a poem in my pocket

death is empty egg

hope’s promise of life deferred

only shell remains

grief is thick blind slug

vulnerable on mud path

unaware it’s stuck

I write these haiku one week after my father’s funeral.

I.

death is squared
concrete vault
heavy, cold, uncaring

grief is round
worn river stone
smooth, comforting

to carry inside
your pocket until it
grows warm, familiar

take it out,
gently turn over
in hands to examine

II.

death is sharply
broken, black umbrella
ruined beyond repair

grief is softly
falling rain shower
watering the garden

you stay out
in the weather
exposed to droplets

look up at
grey skies with
blurred vision, wet face

I’ve given my body

to my children as

a living inheritance

of primal sustenance

vital to ensure their

childhood survival;

for life education and

milestone celebration.

A woman’s body

amazes, astounds

envelopes, nurtures,

stretches elastic

grows softly round

with love surrounds

heartbeat pounds.

They left their marks

indelible, incredible

creases, sags, bags

every gray hair is

strand of costly

(and mostly, yes)

sweet memories

rooted in the heart.

Linking to Grace’s prompt to write “body” poems at dVerse poets pub today…

A quadrille of 44 words offered to you and shared with fellow poets at the dVerse pub

come taste and see
we drink to remember
his blood poured out for us

crushed like heavy grapes
stomped in garden winepress
he drinks bitter cup of betrayal

like first disciples
we wonder, amazed
by life blood we’re clean?

divinest wine lifts sin’s bloodstains!

At dawn on the first day of the week, a woman…

neighbor’s rooster crows

for easter sunrise service

peace on cattle yard