Memories of Poems

My mother was a prolific poet. When we were cleaning up the house after she had passed, we had to sift through boxes and books and stacks of papers, filled to the brim with poetry. Some of it was great, some of it was good, and a whole ton of it was total crap. But this was her chosen medium to vent her feelings and frustrations. Sometimes, a poem was nothing but a pressure valve for her life.

My sister and I, always struggling for her approval (why we stuggled, I'll never know, I'm pretty sure we had it the minute we were born), always would try to churn out some poem. I admit it, Anne was better than me. But in the months following her funeral, I would often use poetry as a method to bond and remember, and let off some of the steam of pain that seemed unbearable. So, I'll post two below:

Sometimes.

I think that I am just dreaming

and once I wake up,

she will be here again.

I realize that it’s more a latent wish,

a hope that is manifesting itself

in thoughts.

When I recognize my folly, the pain hits me again

like the unrelenting current.

And I wish that it were the opposite,

when I dream of her,

and it feels so real that I could hug her,

and she would be warm

and alive again.

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Pictures painted perfectly in my childlike eyes

Irises the sizes of fat raindrops, splashed across the pages

A new hobby, you said

A new distraction from me, I thought

Not to be dissuaded

I propped my easel next to yours

Coffee cup in hand

Only four years old, full with pretension

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It's funny, this entry was meant to be a brainless copy and paste, and yet, it stirs up more memories than others. But that's how poetry works.