Category: Poetry

In Memory of . . .

A young father…
so gone.

A young mother…
so unyielding in her withholding.

A young child…
so bewildered
so lonely
so lost.

Then in time
and more time…

She found her loves
at his feet
she saw her father
on his knees
in her heart
in her mind
and in her twisted deliverance of the babe that was lost.

Innocent…
so broken,
so tragic,
so nothing but echoes
of silent screams
never delivered
against blue and yellow paleness
and still
so misunderstood
she is alone.

In memory of my father who died in a car accident in 1963, and in memory of my infant son who I found dead in his crib early Easter Sunday morning in 1987.

Emerging

Embrace your sadness
with all the kindness in the world
acknowledge it
listen to it
sit quietly
and hold it for a while.

Wash the dishes
stare at the walls
wander the dusty rooms
of loss and silence
then let the water run down your back
and feel the warmth
of its cleansing.

Emerge from your nakedness
with a skin of your choosing
but not too thick to feel
the caresses of tender winds
that ease the veil
from your soul
in waves of hope
and birdsong.

Today I am pondering sadness and the general attitude that we are supposed to push it away, not dwell on it, not feel it. Every fibre in my being tells me that is wrong. It’s just so wrong. Everybody knows that stuffing emotions causes all kinds of problems with our minds and bodies.

When a life has been deeply marked by a series of losses and tragedies, those experiences can never be erased or denied. Experiences shape us – for better, or worse. I distance myself from negative forces as much as possible, and as a creative person, I tend to live in the moment. I am a seeker of light, but nature teaches us that everything ebbs and flows. Acknowledging and honouring our sadness when it comes is part of the cycle.

 

Requiem for a Grandmother

Mother
I saw them yesterday . . .
papery hands
at euchre tables
laying down hearts
and memories of another time
when bleeding was a different colour
and young women howled fiercely at the moon
with newborn babes clutched tightly at their breasts.
 
I saw them yesterday . . .
in silvery disguises
covering their hearts
with diamonds
and thin-lipped smiles
half-heartedly masking
the haunting of loneliness
and lost children.
 
Where is the place where grandmothers go to weep?
 
I am awake in the dark
lost in raw knowing
that these scars were carved
fresh and deep
to remind me that
I am still . . .
 
A mother.

by Michelle LaRiviere

September 24th, 2014
Windsor, Ontario