20 Lines A Day

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Nana with Rose Petal Tears

2014-04-09 07.42.25

Rose petals, like teardrops,
fall softly to my kitchen counter,
surround the vase where the wilted flowers
droop their heads in reverence to the
stooping, plucking, pruning

of Nana tending to her roses
crouching in her gardening shorts,
as I play in the field behind her house,
searching for rabbits’ nests and pulling out
my dollhouse to set up in the quiet patio shade,

of Nana sweet and fragrant as the roses
that she tended, bare legs exposed, a rebel
of a time when women wore only skirts and hosiery,
bustling about in her slippers and shorts,
cultivating an escape from everyday life

of Nana’s hair, soft between my fingertips,
like rose petals, as she lies in bed, life gradually
slipping through grasping hands, ice chips, greeting
cards, and tear-soaked tissues encircling roses
on the bedside table

of my Nana who never cried, at least not that I
can remember, but if she had, I know her tears would be
rose petals, cascading between dreams and
backyard memories, sweetly-scented and multi-hued,
formed together into one final bloom

©SpiritLed 2014


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The Healing Parts

The healing parts are mighty and wild,
careening through the dark mind,
simultaneously passive and angry,
they take you over, consume your soul.

They hunger for affection, else they grow
a life of their own, they thrive on tenderness,
else they join together to conquer
their demons with your pain.

The healing parts want to survive,
as the soul writhing in the night.
They are displaced and dissociated,
and only love returns them home,
validation of their realness,
so they may quench their fires,
no longer reduce you to ashes from the
inside out.

The healing parts are us,
and we, them. We are the parts
we buried deep so long ago, the voice
silenced and the voice raging, the broken, fragile,
lonely, fearful, hurting, hating parts.  We are healing
and we are real.

©SpiritLed 2014


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Just be….

just-be

 

Together for a lifetime
blinded by reality
escaped years of unhappiness
never far from my heart.
when things got bad she tried to turn to you
but just like before it was never the right time
and you were always to busy.
Never knew how precious life was until it was almost taken away
and that lifetime had so much going on he couldn’t make a pit-stop.
Escaping the pain and ended back at the place she never wanted to be
she wasn’t welcomed.
It’s easy to go back to what’s familiar but the problem with that if nothing was ever resolved you’re going to be on that same page where you left off at.
As much as you think this is the person that knows you so well you just need to feel safe and secure and that was the one place but for the first time you felt out-of-place like you were in a world where he made everything yours but it was at the wrong time.
She still tells him everything

He still tells her most things

built it’s not the same
and it’s never going to be a lifetime again
because that page was never discussed, ripped out or re-written
to know if something could be rebuilt.
Always and Forever,
he will always be
just be…….


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Thirty-Nine

Today I turn 39.  My last year in my 30’s.  If I had my nearly 4 decades to do over, I’d stay home with my kids, which is a total contradiction because I hated staying at home when they were very young.  Now I’d do it all over again and for longer, just for more time with them.  I’d go to graduate school the first time I had the chance.  I’d go back to that first relationship in high school, and I’d say no to that boy.  Yes, it would change the course of my life, but I’d avoid the pain of losing a friend.  I’d make and keep better connections with friends of my parents and my extended family.  I had no idea how much I would wish I knew them better as I got older.   I’d demand more of myself.  The status quo and self pity would never be in my coping toolbox.  I’d learn about self care early on and make it a priority.  I’d stop myself from picking up terrible interpersonal habits that negatively affect my relationships.  My poor husband really has to deal with a lot of baggage.  I’d let people get close to me, I’d be more vulnerable.  And I’d expect it of other people too.  I’d take back every mean word I ever said to my sister.  Maybe we were just kids, but I’m sure it affected her, and she’s the only sibling I have.  I’d set better boundaries for myself, and I wouldn’t be afraid to say no.  I wouldn’t find a sick comfort in relationships that make me feel bad.  I’d talk to my mom about her illness, I’d share my fears about living a life without her.  I’d snuggle up next to her that night when she asked me to.   I’d understand that in order to feel great joy and compassion, you also, at times, have to allow yourself to feel great pain.  I’d never stop writing.  Or dancing.  Or letting the world know how smart I am.  Or crying.  I’d cry a LOT more.  And I’d pray more.  I’d figure out early what makes me passionate and pursue that.  Or not stop pursuing that.  I’d have a job that I love, that fulfills me, that I can’t wait to get up and do every morning.  I’d force my foot into that Cinderella slipper and never let it fall off my foot.

“Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.”

~Henry David Thoreau

Happy 39.  It’s going to be a great year.

©SpiritLed 2014

"With Tears" by Jonathan McCallum


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With Tears

“Tears” by Jonathan McCallum

Seventy?

Tears pool, brim and flow onto hands that grasped liquid sweet moments.

Memories frozen into brilliant waterfall within.

Towards my soul’s canyon, your light pours in, revealing precious faces, kind eyes, little hands briefly held.

Traveling through childhood’s mist, middle life forest to foggy old age to reveal a distant eternal land.

With tears. Just seventy years?

