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. 

Current Events, Fiction, Friday Music Prompt, Lune - 5,3,5 or 5 words, 3 words, 5 words, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Relationship, Writing, Writing Challenges

Music Prompt #5: Poem – Lunes – “Not Your Mama” #amwriting #poetry #musicchallenge 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the Music Prompt every second Friday. Last week’s song was “I Ain’t Your Mama” by Jennifer Lopez. I guess next time I’ll have to pick a better song, no one was interested in giving this one a go. But I should write for my own prompt at least. 

———-

Credit: 2nd Chance Water Restoration

——–

“I Ain’t Your Mama” by Jennifer Lopez

——-

I’m not just the woman, 

Who cooks for, 

Love, your favourite foods served. 

——

I’m not the one who should, 

Be waking you, 

To work, every single morning. 

——-

Crazy in love, partners united, 

We’ve fallen apart, 

Let’s glue the past together. 

——

For a future where we’re —

Both committed; both —

Living life to the fullest.

—–

No settling into comfortable boredom, 

Watching TV not, 

Noticing each other, nor caring. 

—–

Do some house work, it —

Will heat up, 

The sheets; bring back fire —

——

And if you don’ t desire, 

Changes or improvement, 

Tell me now, I’ll pack —

——-

My bags; I’ll start again, 

Because I deserve —

Better — I Ain’t Your Mama. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Current Events, Event, History, Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nature, Nonfiction, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

B&P’s Shadorma: “For the Blessed and Those Who Need” #amwriting #poetry #shadorma


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this B&P’s Shadorma prompt on the holiday season and Dickensian goodwill towards men. 

—–

Credit: http://www.pinterest.com

—–

Gathering with, 

Our families a bond, 

There, despite —

The distance. 

Sharing our lives together

Meeting, laughing, joy.

—-

Siblings, 

Connecting; though years —

In childhood, 

Have passed by. 

Fiances, partners, meeting —

New loved ones enfold.

—-

Families, 

They grow and alter. 

Babies too, 

Added and —

Some family sadly they pass, 

Onto their forever home.

And on the —

New Year, we gather, 

Again to —

Ring in a —

Better year, with promise; hope, 

Less pain, more grace known. 

—–

So I pray, 

For all of you, when —

You pour the —

Champagne and —

Kiss your most beloved one, 

Think too, of suffering

Those whose holidays, 

Have less cheer, are hard

Those who fight

Have trials

Those without home, wealth, and —

Know not where food comes.

—–

For those who, 

Are trying to feed, 

Little mouths. 

They go with —

Out; but they need energy,

To work, to provide.

—-

For those who’ve, 

Demons inside, they can’t —

Struggle more, 

And survive.

For those who don’t know there’s hope

Think and aid them all.

—-

Help comes in, 

Many ways; talking, 

Mere words which, 

Keep the edge,

Far away; give friendship, gifts —

Something showing thought. 
—-

You can help, 

Volunteer to kids, 

Charity, 

Read with them. 

You can do many thoughtful

Things; don’t forget.

—-

For those snug, 

At home and gifted to know, 

Warmth and love. 

Abundantly

Blessed; may we keep the —

Season in our hearts. 

—-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Children/YA/Family, Friday Music Prompt, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Pinterest, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Music Challenge: NonFiction – “The Christmas Concert” #nonfiction #music #logdriverswaltz


Thank yo to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s music challenge based off the old-timey song: “The Log Driver’s Waltz.”

——-

——–

———

Anna sighs as the teacher tells the grade-one students in her class to find a partner of the opposite gender to dance with for a Christmas concert song they will also sing. 

Anna is a bit chubby. She doesn’t eat much if any junk food. Her parents are careful about feeding their kids candy because children on Anna’s Dad’s side of the family have a tendency to be chubby. They tell Anna she has those genes. Her weight bothers her even at a young age. Anna doesn’t think she is fat compared to some chubbier girls around her age; she sees how much and what they eat — often fruit roll ups and McDonald’s Happy Meals. 

Nevertheless, the boys pick on Anna for her weight and they don’t like her as they like some of the smaller and cuter girls. She’s not unpopular but she’s not popular either. Anna is nice and gets along with almost everyone. She is smart and can read better than most kids in her class. Her worst problem is a tendency to cry if she gets into trouble.

Anna peers around the music room and sees the other boys and girls have partnered up. The only boy left is Devon. Anna and Devon look at each other unhappily. The teacher, Mrs. Nette, pushes them together and starts to teach the six-year-olds to waltz. Both the boys and girls think co-ed dancing is kind of icky, unless you happen to end up dancing with someone one you have a crush on. 

Devon looks at Anna and sneers. He was her friend Roxeanne’s little brother. Roxeanne lived by Anna’s house and she was a good friend who was a couple grades ahead of Anna. 

