Oh, bittersweet season,
leaving me twisting and turning,
as I ride the holiday emotional roller coaster.
The 4 AM awakenings, wrapped in darkness,
with the tears ready to spill.
Longing to drift back to sleep,
but not wanting to dream of those I miss.
Waking with a heavy heart as Christmas
creeps ever closer, filled with memories
of family traditions and celebrations,
gone, not to be repeated.
Yet, there are moments in the day
when I find respite from the heartache.
I step into my improv space,
where I can leave this world behind
and be someone else for a little while.
Delight replaces sorrow as I watch
my wonderful community creating
fun characters, the sound of their laughter
is a soothing balm to my soul.
Or picking up my paintbrush,
losing myself as I transform a blank page
into something that never existed before.
I’ve learned to navigate the two worlds
of loss and life, carrying those who’ve
gone before me in my heart
as I discover a new path on my own.
Tag: writing
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Bittersweet Season
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Whispers of the Soul
I see you in the shadows cast by the sun through the leaves,
in the ethereal clouds gliding along the blue sky.
I feel you in the soft breeze of the butterfly’s wings,
in that wisps of air that envelopes me.
You speak to me in the soft summer rain
and the birdsong that greets me in the morning.
Your spirit, no longer confined by skin and bones,
or the weight of physical and psychic pain,
is finally free of the false snares that held you to this earth.
And though I miss your physical presence
-the warmth of your arms around me,
my hand safely held in yours, the sound of your voice-
I know one day I will walk through the veil
that separates you from me, and we will journey forward. -
Haunted Dreams
The Brain and Grief
Buried deep within the Mariana Trench of my mind
stirs the deep grief that only dislodges itself
during the darkness of night
in the dreams that haunt my sleep,
leaving me worn and broken in the morning light.
In the recesses and crevices, you are alive again,
healthy and strong,
only to be swept away by the reality
that you are still dead.
And so, the waves flow back and forth,
alive and dead, alive and dead,
my mind trying to convince my heart
the truth it cannot bear to believe.
The origins of this poem came from the dreams I had one night about my parents, who died in 2022, six months apart. One or the other would be alive and doing something with me, only to have the realization come crashing in that they were dead. There were also dreams of my childhood home being sold and having to let go.
Death dreams started after my paternal grandfather died. Unlike when Mike and my parents died, these were more short-lived, as my mind incorporated the reality of his death quickly. Part of this was because I didn’t see him as frequently due to where I lived. Another big difference was that my relationships with Mike and my parents were deeper. There is no rhyme or reason for when these dreams occur. I’ve dreamt more about Mike in the past couple of years than in the beginning, though that could be because I don’t remember much about that time. Sometimes they are lovely dreams, while others are about unresolved conflicts.
Regardless of what happens in the dreams or how much I enjoy life, the grief and missing are always stored away in my brain, as it tries to reconcile the reality of death.
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Navigating Life’s Storms
When the days seem dark, sweetheart,
and you feel like you are barely holding on,
remember, you’ve been here before.
The seaweed twisting around your ankles,
trying their best to pull you under.
Your mighty struggle brought you
to the point of exhaustion,
with your arms flailing, barely holding your head above water.
It was only when you stopped resisting
that you let the sea carry you, finally able to breathe.
Then you were able to see that the storm clouds had passed
and the open blue sky had been there all along.
Once again, the seaweed loosened its grip
as you floated to shore.
Dear one, storms will come and go,
but you know how to swim. -
Memories of Mom’s Red Lipstick
When I look in the mirror, and uncap the lipstick,
carefully applying the bright red to my lips,
I picture my mother looking back at me.
She was not one to fuss with makeup,
but always applied her lipstick with care.
Even as she faded with age, her lips blazed.
And I, who always wore muted colored gloss if anything,
now boldly wear true red in honor of my mother,
shining my light for the world to see.
Beautiful Bittersweet Life Poems 