Tears-a poem

GRIEF TEARS 

Sharon Prater-Pope (4-24-12)

Grief tears flow from my deepest core,
Like a waterfall with no shutoff valve.
For months they erupt from my eyes,
Glide down my cheeks, and drip off my chin,
Crashing onto my chest,
Soaking my blouse.
Memories and loss
Mix with salty water.

No turning off…

Suddenly they stop.
No turning them back on.
The pain of loss still sits in my core,
Etched forever
Like stone carvings under a waterfall,
In the crevices of my heart and mind.
Food and fat layers replace the tears,
Providing a wall of comfort and distance
From the risk of more hurt.

The walls only cause more pain…

Borrowed Things-a poem

BORROWED THINGS

Sharon Prater-Pope (4-29-12)

We own nothing in this life.
Not the next breath.
Not the next heartbeat.
Not our eyes.
Not our thoughts.
Not our time.
Not each other.
Not our children.
Not our families.
Not our friends.
Not our pets.
Not our land.
Not our homes.
Not our cars.
Not our bank accounts.
Not the beds we sleep in.
Not the food we eat.
Not our bodies.
Not our health.
Not our lives.
Not our creativity or talent.
Not our material things.
Not our sentimental things.
Not our memories.
Not the earth…

All on loan to us
For a lifespan,
To use and take care of while we’re here.
To be taken at any moment,
In a heartbeat.

The last breath drawn
Leaves it all behind
For others to use or abuse.
None of it ever really owned,
Only borrowed for a moment.

We go out of life
As we came in.
Naked and alone.
Bringing nothing.

Taking nothing…

Tree Ring Life Rings Journal Pages with Poem

More journal pages inspired by Misty's workshop. The life rings are comparable to tree growth rings, which, in my case, are 62 around. Then I needed a poem or story to go with. I don't claim to be a poet, but I gave it a try, and I used a gelatin print background page from another class to write it on with a Pitt pen. I glued the page into the journal with gel medium, transferred the bird from a magazine image onto the page. I need more practice. The transfer didn't turn out as well as I wanted, so I added some pastels and colored pencils to fill in the places that didn't transfer. I also added a couple of small stamps and colored them with colored pencils.

I am pondering adding something to the right upper corner, but I can't think of anything I want to put there. Besides, for now, I like it like it is. :)

The poem is in typed version at the bottom of the post.

The bird is holding a tiny pink heart carefully in his beak. The heart represents my birth and first ring of life. I was born in my Granny's house on a Tennessee riverbank a long time ago, and I've lived near the river my whole life, except for a couple of short periods when I was little.

My life has ebbed and flowed from these river banks for 62 years, just like the water lapping at the shores, every day the same, yet every day different.

Life Rings

By Sharon Prater Pope (Feb. 2012)

Sixty-two ripples

Spreading out from my Clifton riverbank birth rock,

Cast into life with abandon,

Each ripple encompassing

All of the people shuffling in and out through the years,

All that I learn and absorb,

The effect that I have on others,

The effect that they have on me.

Circling ever wider with each passing year,

Receding into the distance

Until I fade into oblivion

And all that remains is a faded memory

And the effect that I had on others

The short time I was here.

I tried my hand at creating poetry using found words for the writing class in Misty's workshop. I don't claim to be a poet, by any means, but this was so much fun! There will be more! :)

Reaching Out

The words to Reaching Out:

buried beneath the
loneliness in the night
I reached out
but don't hear anything
fear is momentary
imagine strength
remember childhood
connection with everything
reach out
our harried lives
somewhat intense
amnesia of the heart
I believe
clutter of voices
talking about God
always be there
reach out and listen
all my happiness has not vanished

I had a few words left over from the above poem, so I used them to create the short poem below. I was raised not to be wasteful. ;)

Black and White

The one below was created using found words in a different way. You may have to click on the pictures to be able to read the poems.

Self Discovery

The words to Self Discovery:

Overwhelmed,

I just want to be enough.

Pondering contribution,

Offering to the world

Content and openhearted self-discovery.

These poems will more than likely find their way in to one of my journals. Hope you enjoyed them!

An Exercise on Being Mindful

This is an exercise from Misty Mawn's pre-workshop in being mindful of whatever you're doing, really paying attention to and being present with one thing at a time. Living in the present moment and absorbing the essence of whatever you're doing at the time or whoever you're with.

I spent a few minutes with a burning candle, lit for my dad, absorbing the experience into my soul, and wrote about it. I feel more alive because of it. Here's what I wrote.

