Grief, an exploration in words

grief is trying to breathe

grief is too soon

grief is no and no and no

grief is feeling a heartbeat stop, gone from beneath your fingers

and breaking the earth in two.

grief is cumulative

grief is one times one is ten

grief is layers of raw-edge concrete,

tightly packed and stacked 

sedimentary by day

metamorphic by night.

grief is why why and why

grief is fuck you

grief is midnight pillow cries,

kidnapped stars and moon

grief is unknown sidewalk stains

everyone walks around.

grief is unfixable dents in steel

no one understands 

until they absolutely do.

grief is a boulder so heavy

you’d saw off your own heart 

just to escape it.

Copyright (c) 2020, Kathy Lynn Harris.


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Give credit to the river banks

rivers

are praised

for their sun-caught

brilliance and

mad-swell of froth

but keep in mind

it’s the banks,

root-held and rock,

that must hold it

all in.

copyright (c) 2020, Kathy Lynn Harris.

Photo by Nitish Kadam on Unsplash


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A tiny, uplifting poem (I hope)

Remember this

the one good thing

about emptiness

is

it can still be

filled.

copyright (c) 2020 Kathy Lynn Harris

Photo by Mario Mendez on Unsplash


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Damage

Hail pummeling, dark

windshield unshielding

now quarter-sized, 

maybe golf ball—

weakened wipers fighting,

soul-strike after soul-strike

like gunshots 

to the spine.

A different person, 

another kind of woman

might’ve slowed, 

quickly sought cover—

an overpass maybe

or fought for space 

at the Buc-cees 

diesel pumps.

But she drove unphased 

by the ensuing cracks, 

accelerated even—

toward the falling 

pieces of storm, 

knowing the damage 

will be striking

in the light.


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New Poetry: A Different Seed

texas-bluebonnets-081

 Photo by Texas Parks & Wildlife

So … I’m knee-deep in poetry right now, still.  And I feel almost guilty. I have so many people waiting on my next novel, but I’ve set it aside (again). I’m drawn to poetry and I’m gonna ride this pony til she stops.

Here’s one of my latest that I worked on in a recent Lighthouse Writers workshop. I can’t seem to get the line spacing right on this blog, but it’s close.

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!

 

A Different Seed

I was born in fields of bluebonnets,

ink-well-sapphire             dense petals spiked in sun-blind white

short-lived in the Texas spring —

each dew-soaked stem

flattened just yesterday

by the sharp nose of the coyote

the hoof-step of the Hereford

hiding the hiss and slither of the rattler —

always bouncing back

seemingly singular,

good for early-morning picking

before the heat sets in.

 

Yet by high noon

it’s never easy

to detach a wilted loner

from the rest      held together by a nest of roots

entrenched in the holy dirt

of Saint Sam Houston

el malvado Santa Anna

battle-blood of the Alamo

sweet bread of the German siedler

rusted barbed-wire of fences

oily cotton boll of the farmer

weather-worn skull of a fire-ant-stricken calf

my grandfather would’ve tried to save.

 

And even though Lady Bird’s highways are lined with them —

musky-sweet flowers,

family ties,

good intentions —

 

not every seed will grow

where planted.

 

Is it easily spread on the wind?

Can it tolerate full sun?

 

And what happens

when

the parched and crisp soil

becomes suddenly drenched,

clay-like —

unable to breathe?


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New Poem: Invincible Ignorance

I I’ve been dabbling in poetry lately. While several of my poems have been published through the years, and one even placed in a literary contest here in Colorado, I don’t consider myself a poet, really. I’ve not studied the genre like I have fiction and creative nonfiction. But something about it has been calling me. I think I like that I can play around with language and punctuation and flow and metaphor in ways that you just can’t with other types of writing. And I can swoop in and out of thoughts and imagery on the page.

Here’s one of my latest poems, dedicated to Mom and Dad’s daily challenges as they work through their early 70s.

Invincible Ignorance

Her hair dark, shining, beyond her shoulders

thick as three horses’ manes

legs perpetually tanned

sure-footed

in the garden

on the sawdust dance floor

carrying her sharp-tongued wit

wherever it wished to go,

taking her children along

for the bright lights of

the Ferris wheel ride.

 

His hands rough,

capable

of moving livestock

and minds,

holding dogs

and the dreams of little girls;

his shoulders, those shoulders

carrying us

and keeping all things steady,

the shelter of reason

the home of

it’s all going to be okay.

 

But now

her hair,

turning a corner

to spun silver —

where there is no planting

on uneven ground,

and the fair

with its lights spinning

at the pink of dusk

is likely

leaving town.

 

And his hands,

those shoulders,

they’ve turned on him

with knots like centuries-old

live oak branches,

creaking in a South Texas

night wind,

and swollen joints

no amount of tools

from his truck

can fix.

 

Uncertainty creeps in

like a rattlesnake

slipping

through tall dry weeds

for a strike.

 

pain overtakes

the laughter

 

meds don’t mix

with beer

 

mornings

are a crap shoot

 

and

reaching for anything

is just too much.

 

Me? I can’t, won’t

wrap my head

around the present

or how it fits with the past

or how it shapes the future.

 

Yet I do know

invincible natures

live longer

than those

who are not

 

bone and muscle

are a fallible

source of direction,

salvation

 

and, mostly,

ignorance remains

a nice place to visit.

 

After all

their truth

is not my truth

 

and the state of

all matter

is relative

anyway.

 

 


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Poetry and Irony

I was looking through some old writing files tonight and found a poem I wrote back in 2003. Sadly, it reminded me of the recent catastrophic flooding folks here in Colorado experienced last month. Isn’t it sad that sometimes everything you know has to be ripped away from you before you can begin to rebuild?

Bed Unmade

Drying, cracking, ribbon like,

a creek bed unvisited

by the very one who owns it.

Aching, looking, a young girl’s search

timelessness, quietness, seeping in.

Rocks and mold, age-old formations,

pebbles between her middle toes,

insects crawling among the lines.

Then rainfall arrived

and arrived, and stayed late;

foaming clay-mud swirls

filling a crisp canvas

and erased the lines

betrayed the ants

silenced the quiet

and swallowed the land,

unmade the bed,

sheets all torn

pillows swimming

only to slip back and taunt again.


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