Poem by Jonathan McCallum @peoplepoesia


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Say you love me (Prose)

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as for words sometimes spoken
that make us think
why others speak them, take
three syllables
we long to hear, sealing anxious
weeks or months after we ceased
being a singular I

the anticipation of who will
speak first, should I, should they

I love you
why, I ask what makes you love me
because I’m kindhearted
smile at strangers, a good hostess
in and out of bed, love all creatures
great and small, or perhaps my humour
that can turn your furrowed brow
into whipped cream smoothness

Is it any of these things or these and more
we wait, it’s said, what we started
pure and raw, now concreted with three simple words
and it’s not perhaps till time has passed

when we have grown old together
we look back and it wasn’t about who spoke first
that we see love for what it is
the importance of why it was said
no longer just syllables

©jmtacken Feb 2014


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Tommy and Faye (Prose)

img_0511
ocean coloured eyes, auburn curled hair
nestling on her shoulders, stuck with him
the restaurant, crushed napkin folded
kept safe in his worn wallet

her phone number
scribbled in ink, bled from his
sweaty palms over weeks
yet he hadn’t dialed her number

small town, back woods, trying
the best she could, to get out
leave the trailer park, an inner strength
held behind her cerulean eyes

words spoken of her existence
showed determination, he felt weak
amidst her charms, her softness
his a different pain to hers

the napkin dropped near his plate
alongside remnants of mashed potato
beans and meat, he stared at it a while
did she find him attractive

then left, closing the door to her world
to begin again with his, yet
she kept dragging him back, without
a word between them

just this napkin, he couldn’t throw away
she wanted out, she told him so
was he her meal ticket to a better life
to get somewhere, was this his doubt

and then he threw her number away
‘coz he knew he didn’t have the courage
to find out, the risk of being hurt again
to try and make it work

until one summer’s afternoon
when she played so badly on his mind
like a sweet violin
he made a sign

nailed it to the pole
in the street where she worked
and he waited near by
waited and watched for Faye to see

how much she meant to him
how proud he was of her
and how, with lives so different
they were meant to be

©jmtacken Feb 2014


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Moment

 

161

Intrigued

Captivated

by the stillness

and how  the echo sounds

when you scream to the top of your lungs

to release the rage

to release the pain

to release silence

and when you are done

you can take a breath

and lay on the side of paradise

feeling the water touch your flesh

and  just for a moment it can be picture perfect


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The Last Walk

DSCN1835Walking on the island shore at night always held a fascination for me, especially with my young teen. We would walk along, watching as the lights on shore glimmered off the amazing expanse of water all around is. It was one of those moments that needed no words, the feelings, the magic, spoke for itself.

He reached down and picked up something, turned to me, held it up and smiled. It was a whole conch con, shimmering in the starlight. Wow! I said, as we walked on. I will never forget that night. It is burnt into my soul. A tear runs down my cheek even now. It was the last night we ever spent on the beach together.


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Glass

Three years ago, I lost my mom.

She had been fading for years, but we still talked,

we laughed and loved.

 

It seems like since then loss and loneliness

have been so much of my life.

I feel like I am drowning.

 

After loosing my child, hope, faith,

and that special closeness with my family,

I feel I will never capture the joy in life again.

 

I can only beg you, young people,

to take that joy, when you find it,

and treat it as thought it was glass, because it is.


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Break the Silence While You Can………………

A Hospice room Times upA Hospice Room just vacated. The tick tok of the wall clock, the labored breathing through the night came to a sudden, gasp, shudder and then stillness. Then you might wish you would have said…………………   Say it now!


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How to Make a Difference

She is 86 years young. I grew up to this amazing person, my aunt, youngest sister of my mother.

Since I was a toddler, I would walk up the hill to her house, plant flowers with her, watch her can vegetables, help her work in the garden, and help decorate for Christmas.

When I was a young adult, trying to survive a disastrous marriage, be a single mom, work and go to school, she made sure my kids and I had clothes, food, toys. Even today at her last siblings funeral, she smiled at me and said, “Maybe someday I can make up to you all that you have done for me.”

I smiled and quietly whispered, “If I were to live a thousand years I could not begin to make u for all you have done for me.”
I think often of what the world would be like if it were full of people like my aunt. She listens, she cares, she is generous, considerate, loving beyond all reason. I envy her thoughtfulness, honesty, willingness to help, or even to be kind when she disagrees.

If ever there has been a person who is “my precious. Is is my aunt, who is like a “sister”and friend as well. I have shared my joys and sorrows with her, helped her with her ailing elders, and enjoyed visits to her house several times a week, if not more. When I thin of the word, “beautiful”, her face comes to mind. She is the kind of person that makes life worth living on my worst day, a true treasure.

Thanks for being ‘my precious’, Aunt Phib!


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Responsibility

In this life

We make mistakes

We hurt the ones we love

Turn a blind eye

When someone else is doing wrong.

It happens,

It’s part of this messy thing

We call life,

We’re human

And mistakes are practically coded

Into our DNA.

It’s how we learn,

It’s how we grow.

But growth can only happen

If we own our mistakes.

To acknowledge and embrace

The mistakes that we have made

Is a huge step towards

Moving forward.

To say to someone else

That mistake was ours

We empower not only ourselves

But those around us.

Let’s stop pretending we are perfect

Let’s take a step back down

Hold hands with one another

Be the space where

Mistakes can be owned and

Reparations made.

Responsibility and forgiveness

Are two sides of the same coin.

A coin we all must investigate

And add to our collection

Using frequently each day.


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What You Could Be

What You Could Be

I look at him, same age as you,

when death snatched you out of the blue.

He’s just 15, but teachers say,

that he will make it big one day.

I touch your photo, hold it too,

each time I pass, your place, your room.

It looks just like it did that day

when Hell took you and life away.

I see him grow, a brilliant smile,

when he creates, he dreams, compiles.

The things I wish that you could see.

I wonder, Babe, what you could be?

It’s just so wrong that you aren’t here.

I see your face, your eyes, your fear.

Still, no one knows, but you and me,

The truth about what you could be.

I pray the day will not be long,

When something might take up the wrong.

And somehow just, please let me see.

The beauty of what you could be.

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