BEING MINDFUL
By: Sharon P. Pope

             Sitting here at my work table, actually my dining room table, with my creative supplies and my cup of coffee gathered around me, I decide to light one of the three new votive candles sitting on the shelves for Daddy, who was taken from us seven years ago right before Thanksgiving.

             I take the little candle and set it directly on the table, feeling the cool waxy smoothness as my fingers curl around it, then release it to stand on its own. I love the rosy coral color and the faint smell, although I’ve forgotten the name of the scent.

             I pick up an old matchbook lying nearby, flip the cover open with my thumbnail, tear out a red-headed match, and tuck the cover back into place, noticing the scratchiness as I do so. After multiple attempts to light the match on the strip provided, I give up and toss the now smudged red-headed match into the trash can. It lands with a barely discernible click atop a crumpled up sheet of paper.

            The matchbook cover is flicked open again, with a clicking of my thumbnail. A second red-headed match is torn out, and the cover replaced. This time I succeed with only a couple of strikes, and the match bursts into an angry flame, then quickly settles back down to calmness, the smoke curling toward my nose in a tendril of bluish smoke, bringing the slight smell of sulphur with it.

            The flame wavers as the match rides between my fingers to touch noses with the whiteness of the candle wick. For a second they blaze up as one, before I remove the match and gently blow out the fire, watching another wisp of smoke dissipate as the flame is snuffed out.

             I toss the bent, now black-headed, burned out match into the trash can to join the one whose flame never got to burn. Another flick and the cover is back in place. As I lay the matchbook down, I notice the dark blue background with the diamond shaped logo on both sides, done in shades of yellows and blues. The word, diamond, in white lower case lettering is ensconced across the logo. I suppose the match tips are supposed to be as hard as diamonds?

            My attention returns to the candle, whose flame has now settled down into a mesmerizing point of light, slowly undulating this way and that. The tiny flame is so beautiful, yet so dangerous. Its capabilities are frightening.

             The sounds of cars passing on the highway, my husband’s gentle snoring, as he sleeps on the couch, the ticking of the grandfather clock that daddy made for us, the rattle of the fan, the fridge’s humming, and the ringing in my ears, which is akin to a heard of crickets, all fade into the background as I focus on the candle.

             Melted wax is now dribbling down the wick, melting out a well in the candle top, which was once slightly rounded. The wick is turning black as the fire feeds from it, causing the wax to melt and fill the well, which is getting deeper by the second. The hot wax releases a lovely tropical scent into the air. It delights my sense of smell.

             My breathing is calm.

             Yellow-oranges and purply-blues meet and form soft shades of gray where the flame and wick join. It continues to hypnotize. The rosy coral candle is no longer one color. It is now several shades around the top where the heat has gently transformed it. The sides are now translucent, allowing a soft warm glow to emanate from within.

              It is gorgeous, and somehow comforting, as I feel the sadness of no longer having my dad around wash over me. My life has not, nor will it ever be, the same without him. I always knew that it would be hard to give him up when the time came, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain of loss and vulnerability that comes with losing a parent. Slowly, I’ve learned to live without him physically being here, but I always feel his presence in my heart, and I am grateful for that.

            I turn the page in the journal where I am hand writing these words. It slips from my fingers, twice, landing on the candle, angering the flame, causing it to squat and reach out to grab the edge of the paper. My journal narrowly misses becoming a blaze itself.

            Next time I will set the candle down in a proper container.

            My page is secured and safe and my thoughts return to Daddy. Now I’m remembering all the happy times with him, the wonderful toys he made me when I was little, how he understood me, maybe more than anyone else, and that I always knew that he loved me and was proud of me, even if he couldn’t say it. I am grateful that he cared enough to teach me morals, values, and respect for myself and others. I am grateful that God gave me the parents I have, and grateful to still have Mama.

             I watch as the well of melted wax overflows and spills over the side, creating a deep groove as it glides down and forms a puddle on the table. As the wax hits the chilliness of the table top, it hardens, connecting the candle to the table.

            There is now a second well forming inside the first well inside the candle walls. The wick has burned down into the candle until it isn’t getting much oxygen. It is now very small and docile, but still struggling to survive, and still dangerous.

             I lean over and with one puff blow out the tiny flame still grasping for life. The candle no longer has the warm glow with the dancing light. It is now dark and still. Its spirit, in the form of a blue-gray trail of smoke, dissipates and scatters, as it rises toward the ceiling, or heaven.

             I feel the chill on my bare arms on this cool morning, as I think about how our lives are similar to the candle flames. Our flame burns brightly, as we struggle through life with all its twists and turns, learning and growing, leaping, dancing, stumbling. It dims some as we get older, then it is snuffed out, many times without warning, leaving those who loved us bewildered, trying to make sense of it all.

