All Consuming

Our tragedies have to consume us in the dark and daytime, too.
There are only slight reprieves from our duty to get through this,
before another tragedy strikes. Or the delightful floats into our lives
and needs our attention and ministrations to become joys. 
We aren’t strange in our unrelenting, all-consuming thoughts,
it’s how we grow and go on, how we move through and survive

Broken

He’s my hero from the day I met him

He’s muscular, tall, and brave.

He’s made a career and then a business

He works hard for all those he loves.

He has a good heart, he loves God and

earth’s people.  His net reaches wide and high.

He’s a giant among men of morals, he’s

true, loving and kind.

But he’s also a broken being.  He’s saddled

with a horrific loss.  His son died in his prime.

He sits at the gravesite and weeps. It’s been

eleven years now, but he grieves for his only son.

Remission

Grief isn’t gone – doesn’t disappear

it only goes into remission. It waits

always patient, to return with a word,

a familiar face, smell, place, or thought

to plunge you deep into the pit again.

Sure, the intensity lessens, that stabbing

pain that attacks the heart and strips away

until you are raw, becomes a deep

sadness, a haze instead of a bright Monet.

Grief never disappears, it just goes into

remission for a day, a night or even a week.

November 4

write a "soap box" poem on your theme.

I Hear/I Say

How long ago did he die? Shouldn’t
you be over this by now? Don’t cry

he wouldn’t want you to suffer
you have to get over this

you talk about him too much,
you drive everyone from you

the only one to help you through
this is God, turn to him

smile, don’t act so sad all the time,
you have to be strong for your family

let's get together when you are feeling
better, give me a call

I didn't want to bring him up
I didn't want to make you sad

My truth is I have to cry and scream
be sad and talk as much as I need to

when I have a choice, I will make the one to live
more fully, when I don’t, I will grieve in my way

be around those who will allow me to talk about
him when I need to, who will say his name

don’t allow words or lack of words to anger me
know that people are doing the best they can

This is the hardest work I will do and I have to
take care of myself, eat right, exercise, get a check-up

go to a therapist. accept any act of kindness that
comes my way with grace and thankfulness.

I won’t let anyone make me feel I’m not doing my
best, I have my own yard stick, I make the rules

stop the mind racing with a word..Stop!, grasp and
hold on to those moments that don’t include his death

those moments have grown to days and for now I will
honor him and this process so I can become whole again.

Nov 2

write a declaration poem: that is, a poem that makes a statement about your theme. A good way to attack this poem may be to write it in the voice of an imagined person or a real person who is not yourself.


“Iris Bolton”

I don’t know why
I’ll never know why
I don’t have to know why
I don’t like it
I don’t have to like it
What I do have to do is

make a choice about
living. Why? Why not.
Weary, I travel through
each day and pray
I won’t be destroyed
won’t destroy others by
my grief. A choice to

live is the choice I
make each day and as time
goes on I advance to choices
that make my life more than
existence. Forgetting myself

at times I even reach for
joy before life dawns on me
again. In infinitesimal increments
I move through another passage
I’m Indiana Jones effeminate

dodging spears and casualties
as I make my way to a new dawn
striped of any resemblance of the
woman I was, transformed into an
enigma even to myself.

Judy Roney

Nov. Poem A Day 1

Overcome

Too many times I’ve thought
I can’t stand it, I can’t be here
can’t stand the pain of this loss.

I always hang on , my
grip tenuous and iron steel
by turns as I hold on
to that which is going or

gone. I value the resolve that takes
me forward when what I want is
blissful sleep. The solution

comes to me gradually, seeps
into consciousness with the dusky
evening light. My legacy, the
women who walked before me
the ones who walk with me on
this same tender path.

Judy Roney