24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
It’s what you might expect
at a rough and tumble spot
not a beach
but a graveled slope where dead-end meets Pacific
Surfers dodge driftwood big chunks here
so of course that’s what it’s made of this cross
held together with sea twine and brown lei
Underneath all local-style are gifts to the dead
a bottle of beer with a rusted cap
a bottle a water
and
what surprised me
a fresh black book that says
Holy Bible
unharmed by the spray
The final song at your funeral was, “How Can I Keep From Singing?” And I choked on my own tears and could not give those words flight to meet you. “You should sing at the top of your lungs at least once a day,” you advised your children, singing as you washed dishes, mowed the lawn, stood beside us in the pews on Sundays, as you tucked us in at night. I want you to know not a day went by that I didn’t sing out loud, usually in the shower, both loudly and badly. I sang parody lyrics to match events in the world around me, usually from cheesy 80s songs. When Covid struck, I could not sing for weeks. I felt too heavy to lift the words from my lungs, too fearful in uncertainties to belt out loud sound. This past week, I began to sing again, loudly and badly. I can hear your funeral song in my head, and I now have two answers to the question, “How Can I Keep From Singing?”
[Prompt 4: Write an epistolary poem that is a letter from you to someone who has passed and/or someone you have not seen in a long time.]
P, you taught me to be careful of saying “I love you”,
I’ve changed a lot since we last met, my friends say that is true.
You’d like them and their kindness, the dinners that we share.
It’s nice to know that always there is someone that will care.
I’ve moved away from London, to Middle-earth to find my names.
Sherlock will always be special, but I am not the same.
I grow flowers in my garden; cucumbers on the vine.
I still grow wistful, for once upon a time.
My hair shows streaks of gray.
My vision does slowly fade.
I wear multi-focus lenses now every day.
I imagine you’ve aged quite gracefully,
you seemed to have that knack.
I hope this letter finds you well.
If time permits, please write back.
These are the black shells that washed up from the ocean
as you were leaving.
See? I have them here on this little shelf turned altar.
Here is your photo with Becky and the dogs.
Here is the angel you drew
when you learned of the cancer.
This is the dryer ball in the shape of a hedgehog.
Remember when I sent that to you?
You said the bouncing sound in the dryer made you laugh
and that made me happy.
Somehow Michael knew to send it back to me afterward.
Anyone would wonder why a dryer ball belongs on an altar.
It is sacred.
And here are your words sweeping across the sky –
the way you signed your letters
with a flourish:
Peace. Love. Patti.
I repeat these words and they transform:
Here. Now. Forever.
Sweet Sarge,
I felt your pain,
and I wish I’d loved you better then.
My dark and twisted friend,
I miss your wicked sense of humour.
I miss the little boy who played peek-a-boo from behind the steel walls and barbed-wire fences.
I wish I’d loved you better then.
I trust you forgive me.
I’ve learned a lot since then.
Mostly, I’ve learned to love myself.
And forgive myself.
And heal the pain I felt.
Thank you.
To my most adored,
You are missed in the morning quiet,
and the evening break.
You are well, and you are glorious,
so we will not burden you with letters of nostalgia.
From memory l praise your soap soft skin,
and the honey butter sound of your voice.
When we meet again, I want to hear your tales –
the stories we will lock into your legacy.
From your babes to theirs, and those after them.
We dream because of you.
Hot sun
Gentle breeze
sweet smell of summer.
Loud buzz
Sharp sting
Biting bugs of summer
Generous smiles
Open laughter
Hot boys of summer
Dad would’ve liked Texas.
He would’ve liked the sage growing wild in the yard.
He would’ve liked the rolls of the Hill Country and the mariachi in the city.
Dad would’ve liked the house.
He would’ve liked the arched doorways and the Saltillo tile floor.
He would’ve liked the stone exterior and the wide porch overlooking the ranch.
Dad would’ve liked me.
He would’ve liked my lost weight and my found joy.
He would’ve liked my independence and how I stopped worrying.
Dad would’ve liked this phase of life.
Met myself a cute boy
His beauty hit me like a train
Hair flowed gloriously in the wind
Skin glowed bright and pearly in the sun
Voice almost spoke to my soul
His smile shined through the dark
You made heartache fun.
Never been one to take the first step
I wouldn’t even know what to do
Yet somehow because of you
I am compelled
I must do what I have to do
You inspire such excitement in me
Such dilemma such chaos internally
Yet it gives me peace of mind to know how much I am into you.
You made heartache fun.
So I chased after you
I related to your story
I complimented you at every opportunity
I asked you for a selfie
Still you were shy maybe, taken even, extremely responsible in how you interacted with me
So I wailed to myself for half a year wishing I had not put myself through this agony
You made heartache fun.
