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


Credit: Amanda Eifert
——–

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. 

Advertisements

Poem: Diamanté – “For Colleen, Five-Years Gone”


Diamente ———

Line 1: Noun or subject
Line 2: Two Adjectives describing the first noun/subject

Line 3: Three -ing words describing the first noun/subject

Line 4: Four words: two about the first noun/subject, two about the antonym/synonym

Line 5: Three -ing words about the antonym/synonym

Line 6: Two adjectives describing the antonym/synonym

Line 7: Antonym/synonym for the subject

——

Thanks to A Reading Writer, Rosema my talented friend, for information on how to write a Diamanté. And my apologies, these are supposed to have a diamond shape, but I have no patience for that! Also, the picture isn’t Colleen, I just thought this woman was beautiful, and so was Colleen.

——-

http://www.mv1.dromghd.com

——-
 Energetic Woman,

 Beautiful, Vibrant,

 Forming, Endearing, Unfolding,

Helpful, Engaging, Miserable, Depressed

Bursting, Sobbing, Disappearing,

 Sick, Anxious,

 Tired Woman.

——–

Beloved Child.

Fond, Enchanting,

Living, Travelling, Teaching,

Beautiful, Unique, Self- Hating, Forlorn.

Ending it, Choosing, Dying,

Exhausted, Haunted,

Lost Child.

——

Miserable Daughter,

Guilty, Confused,

Not Understanding, Not Knowing, Not Getting the Right Help,

Lost in Her Head, Stressed, Finding Peace, Forgiveness

Loving, Glowing, Comprehending in Heaven.

Serene, Tranquil,

Hope for Daughter.

——

Blessed Mother,

One daughter, best-friends,

Laughing, Talking, Sharing,

Happiness, Remembering, Sadness, Grieving.

Crying, Missing, Wishing,

Thinking, Hoping to See Her One Day, 

Lost Mother.

——

Talkative Father,

Advice Shared, Helpfully Wise,

Cherishing, Loving, Listening,

Memories, His Little Girl, Painfully, Mourned.

Grieving, Hurting, Reasoning,

Hope Filled, Praying,

Wondering Father.

——-
Discerning Grandma,

Wise, Experienced,

Thinking Back, Memorizing Moments, Praying.

Sturdy, Strong, Badily Hurt, Too Much Loss,

Tearing up, Remembering, Smiling,

Tough, Missing Granddaughter,

Heartbroken Grandma

——

Children’s Mentor,

Teacher, Beautiful, 

Concerning, Demonstrating, Advice Giving.

Stylish, Classy, Covering Sadness, An Image.

Struggling, Breaking, Supporting.

Tears, Regret,

Mentor in Death.

—–

Woman passed on,

Missed, Not Forgotten,

Remembering, Laughing, Crying.

Magnetic, generous, Beyond Life, Loved.

Wondering, Praying, Inspiring,

Living-on, Saved By Grace,

Woman of Memory.

——–

©Mandibelle. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Diamanté – “For Colleen, Five-Years Gone”


Diamente ———

Line 1: Noun or subject
Line 2: Two Adjectives describing the first noun/subject

Line 3: Three -ing words describing the first noun/subject

Line 4: Four words: two about the first noun/subject, two about the antonym/synonym

Line 5: Three -ing words about the antonym/synonym

Line 6: Two adjectives describing the antonym/synonym

Line 7: Antonym/synonym for the subject

——

Thanks to A Reading Writer, Rosema my talented friend, for information on how to write a Diamanté. And my apologies, these are supposed to have a diamond shape, but I have no patience for that! Also, the picture isn’t Colleen, I just thought this woman was beautiful, and so was Colleen.

——-

http://www.mv1.dromghd.com

——-
 Energetic woman,

 Beautiful, Vibrant,

 Forming, Viewing, Unfolding,

Helpful, Engaging, Miserable, Depressed

Bursting, Sobbing, Disappearing,

 Sick, Anxious,

 Tired woman.

——–

Beloved child,

Fond, loving,

Living, Travelling, Teaching,

Beautiful, unique, self-hating, forlorn.

Ending, choosing, dying,

Exhausted, haunted,

Lost Child.

——

Miserable daughter,

Guilty, Confused,

Not understanding, not knowing, not caring.

Lost in her head, Stressed, finding peace, forgiveness.

Loving, Glowing, Understanding, 

Serene, Tranquil,

Hope for daughter.

——

Blessed mother,

One daughter, best-friend,

Laughing, talking, sharing,

Happiness, Love, sadness, grieving

Crying, missing, wishing, 

Thinking, Hoping,

Lost mother.

——

Talking father,

Advice shared, helpfully,

Cherishing, Loving, Listening,

Memories, his little girl, painful, mourned.

Grieving, Hurting, Reasoning,

Hoping, praying,

Quiet father.

——-

Woman passed on,

Missed by all, not forgotten,

Remembering, laughing, crying,

Magnetic, generous, gone, loved.

Wondering, praying, inspiring,

Living-on, saved by Grace,

Woman of memory.

——–

©Mandibelle. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Memories of Sparks.


It’s difficult looking at Sparks’ photigraph still. I work at home and Sparks used to lye under my desk. She would put her head on my lap when she wanted attention and I would give her a luxurious head and neck rub. 

If Sparks remained staring at me, I knew it was time for her afternoon walk. As gracefully as a dog could, she would help me put her into her purple harness and I would connect her leash.

Sparks was with us fourteen-years. I recall thinking  a couple-of-years before she passed, that I would have to remember the moments when I rubbed her belly and she made happy sounds. I would need to think about how she cuddled into me with total trust and devotion. I would have to remember because one day she’d be gone.

It’s been awhile since Sparks left us and I haven’t had a dog to keep me company at home. 

My husband drove us to the Humane Society, one Saturday. To his excitement, we found a one-year-old dog who looked a great deal like Sparks when she was a puppy.

“What about her?”my husband asked me and I laughed.

“She’s perfect,” I said and we adopted Dakota.

——

Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting the Flash Fiction Challenge.

http://www.publickdomainarchive.com

——

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Let The Deer Be


My Dad’s family moved around because Grandpa was a Pastor and at times, Grandpa chose to accept a call to a different congregation in the country. My Grandpa taught his boys to hunt. I can’t say whether or not my Uncle D would have taught his sons to hunt because he died when his boys were still young. 

But my Uncle K has taught his sons. I feel speechless when I see pictures of my barely adult cousins, standing on top of a buck’s corpse, proudly. My Dad never hunted much when his children came along, but my family was the recipient of meat from hunted animals when I was younger.

There are few reasons I see for hunting. I think the only valid reasons are if a predator is a danger to humans or if an animal population is overpopulated and a danger to the ecosystem of an area. But for sport or fun . . .we have grocery stores now, let the wild animals be.

One of the scariest times I can remember was sleeping in my one Uncle D’s basement. My eldest brother and I slept in a room and there were dead animals all around us. There was a giant grizzly bear rug on the floor and deer heads on the wall. There were other deer-like animal heads on the wall too. Their fake eyes stared at me throughout the night and I could not sleep, “You lookin, at me?” I wondered.

I was young, but it makes me think now, what need have we to kill these creatures.Why hunt if not for survival. I know I’m a city girl but it seems to me at times, our inner caveman comes out and forgets it’s modern times — let the deer be.

——-

 

http://www.publicdomainarchive.com
 
—–

Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner.

—–

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.