How many ways can we say it?
If it is missed and lost forever
Is it really lost if we mourn it?
We remember that it is missing
So all we have lost is not gone.
It is commemorated, cherished
And ever present in our past. It
Is intricately connected to who
We are now. Nothing is gone so
Long as our hearts recall the loss.
How many ways can I say I miss us?
The loss is real, I can feel it, but
You are not lost. I find you every
Day. I remember love and warmth
And caring. I cherish who we are
While I remember who we were.
How many ways can my heart
Break and still be full with hope
And promise? Love is resilient.
How many ways can we say it?
How many ways do I remember?
We are ever present in our past.
I can say that and all is not lost.
Tag Archives: #remember
Happy times
I recall happy days
Remember good times
Record pleasant memories
I recoil from misery
Shun bad feelings
Rebuff irksome thoughts
Remember that glorious day?
Remind me, what did we eat?
Do you recall the sunset that evening?
The warm spring night,
The music?
The scent of lilacs?
Remember those glorious days?
Loss
When he lost the wisdom of his age
I mourned that loss for it was mine
As well as his. I lost the little pieces
Of us as he lost little bits of himself.
He was never alone in all his losses.
I stayed by his side hoping love was
Enough to lessen his burden, knowing
That losses do not relieve us. That's a
Contradiction to expectations, loss
Doesn't take away; it adds to burdens.
Nothing is lightened by our losses.
So as he loses more of who he is, I
Mourn his loss as well as my own.
I mourn my loss of him as I watch
Him count his losses, his awareness
Adding to the burdens of loss. So
Much taken away, never my love,
This always remains, steadfastly by
His side although I know I cannot
Share his burden or lift it in order
To lessen his share of it. We each
Share the loss but it isn't lessened
Or cut in half. We mourn in full our
Losses each to each, our burden
Mourned as mine, mourned as his.
When he lost the wisdom of his age
I mourned that loss for it was mine.
The origin poem
For 60 years I have tried to reproduce
A highly-charged poem that celebrated
The night, the sensuality of the felines
Who inhabit it. Slinky gorgeous purring
Cats whose meows echoed love-making
While they slid quietly on padded paws
Enjoying the heat of summer and winds
Blowing curtains to and fro. Cautious cats
And careless cats, busy or idle, deep in
The night, as if one with the darkness.
60 years is enough to have forgotten. I
Have. Forgotten the rhythms, the sultry
Movement of those forgotten creatures
The splendid heat of a summer-long past
Bon mots
Now, there's a man who's had a
Lifetime of language on his tongue
Still playing with the words he
Finds buried deep and sometimes
Hard to unearth; after all this time
He has to dig deeper these days
To use just the right one, the
Funny one that will please him
And amuse his listener, the one
That pulls a laugh from his
Audience. That's the language
He wants to share from a life
Of speech and conversation
His best tidbit, an amuse bouche
For the ear, the remembrance
Of just the right thing to say
Tamara, really 