Letting Go
Letting go
is not one clean motion.
It is a slow unfastening,
fingers loosening
around what once felt permanent.
We began at the bank,
adjoining teller windows,
passing jokes along as
we passed out cash,
a summer for me,
a life for him.
Later there were meals,
bars where the floor throbbed under our feet,
music loud enough
to make the future seem distant.
We talked until closing time,
until words felt endless.
Time moved us apart
without breaking our connection.
Letters replaced laughter,
cards stood in for voices.
Holidays, birthdays—
news folded neatly inside envelopes
never an occasion missed.
Then silence arrived
without explanation.
A fall.
A nursing home with no name.
A card unanswered.
Letting go
began as worry,
then became absence.
The news came sideways,
through a message,
through someone else’s grief.
I wanted one last sentence,
one more sound of his voice,
something unfinished to finish.
There was kindness after—
a brother’s call,
a small book returned,
my younger handwriting still held
in his keeping.
Letting go means
holding that tenderness
without trying to reclaim it.
It means letting gratitude
stand where loss wants to scream.
I remember the guitar,
the pranks,
the dancing,
but mostly the long talks—
how time once seemed like infinity to us.
Now I practice releasing
the future I didn't know had passed:
no more cards,
no more news,
no voice on the other end.
Letting go
is allowing the love to stay
while accepting the goodbye.
Written for my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Letting Go"
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
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
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?
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
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
Courage
Courage is a small thing
like going to work every day
when one is brown
and ICE is all around
Courage is a small thing
like standing near schools
with whistles to blow to warn
if ICE comes to call.
Courage is a small thing
like writing/speaking the truth
when so many bend the knee
rather than exposing lies.
Courage is being a survivor
and standing up proudly
demanding files be released
seeking justice.
Courage is six veterans
in Congress making a video
explaining that service people
should not follow illegal orders.
Courage is doing something
either big or small
even if only inside one's mind
which says I resist.
*******
Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Words of Fearlessness or Courage
Alive
Sunlight spills through the forest,
Olive trots ahead, ecstatic,
the air full of pine and impending winter.
Red and gold of colorful autumn,
and then a sudden hush of snow,
the earth shifts its colors again.
Alive!
The highway winds ahead of me,
loud music fills my car,
and I sing my favorite songs.
A table bright with what’s fresh,
tomatoes, berries, melon, bread,
and to drink - turmeric ginger tea.
Alive
A novel captures my mind,
pages turn one after another,
I am immersed in a new world.
An engrossing conversation drifts
from laughter to serious discussion,
the gathering leaves warmth behind.
Alive!
Each small, full moment
reminds me I am here,
breathing, awake, alert ---
ALIVE!
For Sumana's prompt for What's Going On? -- What Makes You Feel Alive?
Black
At first, it’s only the absence—
then the presence begins to breathe.
Sometimes rage, sometimes sadness,
the darkness of a black hole.
Wind tears the night apart;
sky turns heavy, metallic,
the color of fury before it breaks
as the world fades to dark.
In a room a dress hangs
between celebration and mourning.
the color that expresses everything—
formality, the grief, or perhaps
intentional understatement.
The unnamed man who would be king
keeps it in his chest like a weapon,
the darkness of a narcissistic soul.
He calls it vision,
but it stinks of rancid smoke
and pollutes the atmosphere.
There is sweetness as well --
a strand of licorice pulled between teeth,
melting slowly, coating the tongue,
staining the teeth,
bitterness covered with sugar
delicious.
My dog’s nose—
cool, shining—
presses into my palm,
as if to remind me
with her soulful ebony eyes
that darkness can love, too.
For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "Black or White"
Little Squirrel
Little squirrel,
you scamper on the pavement
scamper in the yard,
dash through the colorful leaves.
What are you doing, little fella,
in this month of the year
(no longer summer
but not yet winter)?
Are you still burying nuts
or are you finding those
that you already buried?
Perhaps you are just enjoying
a frolic for pleasure
like I do, as I walk my dog
who finds you quite intriguing
and would like to chase you,
as she chases the leaves,
until you are both tired.
I wonder, scampering friend,
what my dog would do with you
if she caught you--
but worry not, little squirrel.
I will protect you from harm
(and not let her loose)
as you go about your business
of living freely and happily
in this world we all share.
This was written for Sherry's post at What's Going On? -- Kinship
What I Used to Know
I used to think I knew
there was an eternity—
a place without end,
a promise beyond the turning of years.
But those days are gone.
Now I wake to smaller hopes,
to mornings that ask only
that I make it through.
I no longer plan far ahead.
Next month feels like fog,
next year like a myth.
