Monday, 30 April 2012

an offering - songs of a mother leaving - continued

I had the privilege very recently to witness the birth of a baby boy.
The experience was one of overwhelming joy, and when I say overwhelming that is what I mean - a week later and I'm still sorting through the experience, both consciously and subconsciously.
The lovely thing about the experience of witnessing births is that it seems to give my heart some parallel to the process of death - in my heart it's all birthing now - transformations and mystery.
My head is still confused, but I think it might be wise to let my heart have it's way for a while ...

so here are more of the poems of the suite "songs of a mother leaving"



between marsh and ocean
grey moist day
cat of nine tails spread out
before us
sound of ocean behind
rocks, grey rocks
beneath our feet

seagulls and ravens flying
a breath of wind so
soft the whisper
"hi Jay"

in that instant I answer
"hi mom, hi dad"
so soft this
sweet, sweet

so strong this feeling
this lovely sensation
of family of earth of sky
of integration
of celebration

next logical step

a strange odyssey this trip into midnight
confusion fear and anger
a biting mother

a woman who seeing my socks said "oh my
what beautiful shoes" who let me sit and talk
while she pushed herself bit by bit
lifting herself along the edge of the bed with her fists

it was a monumental moment
the last day she sat up
no memory of what we spoke about
I was so amazed
the morphine gave her that last bit of
all the way down the edge of the bed
around the corner
to the centre of the foot of the bed

visibly fatigued
I said "you're getting tired"
she nodded
we got her feet up onto the bed
she lay on her side
and I pulled the blanket under her
up so she would be on the bed
another cover

blessed sleep

bed ridden after that
"seems dramatic, but just the next logical step"
my friend said


"don't sit on the little fellow
isn't he the cutest thing?
why do little babies have to suffer so?"

there are children everywhere

on the bed
in the room
she calls out to us - her
and her grandchild
she had helped to raise

we are all her children
no one but my mother can see us there
playing and sometimes needing
or scolding
but mostly


on good days
we got as far as the bench
under the spruce
where sitting
we saw the bay
meeting the coast
a long view in both
light house
a ways off to the right

some days
we strolled between
on a path
can feel my father
there with us
they were walkers
those two


it's over


it's over
no more tending, holding, sitting
listening waiting, holding breath, conversation
no more
it is over
a life has passed
your help, your grasp
your occupation has disappeared
but scars, oh
the leaving was slow and painful

drink coffee, walk fast, travel, visit, sit still
you have time now

something inside doesn't know
it's over
"oh god, it's over"


scattered words
I thought
that is all I have of her writing
all her

all I have are scattered words
drawn like art
in my drawing pad
coloured so soft

I had forgotten handwritten
recipe books
full of luscious
old fashion recipes
with savoury memories

thumb cookies
war cake
molasses cookies

remembering now
rainy afternoons
and ah!

we rolled from our bellies
to sit and receive treats
hot from the oven

I can bake
and dance
to the
music blasting