there are things
small things great things
words do not adequately
describe or identify
the flower plucked too soon
a vacancy left by a deceased pet
there are no homilies that comfort
the weariness of an empty room nor
the tragedy of a mother selecting
a casket and dress to lay her little girl to rest
these feeling things
swallow you up
eat your soul whole
these somethings do not make for
rhythmic ditties to calm the ill-tempered witness
instead they are battle cries to pick up armour
slay the hated beast
storm the enemies castle
though you know
death doesn’t play fair and it’s sister, grief, is treacherous as well. they can arrive on the most ordinary day and twist your world in very unordinary ways. my father use to tell me that death is nothing but a circle. and if i were to looked at it i would see it as a continuation not an end. my father was also a poet. he didn’t have any words for grief other than to say, ‘it’s a mutha phucka.’ which is the greatest truth he ever imparted.
3 Comments Add yours
He sounds like a wise man!
He was a complicated man.
A special-to-me poem today. Thank you, Wanda. xoA