             Some people would say that the candle is no longer beautiful, or even pretty. It’s true that it has been transformed by the fire, and is no longer shaped perfectly with a snow white wick protruding from the smooth slightly domed top.

            The tiny wick is now charred black and almost covered with re-set wax down in the double wells. It not only no longer stands on top looking down, but it cannot see over the edge, now ragged, translucent, and faded. There is a deep groove down one side and a solid puddle of wax around the bottom. It has dents and dings.
 
             Now it is flawed, full of character, and has an even deeper beauty.

              It has lived. It has held onto fire and has been re-shaped and molded. It has brought me a sense of peace, tranquility, and beauty for the few brief moments it burned.

              It has survived. Changed. But still beautiful in its imperfection.

I AM HERE

Misty Mawn's Open Studio Workshop doesn't officially open until January 9, but she gave us a few preliminary things to do to get acquainted. One was to write a poem, of sorts, titled "I Am Here". This is my effort. The lines are not in any particular order, but in the order they came to me.

I'm a little nervous about sharing it, because some of it I've never shared with anyone, plus the fact that I'm not a poet. But for some reason, I want to share it. I hope you can make sense out of it. :)

I AM HERE

By SP Pope

I AM HERE

Still
By some miracle
By the grace of God

Despite childhood illnesses and accidents
Despite polio’s paralyzing attack
Despite being an only child
Despite the mistakes of my youth
Despite close calls with divorce
Despite being childless
Despite the pain of an adoption falling through
Despite suffering many losses
Despite being paralyzed by grief, trauma, and fear sometimes
Despite menopause
Despite many disappointments, heartbreaks, and heartaches
Despite life lessons learned the hard way
Despite bouts of anger and depression with suicidal thoughts
Despite not getting to spread my wings beyond my home town
Despite the guilt that my parents had no grandchildren
Despite a job I was unhappy doing
Despite all of my weaknesses
Despite rejections
Despite loneliness at times
Despite being made fun of in school for walking with a limp and having a weak bladder
Despite feelings of being totally overwhelmed at times
Despite the adjustments of retirement and hubby and I learning to live together 24/7
Despite the aches and pains of aging
Despite waning eyesight and memory lapses
I am here

Because of loving and caring parents
Because I survived polio to walk, run, and dance
Because of amazing friends and family
Because of wonderful grandparents
Because of having loved and been loved
Because of rejection
Because of the encouragement of teachers
Because of bosses who believed in me
Because of three best friends, who, since childhood, have stood by me through thick, thin, and weirdness
Because of all the wonderful pets I’ve been privileged to have in my life, who loved me unconditionally
Because of all the happy times
Because of a mother who loved me enough to encourage, and sometimes push, me to live life
Because of my strengths
Because of being an only child
Because of my imaginary friends
Because there are many sides to me
Because of accepting God as my personal savior long ago
Because of my husband of almost forty-two years
Because of the love of learning
Because I enjoy solitude
Because of my passion for art, writing, music, and reading
Because of finally finding peace within
Because I’m learning to live in the present
Because of life’s lessons learned through the people and experiences I’ve crossed paths with
I am here

Today I am loving retirement
Today I am enjoying my husband, despite the occasional disagreement
Today I am battling type 2 diabetes
Today I am ecstatic with my creative endeavors
Today I am still learning new things daily
Today I feel vibrant and alive
Today I don't have to be busy every second
Today I love my own company
Today I have gray in my hair and I am overweight
Today my body is all soft and mushy, the way grandchildren would have loved it
Today I am more concerned with inner beauty than makeup and fashion
Today I let things go that “should be” done, in order to enjoy the things and people I love
Today I am still making mistakes and learning from them
Today I am living one minute at a time
Today I still grieve and feel overwhelmed sometimes
Today I still live in the small town where I was born
Today I love and am loved
Today I still have my mom and my husband
Today I am still an only child, but with many “adopted” siblings in the form of friends and cousins
Today I still have a home and I am able to live in it
Today I can still take care of myself
Today I still have my old friends, and I continue to make new ones
Today I’m having adventures and looking for the everyday miracles and magic
Today I am on my computer discovering all the wonderful things that the web has to offer
Today I am older, wiser... and a little more forgetful
Today I am content on my little patch of earth
Today I am learning how better to cope with life and all its ups and downs, now that its winding down, but
I am here

I am who I am
I AM HERE
Still
By some miracle
By the mercy and grace of God
And I am grateful