Author Archives: therealtamara

For an opinionated woman such as I, blogging is an excellent outlet. This is one of many fori that I use to bloviate. Enjoy! Comment on my commentary.
I would have been wearing black,
In the traditions of a traditional 
Mourning, a widow decked head
To toe in the colors of loss. Months
Would pass like that, and my grief
Would be symbolized by my attire.
Without widow's weeds, the black
Of mourning is all on the inside, my
Inner self. Oh, nobody mourns all 
The time. I know that. I did not, I
Don't know, deserve the guilt I feel
For not being sad at this moment.
At every moment that passes, all
The moments in which I miss you,
Burt, but I am not mourning you 
All the time, full-time that is, I am 
But I am not sad as every moment
Passes, and I have all those great
Memories you gifted, you left me,
You bequeathed me. In them, I  
Miss you, but I am not sad, not in 
My widow's weeds as I might in 
The tradition of mourning have
Expected to be, I am remembering
You. I am remembering us.

Affirming

I am okay. I sleep.
This uttered in the
Middle of the night
Does not reassure
But perhaps affirms.
I am awake but I will
Find my way back to
Snoozing soon. This
Uttered in the middle
Of the night doesn't
Reassure but affirms.
I am okay. I sleep.
I slept. I did. This
Uttered in the light 
Of dawn reassures
And confirms I am
Okay. I welcome the
Light, as the dark is
Fading, has faded. I
Am awake to the joy
Of a new day. I am 
Okay and I miss him.

Missed

Missing the one who is missing
Is a way of finding him and also
A way of keeping him, a way of
Not losing him even if I know he
Is missing, gone, and I lost him
On that winter day, not a wintry 
Day, actually unseasonable for
The date, a day in winter, at the
End of February, the day he had
Passed from being by my side to
A state of memory and recall, a
Memory at every turn, always on
Call, but no longer here, missing

A line reading

Lisa Jewell: The House We Grew Up In,
Lorelei Bird
The tear was precisely
Why she could not get
Rid of that tea towel, it
Was why she loved that
Towel. Its rend made it
Precious. It's what gave
It value, don't you see?
It wasn't destined for the
Bin, or for the rag bag. It
Was special. It's rips and
Tears that make us all so,
Special, don't you see?

My way. Forward.

I could be a wiseass, back 
Then, when I was far from
Wise, kind of knew little of
Sorrow, less of pure joy, a
Bit of okay days, and, to be
Fair, had my appreciation 
For things that would come
To matter, to mean, to be 
Important, have  the weight
Of significance. So, yeah, I
Was an ass, a snotty kid, a
Bit wet behind the ears like
A mewling kitten, but I saw
Where all this was heading
And I followed in the right
Direction. Older and wiser,
But far from wise, I seek a
Path as straight, curved, as
Multi-directional, as I can. A
Path every wiseass knows
As her own. Her very own.

Poem of peace

Peace is a big goal. The
Kind of thing that calls 
For all the New Age stuff
I can muster but find it
Wearying. It's a letting be
I look for, have looked for
And sometimes found
Floating in the bubbles
In my glass of soda or
Under the soles of my 
Footfalls

The skyline

Who am I to talk?
Or talk so much, 
Taking pride in it,
In the telling, the
Observing, just a
Matter of looking.
Just looking, I say
Seeing the skyline,
Seeing everything
Today as if for the
First time. Today.
It's all new-to-me,
News, to me, today
As if for the first
Time. Every day, a
New scene seen.
Who am I to talk,
If I've never been
Here, seen here 
Before today,?

What do I know?

Italics on the do and on the know

Letter to myself, and,  
Clearly, others. This 
Letter may prove long.
A letter is long; it is not
«Note to self,« where 
The "my" is omitted,
Left out because self- 
Explanatory. Or just in
The interest of brevity.
Abbreviations often are,
Brief, that is, in the hope
Of being brief or briefer.
Letter to myself, to get
Back on track and no
Shortcuts, in the interests
Of brevity, of shortening
The inevitable advice, the
Words of wisdom gained
From the years the future
Inexplicably, relentlessly
Piled on, is time now to
Be my teacher, or yours.
Note to self, explore this
Further and farther as 
Time passes. Back to that
Letter to myself, have I
Learned nothing from so
Many years of living? Do
I, must I hesitate to share
Some grain of enlightened
Understanding, my hard 
Scrapped knowledge? Is
Knowing necessary? Or
Knowing better? Am I 
Here to share insights 
That you, too, may have
Made, even some in your
Younger years, your teens
Or thirties? What did I 
Know in my forties that
Wasn't obvious when I
Turned eighteen? Was I
Smarter at 50 than I had
Been then? Are you? Oh,
Remember, I write this to
Myself, not you, not you,
Necessarily, but do play
Along. I was a ridiculously
Serious child. Did that fuel
Frivolousity, okay, not a
Word, as I matured? Am
I so much wiser that I can
Leave hints, the bread 
Crumbs of a life best lived
On your doorstep? A letter
To myself from now to 
Then. From now to Zen?

Through the years

Who was I as all my years
Accumulated? The time is
Not a continuum. It breaks
Into small scenes, acts as
Distinct as if each were a
Life encompassed in 15 
Minute skits, not all funny.
Many poignantly true to
Life. So much time passed,
Passes unnoticed, goes 
Into a compartment, a
Memory perhaps not always
Remembered as it should
Be. I do know  my last acts,
The 35 years I spent by your
Side are vivid, not blurred 
By slippery recollections. I
Know who I am every moment
Of these years, the years 
That are my longest acts,
Not broken into bits, solid
And happy in reminiscence
As they were in real time, 
True to life.