Event, Free Verse, History, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Poem: Free Verse – In Memory of Evelyn #amwriting #poetry #elegy


Credit: Amanda Eifert
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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, 

Everyone was always welcome, 

If you weren’t, she’d tell you so. 

True monuments may appear hard and resilient, 

Underneath they are as the rest of us, 

They are frail and human. 

Time will catch up with everyone, 

And we pray we can meet our deaths, 

Mansions prepared in the sky. 

God the only monument, 

 Not our crumbled lives. 

————

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Beauty, Free Verse, May Day Prompts, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Maydays: Poem – Free Verse – ” Your Wrinkles Make You Beautiful” #Maydays



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Thank you to K.L. Caley from new2writing for hosting #Maydays prompts. Today’s prompt is beauty, something or someone beautiful. I’m reposting a poem I wrote for my Great-Godmother. She is a special person to me and doing well past her mid-nineties in age.

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http://www.pinterest.com

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There is beauty in your wrinkles, 

A deep timely beauty, that took experience to make.

You are more than classic; you are infinitely lovely and gorgeouse.

No twenty-two year old in all her youthful vigor is so pretty, 

That she can have more knowledge than your reflective eyes.

Or more inspiration then your smiles give, 

More thoughts racing through her mind, of a life both hard and incredible.

Your beauty is eternal, a flame that won’t die out.

You shall carry it to heaven with you because you loved a child in a manger and your faith made your life well.

You are more exotic and enchanting then any woman in the land; 

You are the light of home to many. 

When your presence fades there shall be a void felt by all those who loved your luminescence;

 A beauty which was internal and spread to your warm skin.

A beauty that inhabits everyone of your loved ones and friends. 

You are simply marvellous, a dame that no one can compare with.

You had husbands, boyfriends, and partners with which you shared your life and your beauty with delight. 

You out-lived them all with your smile and a bounce in your step.

Your wrinkles are truly beautiful because they tell your story.

A story growing up on a farm, a story of loss, a house in the city, a story of love, and fond memories. 

And through it all shone your pretty face. 

Those bright eyes and your laughing mouth; your wonderful hugs, good wishes —

And your many roles throughout your life. 

Beauty lies in everything those roles made you; you were unstoppable.

 In your stylish shoes and upbeat attitude.

You are lovely, and will always be to me a Grandma, a Great-Godmother, and a friend.

Such wisdom you hold, your wisdom you cooked into pies, soups, trifles, lasagna;

Your hospitality made you beautiful.

You are the rarest rose in the garden;

 Loved by so many and so many you have met. 

This is why I say your wrinkles make you beautiful, 

For you are incredible, a gem in a pile of fakes.

A fantastic woman and every year as you age your beauty is much deeper.

Your wrinkles make you beautiful.

Let no one say otherwise —

 For one day I want wrinkles too, 

For I wish to be beautiful as you.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Travel, Writing

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Long Lines – “Eleven- Years Strong “


Finally, our prompt (optional, as always!) Today’s prompt comes to us from Megan Pattie, who points us to the work of the Irish poet Ciaran Carson, who increasingly writes using very long lines. Carson has stated that his lines are (partly) based on the seventeen syllables of the haiku, and that he strives to achieve the clarity of the haiku in each line. So today, Megan and I collectively challenge you to write a poem with very long lines. You can aim for seventeen syllables, but that’s just a rough guide. If you’re having trouble buying into the concept of long lines, maybe this essay on Whitman’s infamously leggy verse will convince you of their merits. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

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Missing the ladies, who I grew into adulthood with and we saw,

The Grand Canyon in its burnt orange and red glory set,

Peering far down into the canyon, too close to the edge smiling,

Pulling each other back, to flash pictures on cameras all of us worn.

And planning each Thursday night to go dancing and drinking down on Whyte,

Collecting free drinks, shots from young men, paying ninty-nine-cents at the end.

Frequently, snapping pictures at winter formals, wearing our finest,

Staying at the fanciest and most historical hotel for sixty bucks,

Four girls to a room, preparing their hair and makeup, perfection, beauty.

