Lamentations

I don't need to go into detail about what happened on Friday.  We are all grieving over this horror, and this is my way of getting some of my emotions out.  It's poetry, probably bad poetry, but it's all I've got for today.



From podiums to pulpits
they will say that he was cursed,
this man who spilled
the blood of innocents,
he who has stripped
the very brightest
of the stars from the sky.

Yet it is the living
who are cursed,
the weight of the dead
borne heavy upon shoulders
stooped with grief. 

It is the living
their faces haggard with despair,
who are left to clear away
the now silent remains,
crushed dreams, promises unfulfilled.

It is the living who must
grit their teeth in anguish,
and 'move on',
their lives not-quite-back together,
eyes forever half-focused
on loved ones
who are no longer there.

It is the living
who are cursed
to grieve
to remember,
to treasure that which is lost,
what can never be again,
while the dead sleep on.

Every Night

Prompt:  This weekend we are challenging you to write 33 of your own words to build upon the following:

On the count of three...

You can choose to include those words if you want, but they do not count toward the 33 words of your own.


On the count of three...

The boy is asleep,
The husband, as well.
At last, I can write, with
The cat-who-lives-under-the-bed
Curled up next to the monitor,
purring,
her tail punctuating my sentences.

Where I Am From

I get a weekly email from Mama Kat, who has had some pretty cool ideas for writing. I really liked this one. I liked it so much that I've been trying to persuade my husband to share it with his seventh graders as a writing assignment. Here's another example from my fellow blogger, Betsy. A template for this writing exercise is here , just in case you want to try it!

I am from military uniforms, cardboard boxes, and moving trucks. From nowhere and from all over.

I am from terrifying cornfields, and from the chestnuts we used to hurl at one another. From vast fields of bluebonnets that lie underneath new apartment complexes.

From imaginary gargoyles, slaying dragons, and long hours reading in the back seat of a car.

I am from awkward, unsmiling, sepia family pictures, and strong-willed women. From hand-me-down clothes and thrift shops.

I am from Virginia and Leonard. From a bright pink house on a gravel road, a windmill always slowly turning.

From the brightest blue skies that stretch out beyond every horizon. From thunderstorms that lull you to sleep with their distant rumbling.

I am from the stoic, from the loners, and the scholars. From pay attention, from stand up for yourself, and from work hard and do the job right.

I am from the cradle Catholic, from a call to serve others, from soldiers, nurses, and nuns.

I’m from the great state of Texas by birth, and from Germany by blood. From beer and frito pie on a cold day of football or soccer.

From the small snake that fell on my mother, from my grandfather's beer tab chain that decorated his kitchen, and from my grandmother cooking catfish for lunch and dinner two weeks straight.

I have hidden my past--photos, family trees, baby books--in forgotten boxes, priceless treasures always wait to be rediscovered.