TABLE FOR FOUR

Oh child among the roses, oh press of doves,
oh presidio of fish and rosebushes
your soul is a bottle of dried salts
and a bell filled with grapes, your skin.
        (Pablo Neruda - Ode with Lament)

Egg-yolk yellow police tape flaps
in the morning breeze, delineates
the area, is the only real evidence
to say, "caution, beware, a bad thing
happened here"
An impromptu memorial: teddy-bears,
gaudy balloons, hand-fashioned cards
expressing heartache and love
Lean haphazardly against an opening
smashed through the patio tree grove
oh child among the roses, oh press of doves

The staff cannot resist talking although
the place is not opening today...
"Is it true, he didn't die right away?"
And the wind may be forgiven for sobbing
as it whispers to the lilacs not to listen
to them, to let it be, let it lay, oh hush
Anyone passing would hear only
sounds like minutiae, pulls and pushes
Bits of grief and sadness circling there
and always on the breeze, soft shushes
oh presidio of fish and rosebushes

But there's no denying the facts as wretched
as they be, especially as your tiny soul lingers on
How to explain to such a one that a party
just for you should end so unimaginably
No wonder the wind cannot speak above
a whisper, nor explain, with whom lies the fault
Does it matter now who caused your death
who it was couldn't bring the car to a halt
pinned you to the wall, stealing breath and life;
your soul is a bottle of dried salts.

Would that I could find a way to put you back
together child, to hand you into your mama's
empty arms--I'd do it
But catastrophic events such as this leave little
corporeal for us to work with and the reality
for us, and you, is to gather your ethereal self
now, and go from here, blameless without sin
Unfold your wings and soar above us all
There is still a way for you to be whole, to win
But not down here where you are broken,
Chances for you to help with healing are thin
and a bell filled with grapes, your skin.

A TOUCH OF GOLD

Out the window a street-lamp teases her vision

It hovers in the blazing corals that are sunset's

nebulous leavings, becoming almost opaque

in the breath of dusk just before the slab

of true darkness readies to crush the day

She likes to watch the street-lamp, timing its

various torch-like permutations against the sky's

back-drops, the bleak grayness between the corals

and the real deep black, the touch of gold

the lamp appears to hold once it flickers

alone, the only brightness to finally cut the dark.

STORM ANGELS

Out of the soup that is refinery row's contribution
to the dish called sunrise this day,
Edmonton's skyline wavers -- a pulsing mirage.

A dressing -- equal parts pollution and pure prairie air --
bathes the Tarmac,
as flocks of silver birds grab the sky, one after the other
hoisting the citizenry and visitors alike -- too many to count --
miles above the earth, ferrying them to points undisclosed.

There is a charm to these thunderous angels,
these miracles that defy gravity, and spit in God's eye;
like homing pigeons or doves, they carry messages of hope,
remind souls there's more to life than storm fronts.

S.E.Ingraham

My Poetic Memoirs are Up

http://poeticbloomings.com/memoir-project-chapbooks/memoirs-in-real-time-by-sharon-e-ingraham/

SO ENDS A WEEK

THAT OLD POEM-A-DAY ITCH

Imagine the spark that fired

or misfired the synapse

Activating the one  urging me

to undertake a project

At once so stellar and delicious,

It made me over-ride

My usual mantra singing,

"Too much, it will be too much"

Bared the over-inquisitive cells,

Until any reticence ordinarily snugged

in place, merged with some inexplicable

Desire to once more work with the technology

Join with others in a like-minded unity

And write a poem-a-day, at least

MIRROR, MIRROR

Through the years the woman looking back

At me from my mirror has been so changeable

As to be unrecognisable from time-to-time

By those nearest and dearest, and even by me

The early years, before my twenties, are blurry

But I was in the fashion business so I have

A photographic record and can look at it

And say, oh – so that’s who I was back then

After I married, I would often look in the mirror

And depending on the day, say to the woman

I found there – you are the luckiest girl alive, or,

What have you done? Where can you run?

There were times when I would stumble into

My bathroom afraid to turn on the light, frightened

To confront the crone I knew was awaiting me

In the mirror there, especially if she had been there long

Often-times, I would glimpse her accidentally

And she would rail at me to end it all and I would

Let her, listening intently, then crawling away

To whatever hidey-hole I’d fashioned for a time

The crone would never leave me willingly, on her

Own – I would have to run away, most often to

A hospital, away from mirrors, for a time, to oust

Her from my house – then, when I saw a semblance

Of myself reflected back – I knew I could return

To family, to sanity – to try again, and I would

Reinvent the woman I thought I should be

Becoming wife, mother, trying always to stay sane                                        

After many, many years – I found the mirror less

Intimidating and the crone appeared infrequently

Or maybe I became used to her and familiarity gave

Me a certain advantage – I knew I could beat her

Or even learn to live with her and so I did

Now she and I are one – we try to live together

In a kind of truce, with a sort of wisdom

I know she can take me down if she puts her mind to it

She knows I am stronger than I used to be

And don’t go to ground nearly as quickly

Or without putting up a fight, as I did in the

Good old days —we are making it work somehow

There is an old adage about living your life

In such a way so that you can face yourself,

Look at yourself in a mirror — I get that now

I'm finally able to do it, at least today I can.

S.E.Ingraham©