Poem: Conversation with my brother on the phone in February

2/12/2013

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Conversation with my brother on the phone in February

‘Do you remember Lisa Ramaci ? from across the street ? ’

This is always his line when he calls to talk about our youth.

‘Yeah, sure.  Why are you thinking about her ? ’

‘I was just thinking about that life – I want to go back there.’

And I saw that world where we grew up – I existed there once.  again

and I saw the roads and the houses and people

and I saw, and felt, it evaporate in my own mind.

surreal knowledge that what was once so real, is not.

That world no longer exists.  How can that be ?

was it real ever ?

can real be without enduring ?

that feels  . . . wrong

Poem: widow’s window

widow’s window

My husband has died
a casket applied
with fire collide
death’s mist satisfied.

Thoughts of him brew
they cook and they stew
rains came and storms blew
for years these I knew.

One morning a sun
warm days now begun
life’s strings I can strum
my heart starts to hum.

Betrothed no more
stand at the door
feet on the floor
light shines afore.

My soul feels him still
and wants with a will
that marches the drill
of love’s easy thrill.

But now is my time
the present is mine
a future is prime
and all comes out fine.

(9/21/10)

My husband died from an aortic dissection at a young age (the inner wall of the artery over his heart broke), and every September on the pier at sunrise I write at least one letter to him in my journals on my life so far. In 2010 I wrote letter after letter until this, my first poem, came on the 8th anniversary. I felt like the poem did not come from me, but wrote itself. I get the feeling of marching when I read it.

Richard Bullock Jr. (12/13/54 to 9/12/02)

Poem: Twenty Years

Twenty years (is not long enough)

Our tall handsome man stands outside the casino –
.     his job is to welcome the guests as they pull up
.             in their shiny new cars.

An ancient pick-up truck slows to a tired stop,
.    the old expressionless driver slowly rolls down his window
.              for a chat.

“I’m going to see your mother…
.        wanna come?”

“Sorry, I can’t today –  maybe some other time.”

with a nod from the driver – the well-worn truck rolls away.

“So what was that about?     What did your father want?”
.          his fellow hostess asks him.

Oh… he’s going to the cemetery to visit
.        my mother’s grave.

.                   She died twenty years ago

.                                 and my father has never moved on.

(3/8/11)

What this poem means to me:

Around 2003 or 2004 a TV show scene  inspired me.  I wrote this poem 7 years later.    I saw this scene while channel surfing about one and a half years after my husband’s death.  The scene had a special meaning for me and I had an epiphany.  I felt as though the Universe was communicating a message to me –  “This will be you in twenty years if you don’t find a way out of your grief.”

Sound crazy that people on TV were talking directly to me?    Sorry if you think that, but I don’t put any limits on how God and the Universe send messages.  I was watching a lot of TV in those days, so getting a message through that medium makes sense to me.

Fortunately I felt no doubt that I was being told something important.    I wrote this poem in March, 2011 after I’d recovered and was alive again.