute of every day,
For every type of personality,
To each person someday;
Special and authentically themselves.
It’s okay to morn the monument’s empty place,
To hunger for her caring advice,
Her kind words.
The silence is hard, her not being,
In her home or in her room.
Now she’s aged, is dust of the earth,
She is the ideal of herself, the creator’s perfection.
Her life was imperfect, as we all are,
It was shadowed by pain and misery;
Yet her optimism always pulled her through it.
Remembering her and taking comfort within,
Her greetings to all those she meets again.
The suffering and sorrow has ended, so do not cry your tears.
For every monument is eclipsed,
Heaven’s radiant light filters into the cracks,
Rebuilds the rubble.
Her figure of faith and grace.
The love she had, that does not die,
But multiplies in eternity,
Waiting for her family someday.
And for her her dear friends.
When we arrive,
She’ll wonder what took us so long.
Offering a piece of pie, uncooked fresh blueberries in a crust,
With soft dollops of whipped cream.
Her timeless love in cooking, baking, hospitality,
Timo and Erica had been stranded in the desert when their small plane crashed near Cairo. Sunburnt, exhausted, and thirsty, they were shocked to see an Oasis.
“An Oasis Timo, we’re saved. There’s water and even a chalice to drink from,” Erica yelled.
“You’re seeing things Erica, there’s no water and no chalice.”
“Really look, it’s only a few steps away — we’re here,” Erica said rushing forward to drink from a beautiful pale blue spring; however, whenever she tried to cup the spring water with her hands, it slide away.
“It won’t let me drink and I’m half-dead,” she cried.
Timo rubbed his eyes, finally believing the blue spring underneath a palm tree existed. A chalice made with a human skull sat in the middle of a stone alter as well. It gave him a feeling of dread.
“Erica, to drink the water you need the chalice but don’t do it. There’s something terrifying and evil about this cup.”
She turned to Timo, giving him a dark stare, “I’ll drink from the chalice if I want.” Erica strode to the alter, bowed mockingly and lifted the chalice to kiss the skull on the mouth.
Timo grimaced as she scooped it into the water and drank. It was an Indiana Jones’ movie come to life as Erica’s life force was sucked from her body which disintegrated until she was dust.
He decide to try drinking from the spring without the chalice. Timo drank all the water he could then sat down beneath the large palm tree in the shade. He wondered why cupping his hands worked for him and not for poor Erica as he drifted asleep.
When he awoke, Timo heard the blessed noise of rescuers in the distance and hollered for help. To his amazement the Oasis had disappeared along with the chalice.
He contemplated what he should say happened to Erica as no one would believe the truth.
Tess held the torch in her dexterous hands, melting white-gold until it was workable. She shaped it until she formed a cuff for a woman’s wrist. Before the gold cooled, Tess placed in the center of the bracelet a pink diamond. Circling the pink diamond were tiny white diamonds.
Her buyer named Adrianne, had been specific about the quality and karat of raw materials used. She had been malicious to Tess as well, bruising her arm with a forceful grasp and spitting in Tessa’s face saying:
“This bracelet must be your most perfect design yet or else. I’m not paying you so much money for nothing.”
Fortunately, Tess knew Adrianne had a horrible allergy to nickel. Tess had procured the finest dust of nickel. When she packed up Adrienne’s bracelet she threw in silver and black glitter in the cuff’s box for decoration; the nickel dust hid well in the glitter.
“You’ve out done yourself,” Adrianne admitted giving Tess a surprised glance. She paid Tess for the remainder of the bracelet and walked out the shop door scowling at Tess on the way out.
She noticed Adrianne scratching her wrist and arm where she’d tried on the bracelet; Tess smiled.
Bringing usual objects to life … trying again, correctly this time with prompt #4.
My closet is bursting. It is as full as a graveyard even though I go through it seasonally. There is a rainbow of colour in my closet spread out between thin boned arms that always seem to crack and break.
The creakybones rattle when I go in my closet to choose something to wear. I can feel the dust of the oldest bones between my pale ghostly skin itching up the material of my clothes. I wonder why skeletons would reside as such interlopers in my closet. Haven’t they got better places to rot and turn to dust then between my favourite blouse and skirt?
These ancient bones they wouldn’t care if they were still dripping wet on the secrets I hide in my closet. They’ve thrown their ghastly juices upon scrapbook albums from my good old university days, albums my nieces and nephews will see when their old enough. Auntie drinking to much Vodka Slime. The skeletons would probably love Vodka Slime. It’s a drink right up a skeletons alley. Enough vodka to rot your guts out with just a twist of lime and a small amount of 7up. Those are probably what these dry bones thirst for, slime.
It’s the shoes I get upset about. Skeletal limbs scratching back and forth on my first pair of deep patent red stiletto pumps. Some association with the pints of blood that use to flow through veins and and work through muscle. But they love to scrape a sequin off my sequinned silver stiletto pumps or to tear the silky material on those flowered purple pumps I’ve never worn yet. They like the cacophony of sounds bones make against shoes possibly because of the association of soles (souls) and feet. They haven’t got either you see so they go after what they miss the most.
They’ve no place to walk these days and nothing to see through gaping eye holes. They have nothing to grin at through toothy smiles. The bones just sway there, holding up my boxes, my clothing, and violating my shoes. They hang between my clothes and I inhale dust in the air like smoke.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. At least my skeletons were never burnt to charcoal, into small fragments of bone. They have no marrow my bones, I doubt they ever did. It’s too long ago to tell that they had a core full of life. But I take care as I said to make sure they are never covered in rags, or never serve as shelves to tattered leggings.
I leave my closet open at night just so I can see what the skeletons are doing in there swaying and cracking. Sometimes I hear the whisper of song, these dry bones are gonna rise up, these brittle bones…But I think skeletons make you imagine things. They make you hallucinate what was never even real, at least in an explainable sense. But they are my skeletons, my past. And the past is the best indicator of where you’re going.
Truth: we are all going where these skeletons have gone, they are just bones ready to be pushed back into the crypt at the bottom of my closet. In reality, there are more skeletons waiting to get their quivering tarsals ( or is it metatarsals) on my clothing, fresh, juicy ones.
But the skeletons I hate the most are only dust and coat the baseboards outside my closet door. They build up powdery white and dirty the carpet like chalk. I think that if even skeletons can be dust they still exist and can never be fully forgotten. I love your bones, a character in a book I’m reading attests. I think we are talking about two different things …