Beautiful Bittersweet Life Poems

Exploring the world of life and grief through poetry.

Tag: grief and the body

  • When Grief Visits at 4 AM

    When Grief Visits at 4 AM

    The visitation times are posted,
    daytime hours only.
    Do not disturb grievers after 10 pm,
    for they need time to rest and recover
    But grief doesn’t respect the artifice of time,
    arbitrary schedules society places on when we’re allowed to grieve.
    “Love,” it says, “I know you’d rather be sleeping,
    and this is an inconvenient time to visit,
    but sit with me for a while.”
    So, I lie in bed,
    wrapped in my blankets,
    pull out my notes app and write you a letter.
    Tears snake down my face,
    a welcome release from the pain in my chest.
    And just like that, grief releases its hold,
    bids me goodnight and disappears into the ether.

  • Elephant Memory of Grief

    Elephant Memory of Grief

    Like elephants’ store memories
    that allow for their survival
    and to protect them from danger,
    we amass our grief experience.
    And though we would like to forget the pain
    when emotional anniversaries arise,
    our insides never forget.

    The brain says, “The anniversary of your beloved
    is close at hand.”
    And whether it was a year, or 13 years, or 25,
    your brain replays the time leading up to that
    horrible day in anticipation, as if it will happen
    again. No matter how rational your brain,
    death never makes sense.
    The absence is too profound.

    The heart says, “Your heart will always
    ache for your loved one.”
    You’ll wonder how you will walk through
    one more deathiversary, no matter
    how well you manage in life.
    For it’s the companionship, encouragement,
    the morning hug, and the support that your
    special person gave you will never be matched,
    for they were one of a kind.

    The body says, “Even if your brain and heart could forget,
    I will remind you as I course through your system,
    like defibrillator paddles”
    The tightness in the chest returns.
    The tears flow down your cheeks
    as you once again remember that this is your reality.
    Anxiety that something else bad will happen
    disrupts your days and nights
    A sluggishness returns as time stands still
    and barrels to the date of dread.

    The first year was the hardest
    because I truly thought that Mike would die again
    and I would have to relive the nightmare,
    not yet comprehending that death happens once.

    Now, my brain, heart, and body know
    that I can’t predict what day
    the anticipation will kick in,
    but it will come.
    I’ve also learned that the day itself will never be
    as bad as the days leading up to the death date,
    though the day after might be.
    However, my system will settle down to
    the low hum of grief that is
    forever a part of love.