In snowfall, chipmunks nest, await next snowfall, wait to revive chipmunks on the run to see those walls melt.
Despite the celebration, feel the gentle breeze of forlorn memories of your own loss, thoughts of home. Find comfort in its presence in a final farewell.
MTB: In my end is my beginning, the prompt from Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse ~ Poets Pub was a frustrating one for me. Laura asks that we write a poem using the final line from each of our last 12 (or more) most recent poems (in any order). Each line must remain intact, with the only additions being preposition, conjunction, or change of tense to facilitate flow. And yes, frustrating, because 9 of my last 13 poems were haiku or haibun, pretty much a limiting factor.
Would I be that person again? Am I not, still? The anger that stewed within is gone, resolved with understanding. Loss weighs heaviest when dismissed. Recognized, accepted, it still lives within me, an empty space never to be filled yet always holding those who cannot be replaced.
The Crapsey (or American cinquain) is a form of cinquain first written by Adelaide Crapsey. It’s 5 lines are not rhymed, and have a syllable count of 2-4-6-8-2. A Crown Crapsey, then, is a sequence of five cinquain stanzas functioning to construct one larger poem, with each cinquain being a Crapsey. As it happens, my last stanza came to me first.
Words come, go, whether I stop to think about the pain or drive it from my mind. Never really gone, it rises when I fall victim to regret, consider wasted moments when I long for those out of reach, no longer here. I reach for words they will never hear, never sure if the words will reach me.
This poem is my response to Poetics: From a place of pain, the prompt from Ingrid at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is “to revisit a time in your life when you have felt pain (emotional or physical, acute or chronic) and come out on the other side stronger.” I don’t think I’ve ever survived such a moment in a way that made me any stronger. Instead, I consider myself just as vulnerable.
This grief that is mine, that has been mine these many years, that has plagued me with its persistence, has lost its bitterness. Bittersweet perhaps, though never bringing the pleasure of a cherry that is savored in spite of its tartness. It still delivers a chill, yet keeps me warm with the memories that it stirs. It is those that I savor.
This poem is my response to Poetics: Always in Season, the prompt from Mish at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which offers three options. Mine is in regards to writing “about an emotion or abstract concept,” is to “an emotion or abstract concept. What does it taste like?”
Apologies, for continuing in the vein of yesterday’s response to dVerse. While that one was difficult for me, I was able to write this in a more objective manner.