The Last Things I Remember

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The Last Things I'll Remember

The backyard lawn where I would lie out in the sun to tan,
with a book in my hand, a transistor radio blaring the
popular songs of the day, the warmth, slight breeze, summer

The clothesline, filled with sheets, towels, shirts, underwear,
pajamas, drying all day in the warm sun, bleaching, the smell
of fresh air baked into them, so crisp and clean, blowing.

The petunias and geraniums, my mother knees on the ground,
hands in the earth, planting and caring for them, weeds did 
not have a chance, watered with care, tended with love.

The lawnmowers, first a hand mower, my dad pushing,
then a power mower, orange, easier to use, sometimes I
would mow the lawn then, work I thought was fun.

The smell of leaves burning in fall, my dad made a
fire in fall, the flames dancing, the smell pungent, sky
dark overhead, my dad standing watch with a rake.

The front porch, sitting out on a warm summer night,
talking to neighbors who walked by, playing starlight
moonlight, watching fireflies dance, under the moon.

For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Last Things I Remember"

Twilight

photo taken by me

Twilight

Twilight.
Between day
and night.

Life moves the same way:
childhood,
youth,
adulthood,
and then this—
late adulthood,
the hour before dark.

This is where I am:
late twilight.
Wine in hand.
The sun easing down.
Still active.
Still tasting joy.
Still aware
the light is thinning.

Twilight is not night,
but it knows night is coming.
There is no stopping it,
no bargaining
with the horizon.

So—
cheese with the wine.
A quiet toast.
Not surrender,
but acknowledgment
of the dark ahead.

Written for Susan's prompt "Twilight" at What's Going On?

Silence

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 Silence

Silence welcomes me home—
at last  my tired feet are up,
tea is warm in my hands.

Silence unsettles
when calls go unanswered,
when texts are not responded to.

Silence stings and hurts
when I speak to someone
and nothing comes back.

Silence deepens on Christmas Eve—
distant church bells drifting,
the world celebrates a birth.

Silence troubles me
when harm spreads
and so many say nothing.

Silence becomes worship
when I pause in stillness,
and offer thanks without words.

Silence settles at bedtime,
the noise of daytime  fading,
rest finally near.

This is written for Sumana's prompt "Silence" at What's Going On?

Two Poems on Loneliness

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The Season Everyone Smiles Through

December arrives with its scripted cheer,
lights strung across streets and windows
decorations on doors and in yards
as if brightness alone could lift the heaviness
that settles this time of year.

I walk through stores where music insists
on joy I can’t find a way to feel,
its cheerfulness brushes against me
like a stranger who assumes we’re friends.
Everyone seems to be performing—
laughing a little too loudly,
talking about plans as though the season
still carries the magic it once did.

All around I see a hollow imitation—
ornaments hung because they always have been,
traditions kept out of habit rather than wonder.
I feel myself going through the motions,
as if the holiday is a play and I’m reciting lines
that no longer fit my mouth.

Sometimes I look at others
and wonder if they’re acting too,
if they have that same quiet thoughts,
that same suspicion that the season
has become something to endure
rather than celebrate.
But we all smile for photos,
wrap gifts and sing traditional songs,
and I can’t tell if I am the only one
who hears the silence beneath all the music.

I tell myself it’s just another year,
that I’ll step through it as I always do
like a doorway I didn’t choose—
but still must pass through—
hoping, without expecting,
that some small flicker might return
and I will feel real and alive again.

What's Missing?

In a crowded room, voices hum like bees,
words weaving around me, never through me.
I stand among others with a cup in my hand,
wondering how to enter a conversation
when nothing in me seems to match its flow.

Laughter rises, familiar and distant,
and I nod, smile, drift away in my mind—
a person among people, yet invisible—
hoping I at least look engaged
feeling the awkward quiet settle inside.

Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- Lonely

Resistance

 

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Resistance

Resistance begins with a quiet mind
that rejects the media’s portrayals,
what they call truth (and isn’t),
simply refusing their story.

Resistance holds strong against despair,
enduring the flood of horrors
heard about each day,
with teeth clenched, arms folded.

Resistance pushes back against hopelessness,
eyes fixed on a flickering flame of hope.
It stands firm against giving up,
though some days make that hard.

Resistance looks toward an ending not yet visible,
noticing hairline cracks in the regime,
hoping the foundation will give way
while praying for a new dawn.

Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- Resistance

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