I mourn you now as the
Rites of your passing let
Me, permit me to mourn
You, completely, a little
At a time. Mourning, it's
A process, I say, a little at
A time but in all this time
I have mourned you, not
Completely but a little at
A time as I lost you, not
Completely, but a little at
A time. All this time when
You were still here yet not
Completely you, I mourned
You, losing you as I did, a
Little at a time. I mourned
Through laughter and tears
That never completely fall
As you slipped away, lost
To me, lost to yourself, you
Are gone now, passed from
This realm, no longer lost,
As you were when first I
Mourned you, yet lost to
Me. I will mourn you. Now
Mourning
I will mourn you when
You're gone, and those
Rites of your passing
Allow my grief out from
The volcano the furnace
The seismic pressure
I am holding together
While you live each day
As less of who you are
Diminished, diminishing
Lost but still here, still
Mine, not fully mine, and
Not always lost. Still
Funny, silly, bitter, and
Yes, still sweet. My love
No longer the helpmate,
The lover, the champion
Of our lives. Still lost. I
Will mourn you now and
Then. I will mourn. Now
[Originally written May 27, 2024, but posted in November 2024]
Homesick
Do I know what makes me
Homesick?
With you gone, it's you
I miss you.
You who was always my
Home, my heart,
You were my hearth,the
Comfort
Of home is no comfort
Without
You. It is your warmth I
Miss.
I crave the comfort of
Home.
I miss you now that I am
Not by
Your side, I miss the part
Of me
That disappeared with you.
Our home
Is not my home anymore
It is not
What it always was, what
It should be,
With you no longer here.
Homesick,
It's wanting it like it
Was
Is it Spring
Is it Spring where you sit,
Basking in the light of day,
Not yet necessarily warm but
There is a clarity in the air.
It feels like a forewarning,
We expect blossoms to bloom
And bask in the sunlight too,
Warmed into colors, full and
Abundant, brightening where
You sit, basking in the light
A.I.
May I let the LLM write
My poetry for me. Is that
Ethical. Is that right? Is
It fair? It'll pick my words
For me or edit them. Pick
'em outta the air, or twist
'em and turn them to fit a
Narrative that isn't my own
Today
We didn't have plans
For big trips or even
Little adventures. We
Just assumed we'd be
There for each other
And for tomorrow
What o’clock?
Is it cruel to note the time
So soon after we lost an hour?
Time shifts, in a timeshift,
An hour ahead, an hour behind
Fall back, Spring ahead, more
Light, longer light, daytime
Still and it's now half past five
At once, once upon a time
She holds two things in one
Hand and grabs another in
Her free hand, a balancing
Act that I admire. I could
Not do that. When could I
Juggle so many things at
Once, how old was I when
I could manage what she's
Up to, how old is she now?
Attractions
It's your gravitational pull
That weakened me, made
Me wobble, like Saturn is
Drawn to Titan til it walks
Sideways through the sky.
Snow days
It hugs the bark, held in a
Mutual embrace, holding
On against all odds, in the
Warmth of melting snow
It drips off balconies, yet
It blankets the rough pane,
Covers the edgy spaces on
This otherwise independent
Tree, in surprising symbiosis
Between snow and tree, the
Trunk stands bearded with
A dash of cushy white, will
The snow hold last another
Day?
Tomorrow
When I was young, I looked ahead
To years I would spend facing the
Great unknowns, the unexpected.
When I was young, the future was
Not in the rearview but it loomed
Near and far. The future was just
Where I wanted it. Where it should
Loom. It was all my tomorrows. I
Loved its mystery. I anticipated
The twists and turns but did not
Know where it would lead me nor
Where I would follow. Today, the
Tomorrows may be fewer but I do
Not know what that future holds.
Now, that I am not young, I hold
The hope that the future brings a
Little closer and tighter. It will be
A surprise, I hope. Unexpected, a
Mystery lies in my tomorrows, or
Maybe if I am lucky there will be
Many mysteries. Still even now.
Along Northern Blvd
The churches along Northern
Boulevard are sprinkled next
To eateries, intermittent but
Fewer than the restaurants,
Of all denominations that dot
My route. A taste of America,
As befits a melting pot, its mix
Of cuisines a potpourri of all
Our origins, in tribute to where
You're from and where I'd like
To visit
Tamara, really 