“Dawn” by my mother

My first books of poetry were given to me by my mother. At the time I was studying different styles of poetry in elementary school and found that I loved it, even if it was one of those things that I wasn’t the best at. It wasn’t until several years later, when cleaning out some boxes from the storage room, that I found a slim red-covered notebook with ‘A Collection of Poetry’ written on the front page in my mom’s elegant cursive.

(Seriously, her cursive is so beautiful that it reminds me of calligraphy. I lament the fact that cursive wasn’t as important during my learning years as it obviously was during hers.)

Inside of the notebook held a lovely collection of works that my mom had written throughout her life. Many of them were written for people that I have never met, but my favorite one is the first one inside the notebook. It goes as follows:

Dawn
 
I saw my daughter just today,
All rosy pink and new.
My precious little gift from God
Shone fresh as morning dew.
 
I saw my daughter just today,
Her chubby hands still held
Her favorite doll, a circus clown,
All ragged, smiling still.
 
I saw my daughter just today
With pigtails curling round,
And tied with ribbons, white and pink,
Dressed in my evening gown
 
I saw my daughter just today
With rouge and lipstick on,
High heels and all the latest styles:
My little girl was gone.
 
I saw my daughter just today,
A woman now, full grown.
Her beauty took my breath away;
Oh, how the years have flown!
 
I saw my daughter just today,
So still and white with death.
I pled with God with all my heart,
“Please, do not take her yet!”
 
I saw my daughter just today,
She talked of memories sweet,
And of tomorrows we will share
When once again we meet.
 
I saw my daughter just today,
A promise in her eyes.
“Someday I’ll be with you again,
We’ll say no more goodbyes.”
 
I saw my daughter just today.
“Keep close to God,” she said.
“Draw comfort from the things He says
And death won’t be so sad.”
 
I saw my daughter just today.
“It’s time for me to go.
My love for you is always here
Because you loved me so.”

She wrote this for her cousin when she lost her daughter. I don’t think I was even born at the time. She says she was cooking dinner at the time she received the call from her sister-in-law. Mom had to stop what she was doing, sit down and just write this.

“It just flowed.”

I still can’t read this poem without crying no matter how old I have gotten and how many times I’ve traced her words.

Written for Suzie’s Weekly Challenge: http://suzie81speaks.com/2014/06/08/weekly-word-challenge-books-poetry-and-prose/

Love…?

What is love? Oh baby, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me, no more. -Haddaway

All my life I’ve had problems with one word: love.

It’s not something I’ve understood, not really, for all that I can write about it to a certain extent. In a way, it’s not love itself that I’ve had problems with, but rather the way I have seen it used. In the movies, on television, in books and even in real life.

It often left me asking, what is love? What is love?

Is it something you hold?

Is it something you see?

Is it something that you show?

How?

It’s something that is intangible and yet something that is spoken of often. It’s something that I have tried to study off and on throughout my life, hoping to come to an understanding of what, exactly, it is.

There are so many different sayings about love throughout many different cultures.

If you love it, set it free. If it loves you, it will come back.

If you love someone, you possess them and let them possess you.

Love is something seen and shown, but not something you can hold.

All’s fair in love and war.

Misery loves company.

Not for love or money.

There are too many to really write them all down, at least in the time I have before I have to go and check the dough again.

In the end I’ve found a few things that tell me what love is.

Love is when you’ve upset someone, fairly or unfairly, but the moment you need help they’re still there to help you.

Love is when a little child will fall asleep in your arms, trusting you to not drop them.

Love is when a mother or father will work endless hours in order to put food on the table and clothes on their children’s backs.

Love is when you are injured terribly, but you still run as fast as you can to get help for someone who you can’t carry with you.

Love is when a random stranger steps out and helps you when you’re falling apart.

Love is being forgiven even when you don’t deserve it.

Love is taking in a family member or a friend that needs a place to sleep, for however long, even when you’re so angry with them you can barely speak with them.

Love is continuing to try to make a relationship workout, no matter what is owed, because the relationship is more important than the money. (Does not have to be a romantic relationship.)

Love is your cat cuddling up to lick away your tears after they’ve come back from the vet with staples in their side because you were trying to cut the clumps out of their fur.

Love is someone knowing that you’ve had a hard time lately and just walking up to you and giving you a hug without saying anything because they know that you just need to hold on to someone for a bit.

Love is coming across mountains and valleys to visit your sister-in-law in the hospital even though you’ve never really gotten along.

Love is continuing to be someone’s friend even when they aren’t being a friend back.

Love is continuing to write to someone every month for years, even when they don’t write back.

Love is closing the door, covering the windows and trying to play very quietly because someone’s head hurts so badly they can’t even think.