If forever exists,
I wonder what waits there—
who will be gathered,
who left behind,
and whether I will still
recognize myself.
There is so much to fear,
so much cruelty walking the earth.
If eternity is real,
let it not carry
the shadows of this world.
For now,
I keep my faith
no further than the sunrise,
and call it enough.
--------
For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Eternal/Unchanging"
The Time of Covid
The book I tried to read, monotony
washing clothes, an order for pickup
a quick walk with the dog, gray skies
gray mind, new gray corduroy pants
sameness, stillness, frustration
impatience, writing, Netflix
deleting emails, covid cases climb
housebound, mask-bound, boosted
bitter cold, bitter mind, biting my tongue
people dying, democracy dying, loss of faith
the chilling cold, the boredom of the day
sameness of the day, same old same old
sadness, deeper, longer, bleaker
no respite, no escape, no change
the book I failed to read, monotony.
****
A Short Addendum
2022 peaceful times
Cocooned in my home
trapped but somewhat safe
Only today mattered
tomorrow was a question
would fear ever end?
2025 when I write this
tomorrow is still a question
will fear ever end?
For my prompt at What's Going On? -- "The Days We Stayed Apart"
The Quiet Watchers
Two small sentinels on the back of a couch,
Their ears like sails, catching every sound—
Eyes glimmering with a gentle question,
As if they know something I don’t.
Sunlight slants across their coats,
Black and white like ink on parchment,
Still and soft, yet so awake. Alive!
Behind them, blossoms fall silently.
Petals paused in their pink descent—
A world in bloom, framed by the glass
As life unfolds just out of reach.
The room hums with a hush
Only the heart can hear.
And now, they are gone.
Their warmth only memory
Their gaze now immortal
In this canvas of stillness.
The artist too has stepped
Beyond the edge of the frame,
Brush laid down, breath stilled,
Leaving me this moment captured.
I stand here now,
Looking at the ones
Who once watched me
with their intense eyes...
And shed a quiet tear.
O brief lives,
O bright sparks,
O joy curled in small bodies—
You remind me:
The couch was your throne,
The day was once infinity,
And life… a quiet, beautiful blink.
So let's love now, live now,
Sit in the sun while we can.
Watch the world bloom.
And when the moment comes,
That we too must leave,
Let it come gently,
Like this.
An Ekphrastic poem for Sumana's prompt at "What's Going On?"
(This poem is about the painting of my beloved pets Tulip (my heart dog) and Violet (my first toy fox terrier) done by commission by Tasmanian artist Nyra Aherne. Both the dogs and the artist are deceased. The picture hangs in my living room.)
In the Forest
In the forest, Jane listened—
every leaf, every call a lesson.
She said the world is never empty,
only waiting for eyes to see.
Her life: to save Mother Nature,
and teach us to care,
so no heart grows bored or blind.
For Sherry's prompt at What's Going On? -- "A Message from Jane Goodall"
So Tired
I am so tired of
the news
the evil
the hatred
the lies
the greed
the uncaring
the intimidation
the suffering
the fear
of what will
happen tomorrow.
****
Written for Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- "Weariness"
Simple as That
Dog has her treasure
a simple one
that makes her happy
Lambchop is her
prized possession
she keeps it near
Happiness is often
simple as that!
Written for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? -- Creating an Image
My White Treasure
Two Short Poems About Women's Rights
#1
Consciousness raising group
What a new concept
Had to check it out
I was shy though
Didn't like to talk in groups
But I bravely gave it a try
I forget how many women
All strangers to me
So many shared their soul
Stories of sexual assault
I would never have guessed
I had no stories to add.
But the group empowered me
Women had a voice
Women had a choice
Women were not 'girls'
Women could rise up
Women could be strong.
--------------
#2
She hated that restroom signs
were labelled 'men' for men
and 'ladies' for women.
I never would have noticed that
but once I noticed I could not unsee.
And still to this day I notice
which word public restrooms use.
She fantasized removing the 'ladies' signs
I told her to bring a screwdriver
I told her I would keep watch.
She never did, is dead now,
but even forty years later
I still check restroom signage
and still think of her.
---------------
Written for Sherry's prompt at What's Going On -- "Women's Rights Then and Now."
You are Allowed to Love
You are allowed to love your body, as it is today. Not as taut as it once was. Even the parts that you don't like to see in the mirror. The wrinkles on your face and the flabby skin of your upper arms and legs and ass that you purposely don't choose to view. Your wrinkled hands.
Your body has lived a good life, still is. There is nothing not to love. Nothing to hide. No shame. Your life today is a gift as it always has been. You are beautiful just as you are. Look at yourself in the mirror and smile. You are allowed to love your body.
For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? -- Mirrors