If only I could be as fat, as I thought I was at twenty-one-years-old,

Thinking my stomach stuck-out, it wasn’t concave, it was fine and flat.

Walking through Vegas in stiletto heels, not feeling the pain, lost shoe —

My friend had a lovely Silky black-heel, she dropped walking back, barefoot.

Crying at 3:00 am (forget), remember times smiling and laughing.

Working in the same store, I dream I work their at night with my ladies,

Now raising kids, puppy training, fiancés, husbands, moving in — life changes.

From twenty-years-old to thirty-one-years old nearly; eleven years still strong.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Relationship, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Three Line Tales, Writing

3Line Tales: Quiet, Imagination, and the Spaces Inbetween Silence.


  Thanks to Sonya from 100 Words or Less for hosting Three Line Tales.

——

 

Moritz Schmidt
 

——

 1. Some people abhor quiet and others they adore it, I would say I’m often in the latter group but not all the time; we all have this need to be sociable creatures to some extent, whether it’s to meet new clients and network; gab with our girlfriends or see the boys for a game; or simply sit in a coffee shop and absorb the hum of conversation occurring around us.

2. I have this love for quiet (or silence you might call it) because they’re special ideas and transfigurations of your imagination hiding within it; some people can feed their creativity in the loud and garish noises of a crowd of people yelling and hollering to a person near to them; but the best place for some of us to elaborate on ideas and call fourth the muses of our imagination is in the silence where we write brilliant stories, paint paintings, and daydream of our future creations.

3. Sometimes it’s not the quiet or silence which is meaningful, but the spaces inbetween the quiet, because in those hidden molecules lives a powerful and significant understanding between two people; it is love in it’s magnificence which exists within the silences of husbands and wives, partners, girlfriends and boyfriends, children and their parents, grandparents and grandchildren, friends, and people and their pets; this space within silence is a secret place two people who love each other exceptionally, coexist together without uttering a single word, while both comprehending each other deeply even within each other’s souls.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Writing

Poem: ” Your Wrinkles Make you Beautiful.”


There is beauty in the wrinkles on your face.

A deep timely beauty, that took experience to make.

You are more than classic, you are infinitely lovely and gorgeouse.

No twenty-two year old in all her youthful vigor is so pretty, that she can have more knowledge then your reflective eyes.

Or more inspiration then your smiles give; and more thoughts going through her mind, of a life both hard and incredible.

Your beauty is eternal, a flame that won’t die out.

You shall carry it to heaven with you because you loved a child in a manger and your faith made your life well.

You are more exotic and enchanting then any women in the land, you are the light of home to many. 

When your presence fades there shall be a void felt by all those who loved your gorgeousness, a beauty which was internal and spread to your warm skin.

A beauty that inhabits everyone of your loved ones and friends. 

You are simply marvellous, a dame that no one can compare too.

You had husbands and boyfriends, partners with which you shared your life and your beauty with delight. 

You out-lived them all with your smile and a bounce in your step.

Your wrinkles are truly beautiful because they tell your story.

A story growing up on a farm, a story of loss, a house in the city, a story of love and fond memories. 

And through it all shone your pretty face. Those bright eyes and your laughing mouth. Your wonderful hugs and good wishes. 

You had many roles throughout your life. 

Beauty lies in everything those roles made you, you were unstoppable. In your stylish shoes and upbeat attitude.

You are lovely, and will always be to me a Grandma, Great Godmother, and friend; such wisdom you hold.

Your wisdom you cooked into pies, soups, trifles, lasagna; your hospitality made you beautiful.

You are the rarest rose in the garden. Loved by so many and so many you met. 

This is why I say your wrinkles make you beautiful for you are incredible, a gem in a pile of fakes.

A fantastic women and every year as you age your beauty is so much deeper.

Your wrinkles make you beautiful, let no one say otherwise — for one day I want wrinkles too, for I wish to be beautiful. 

——-

To my Great Grandma/Godmother Evelyn. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.