sorrow has never suffocated even one petal
loosened streamers of seeds have escaped
to float like bubbles wringing themselves
from a wire loop that shaped them
crust of snow and sharp shoulder blades
have so very much in common
if it were not so, I would require of birds
to lift me up and take me with them
wherever it is that they go
come fall
how many harvests, how many plantings
of all my good requisites have I plowed under
because your name went down with some ship
in that ditch between receding ice
and hell-hath-no-fury first heave of snow
when heaven guts itself of its cold
to bury ships at sea, forgetful birds, and roots
beneath it all is a swish of waves and hum
here, put your hand to that muffled sound
of dropped blooms, of bird bones, of crusted anchors
they sing siren’s song about new tomorrows
for heroes of many names; living and dead
this quiet voice, quite alive, just there,
says his name
Author notes
Be there a gift, it is a gathering of women who know what to listen to for signs of sorrow.
Happy Birthday, hawkeslake! We are here, drumming your same song.
Prompt - Champagne Ships For Breakfast
In a list
- Beautiful Words by Beautiful People I Know • next in list
- Bronze poetry • next in list
- The Turquoise Tears • next in list
- A Woman's Writhe • next in list
A contest entry
- Contest: Champagne Ships For Breakfast by Night Hope.
1200 points, ended October 19, 17 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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If they held a vote and asked us to choose one silvery voice to speak for us all, I would put forth your name, Carol. Not just for all women, mind you, but for all humankind. Congratulations on your well-deserved bronze, my Friend. 
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True light of greater spirit,
tossed in brine of bronze-wet ocean,
as buoy to bobble head bow and baring
guiding home, his vessel cast in sorrow
so wonderful pen-friend
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"sorrow has never suffocated even one petal..."
Oh, you are a wise woman, who knows the dialects hidden in the tongue of women. How intuition comes in life's famines to fill our bellies when we are hungriest. How these same Furies are not fury but awareness that gathers 'round to fan the fire as we peer with eyes veiled by the stoicism of widow's weep. The joy of hearth, a quiet presence of sisters a deep well we carry in our day to day scurry...
So wise.
"...beneath it all is a swish of waves and hum
here, put your hand to that muffled sound
of dropped blooms, of, bird bones, of crusted anchors..."
Yes, it is what we do, isn't it? It is what you have done with this magnificent poem in tribute to Lita's birth, life, travails - her connection to self - and, each of us gathered round.
Thank you... Thank you for seeing, singing quiet requiem for us each.
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Some goodbyes happen over and over, and they fade and are not so sharp as they were, but they still sing sorrow in a woman's bones...this woman knows!
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"crust of snow, and sharp shoulder blades have so very much in common" excellent imagery.
"hell hath no fury first feet of snow" I like the voice, the balance of tension...at the edge of "Out of control" but not so. That's perfect.
I really like your poems
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ty ccawley. The voice is authentic, and I work hard to keep its integrity. This picture is probably one of my most prized possessions, as is the memory - faded, a bit age-worn, but mellow and rocking in my heart.
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Yes, the long line of women who know how to grieve, to support one another, to climb and lift... we can not help but see our heroes strive and ultimately pass away, and yet, we mark the days and cling to hope and each other. This is wonderfully written, and a beautiful birthday present. Lita
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ty, Lita. How precious it is to grieve totally and un-abandonly, and for as long as it takes. A true hero does not pass easily nor quickly I have found.
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