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~ Linda R Davis, Raven of Peace & Poetry

Bits of Poetry

Monthly Archives: August 2014

The Stricken Ones

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

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Canada Geese, Cancer, Death, Infinite, Melanoma, Mercy, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry

I remember what it was like
To be unstricken,
To think my life would go on,
To think I was owed a spot here,
And that spot was permanent.

Once your body lets the thing
Grow, you understand something else,
That mercy comes in miracles:

The Canada Geese overhead are miracle,
The smell of your son’s hair is miracle,
The arms of your friend wrapped ’round you,
Saying, it will be okay, is miracle.
Love is a miracle.
That we can be loved is a miracle.

I asked only that I’d see my son graduate,
And I did. That is a miracle.

I am a stricken one.
I was stricken long ago.
I’m part of the great finite,
And I’m part of the great forever,
So in need of mercy,
So thankful for miracles.

My Mother’s Breast with Cancer

25 Monday Aug 2014

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Breast Cancer, Cancer, Death, Dying, Hallmark, Loss, Love, Moms, Mothers, Poem, Poems, Poetry

Think of yourself motherless
In this false, frail world.
This world where you don’t touch blood,
Or suffering, or death, but hope
Someone will be there to touch yours.

She pulled my hand to her bare breast,
Cupped it underneath,
Rested the heft of it,
In my palm:

Do you feel it, she asked.
I feel it, I said.

I feel it.

Canada Geese and Our Souls

21 Thursday Aug 2014

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The geese migrate.

Hear their many wings

Su-swish, su-swish,

Like heartbeats,

Ripping the sky.

Deep Waters

19 Tuesday Aug 2014

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There is a mystery in the water,
A darkness more than a hundred feet deep.
Drop a coin and it disappears
So wholly, so fully gone.

Dreams of Storms and Geese

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

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Bird Poem, Bird Poems, Bird Poetry, Bits, Canada Geese, Death Poems, Dreams, God, Life, Mental Health, Poem, Poems, Robin Williams, Suicide, Suicide Poetry, Thoughts

The storm came, like so many storms,
More dark, more swift, more rain.
Before that, the first migration,
Canada Geese in mid-August clouds.
I wonder if nature follows news
Or news follows nature.
We quiver with uncertainty,
Our frail choices to live boldly.
Etta says, We get on our knees,
Pray for help, sometimes we gotta,
Just help ourselves.
But it’s hard missing,
Each one gone too early,
Disappeared into our dreams.
He’s an old man, he’s crying,
It scares me. Am I scared
Or sad, or terrified?
He’s an old man, he’s crying.
Says his brother stole his–
He says, his inheritance.
He’s an old man, for god’s sake.
Does it ever get easier?
And when did I start to envy geese?
September fifteenth, two thousand one.
When they fly by, I escape.
When they honk, I worship.
I think that’s what I wish I was–
As buoyed, as certain, as free.
This is what he said,
Before he was gone,
But only in their dreams
can men be truly free.
It was always thus
and always thus will be.
Why are we so afraid of leaving?
It’s much worse to be left.
We don’t know; we’ll never know.
The storm came, faster than we knew.
It did things, storms don’t usually do.

An Idealist Short of Ideals Turns to Weaving

12 Tuesday Aug 2014

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Tags

draft poem, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Weaving

Weaving, the taking of all things
Gently in your hands,
Resting strands between fingers,
Feeling silk and heft,
Crossing what is,
With what comes next.

There is a rhythm to weaving,
It sounds like this. Steady.
Unhurried. Like your heart.
Hear it beat?

That is the beginning. And the end.
And all that’s in between.
It’s rest. Everything that’s beautiful,
In this world, starts there.

The Days of Chardonnay

07 Thursday Aug 2014

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80's, chardonnay, Poem, Poems, Poetry

The 80’s were Chardonnay
I’ll have a Chardonnay, he said,
She’ll have the same.
We served it slightly chilled
From a cruvinet, all brass
And shiney. Wearing black pants,
White shirts and ties, we poured gold,
A days wages, sometimes two,
As they’d sip at lonely tables
In dark corners. We came and went
As quietly as ghosts, taking orders,
Delivering food, changing linens
And crystal. We placed forks to the left,
Knives and spoons to the right,
Folded napkins like tents,
And at the end of the day we clocked out,
With cardboard timecards, then walked
Emptied, dark parking lots to our cars,
Under slightly chilled, star spattered skies,
Lingering nights filled with elusive dreams,
Pockets bulging with a few dirty fives
And a whole bunch of ones.

half-gone and important things

06 Wednesday Aug 2014

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Tags

Dreams, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Suicide

half-gone.
everything seems half-gone.
he was among statues,
our gatherings,
a shadow on the road,
now he’s not.
once, I thought,
if I were to lose him,
i’d be gone.
now, i know
i’d be half-gone.

important things.

some fires burn slow,
allow you to wander in dreams,
a ghost of rooms and things;
they’re supposed to be important,
you think, but can’t remember why.

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