Love is the Pure Light of Christ, which never wavers and shows itself in every little moment of the day, both through nature, animals and other people.

I am not a passionate woman in anything but my writing. I’m not good with words unless I’m writing them down and I often don’t understand something, some feeling. But I know for a fact that love is real, that it isn’t something that grasps and demands. It is something that is still and active, loud and quiet, simple and complicated.

It is something that just is.


Written for Suzie81’s weekly challenge: http://suzie81speaks.com/2014/05/04/weekly-word-challenge-love/

Sunlight Troubles

The sun is fading out of sight. She stretches out towards it once more, reaching with the tips of her claws for it.

With a huff, she lets it go and turns back to the litter of kittens poking around the room; no doubt getting themselves into trouble once more.


Written for the weekly Daily Post challenge: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/fifty/

Relative Perspective

It was some time before she was even aware of the concept of time. Most of her days went something like this:

She woke up, she couldn’t tell when it was, but there was always someone who entered with a bowl of broth soon afterwards. She would eat as much as she could before she’d fall asleep again.

She’d wake up sometime latter to have a small repeat.

Sometimes when she wakes, the man who found her is there; sometimes he’s not. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it and she doesn’t think much to try and find one. She’s too tired for that.

(Why is she so tired?)

Eventually, she notices that she has several different things attached to her person, but for the life of her she can’t remember what they are or what purpose they serve.

She doesn’t have it in her to do more than stare at them before she’s fallen asleep once more.

They’re still there when she wakes and after a moment of trying to remove one, she’s stopped by the man who’d found her and. presumably, brought her here.

“Leave them,” he speaks in a quiet voice that is very deep, but his touch is gentle, “you are still recovering.”

She falls asleep again before he can say anything else.

The next time she wakes, she ignores the things and eats her broth without any extra movements other than her eyes following the movements of the woman spoon feeding her the soup. She’s too tired for anything else.

By the time she’s strong enough to feed herself, there’s some kind of bread in the broth as well. She doesn’t bother with wiping up every time she spills as she’s too busy being grateful she can lift the spoon to her mouth without aid. The spoon is unsteady and she suspects that the bread is partially there so that there is less liquid to drip on herself.

This time, there is a smile of satisfaction on her lips as she falls asleep once more.


He’s not quite sure what to think of the young woman on the bed before him.

She is a pale thing, all red hair and dark eyes and thin cheeks. She seems wasted, as if she’d had an illness and had only recently been cured from it, only to face her body after the ordeal.

He wonders, not for the first time, where she has come from and how she came to be in the alley that he’d found her near. She doesn’t seem to be the kind of woman or even man that would frequent such an area and her body shows no signs of drugs or abduction. She isn’t malnourished and though she is thin and pale and wasted looking, she is otherwise healthy.

Alexander feels a buzzing in his pocket and withdraws a beeper. He hadn’t brought his phone in with him, hadn’t wanted to chance it messing with the equipment or going off when she was awake and startling her.

(She had been so curious about the wires and leads and didn’t seem to understand what they were for.)

He sighs at the code and, with a nod to the nurse outside the room, leaves the wing she’s being kept in. He stops at the end to retrieve his phone and his tablet.

At first he hadn’t been certain why he’d felt the need to talk her with him and have his own doctors look after her. Even when the reports of her physical condition were given he hadn’t known why. Alexander was a businessman, and he does give generously to charities as well as other organizations. He does not bring people in need home with him, no matter what the tabloids say.

He still does not know why she is here, yet he makes no move to send her away, though in her state, it would be very easy to do so.

She has been there for half a year already, but her physical improvement is slower than initially projected by his doctors. No one knows why.

He doesn’t even know her name.


Written for this week’s Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/10/weekly-writing-challenge-golden-years/

I’m not entirely sure why it didn’t mention much about age and only about how time is relative to different people due to perspective, but it would only be written like this.

Man-Made

Silence is not real,
Not in the terms of actual sound waves.
Not to me.
Silence is something else entirely.
It is when you are not speaking to someone,
When you see one another and you pretend that the other
Does not exist.
 
Silence is not just in speaking,
It is in actions and thoughts and-
It is more than we are aware of,
Because nothing is so simple in life.
Life is not meant to be simple,
It is meant to be complex and full of color.
Silence and sound are much the same.
 
There is sound
As long as there is something to be the medium.
There is no real silence,
But that does not mean that we cannot try to create it.
Silence is not natural,
It is completely man-made.
Silence, real silence, is only found among men.

Written partially because of the weekly challenge from Daily Post (https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/17/the-sound-of-silence/) and partially because once I’d gotten the thought of silence in my head I had to keep writing this.

Also, been spending the day mostly with vertigo that shifts the world to the left more than it should and concentrating on writing anything else failed at every turn.