Anna peers up at Devon and tries to take his hand as Mrs. Netted instructed, but Devon doesn’t want to touch her. He makes a fuss to the teacher. Mrs.Nette will have none of Devon’s complaining and makes him put his one hand around Anna’s shoulder and the other around her waist. He looks dejected and Anna sighs, not liking Devon touching her; he’s a  jerk. She doesn’t want to look bad on stage because of Devon.

Mrs. Nette turns on the music. The song is called, “The Log Driver’s Waltz.” The girl knows it because Sharon, Louis, and Bram, sing it on the kid’s music tapes her Mom plays in their van. 

“Come on Devon. Just do it. It’s not that bad. If you do a good job Mrs. Nette will stop watching you so much,” Anna says perturbed. Devon frowns at Anna and nods hestitantly. The class practices dancing to the song and then singing it a few times. They do this every music class until the Christmas concert. It’s tricky having to waltz and sing as well. Anna is nervous because her grandpa and grandma will be at her first Christmas concert. She wants to do well for them.

 At the dress rehearsal Devon sneers at her, “I’m not even going to be here for the Christmas concert. I’m going to be at my Dad’s; I hate you.” She shrugs, Devon is always angry and often lashes out. Anna thinks it’s because his parents are divorced. She tells Mrs. Nette about Devon not being at the concert. The music teacher phones Devon’s Mom who assures her, he’ll be there. 

Anna chooses a pretty dress to wear to the concert. She knows how to waltz even though she isn’t much of a dancer. She waves to her parents and grandparents sitting in the audience before going back stage. Then the grade-one class lines up to go out onto the stage. She doesn’t see Devon anywhere. Anna tugs on Mrs.Nette’s hand and she tells her, “Devon’s not here.” 

“Well, will put you in the back and you can pretend you’re waltzing with a partner,” Mrs. Nette says. Anna frowns, not happy about the situation. Mrs. Nette grabs a boy from another class who is in grade-two, “Here you remember how to waltz don’t you?” She asks the new boy. He nods looking at Anna and taking her hand. 

The music starts and all the grade-ones starting dancing and singing to “The Log Driver’s Waltz.” Mrs. Nette puts Anna and the grade-two boy filling in for Devon in the back of the stage. The grade-two boy isn’t a great dancer, and Anna isn’t great either but she does most of the leading anyways.

As the grade-ones start singing the second song they had practiced, Anna sees her Grandpa laughing and smiling. It didn’t matter what the grade-one class did, the audience thought it was adorable.

Anna remembered the “Log Driver’s Waltz” always; it became stuck in her head. Twenty-five-years later, she still finds herself humming the tune occasionally and remembering Devon –such an angry little boy. 

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Shadorma - 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllables, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poem: Shadorma – “Woman War Not Alone” #amwriting #poetry #women


http://www.fatiguestofabulous.com
—– 
Such times as,

The ones she lived through.

She conformed, 

Wanted More.

Saw how hurt perpetuates;

Never healing whole.

—-

Self-harm, self-

Hate common;  inside –

She is hurting, 

Inner pain.

Gossip and judgement used.

She never thought to —

—–

End the pain

Close hateful doors tight.

Lock malice, 

Outside her.

An unforgiving night, reminds —

Her, fight gently.

—–

Keep working; 
Her inner battle. 
It’s as old,

As the earth.

Woman who fight for, 

Equality.

—–

A dream, 

She thinks having both,

Pax, and rest.

She is wise,

For seeing tomorrow’s pain;

Unburdens those lame.

——-

Light in the,

Darkness, shines, provides —

Glimmer of,

Hope, assured —

Fighting, with her words and sword;

Hoping for happiness.

——

Good prevails.

Light’s glow permanent.

Good’s older.

She drinks wine;

Thinking of mornings, sunrise —

Reminds her she’s loved.

—–

Leaves on tree,

Dusting her path yet,

Leaves mark the —

Passing of,

Seasons; on each she shines light,

Earth keeps turning while —

—–

She worries,

Weeping in bad times,

She doesn’t

Forget what,

Was fought for at heavy cost,

She lives; others fought —

——

For her now.

Because in their time,

They had few —

Rights at all.

Doing wife’s duty despite,

Desire for freedom — rights.

——

She looks for,

Light in the tunnel,

At the end–

Of the war.

She fights not alone; she holds —

Strength in her faith, bold.

——

For her God,

Never forgets her, 

Woman so —

Precious; God–

Created Man and her, equals —

Partners; she’s not less.

——-

Complement,

She smiles because she —

Knows inner —

Completeness.

Remembers God’s son best knows,

Inequality.

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) 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.

——-

http://www.pinterest.com

——-

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, 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.