OctPoWriMo 31 - We'll Dance Together

In October of 2012, I first participated in OctPoWriMo. I wrote a few poems that year about how sick my mom was with cancer and how scared I was. In November of 2012, cancer took my mom away from me. I miss her. But I know that some day we will be together again, and nothing will ever part us. Today's prompt is eternity, and we are encouraged to choose a form we tried for the first time this year and really liked, so I wrote a decuain about my mom.

We'll Dance Together

My mother loved Jesus with all her heart;
She taught me how to love by loving me
And, though I wish we never had to part,
I know someday I once again will see
Her in that land where she is fully free.
We’ll dance together on the golden streets,
Singing praise for all eternity.
Although it seemed cancer was a defeat,
To open Heaven’s door she had the key
And now, forever joy and jubilee.

Some Days

Has it really been three years?
Some days, it seems much longer.
Am I forgetting you?
My life continues on without you:
I love, I laugh, I cry, I smile.
And yet, some days, it feels as if
Just yesterday I saw your face,
I felt your arms around me.

I Miss You

For Patricia Reid-Spurrill.

I miss your baking and your smile.

I miss you sitting in your chair.

I miss the way you’d sing offkey.

I miss the angels you would wear.

Two years today since you were here;

Two years, and still it feels so new.

Two years without your guiding hand.

Two years. Mom, I miss you.

Memories of Mother

Today, I am driving up north to where my mom lived. Tomorrow is a Celebration of Life memorial for her at the church she attended. I have been trying to write something to say about her, and this haiku was born.

Trying to write my
Memories of my mother
Tears blur my vision

It Isn't Real

This morning I laughed at something my husband said. And I immediately felt guilty. Over the past two days, I've often forgotten that she's gone; but then I remember and it's fresh again.

So many things remind me: every time I see or hear the words 'mom' and 'mother'; listening to Christmas music; making dinner. I remember baking cookies with her, rolling out the dough and cutting it into weird and wonderful shapes. I remember doing the dishes: she would wash and I would dry while we listened to music and sang along--usually off key. She was always so proud of my accomplishments; she loved to read my poetry and stories. She was my first and greatest fan.

I used to be a cryer. I would burst into tears at the slightest provocation. I can't tell you how many buckets I wept when my cat died. But right now I'm numb, and I cannot cry. I feel the tears prick my eyes, but they stop short of spilling over. My stomach is in knots and my hands are shaking, but I do not cry.

People ask me how I'm doing and I really don't know. People say they understand how I'm feeling and I want to laugh. And then I feel guilty again.

It isn't real. It can't be. I just talked to her last week. I just saw her last month.

RIP Patricia Reid-Spurrill, Beloved Mother (June 12, 1953 - November 27, 2012)

Fragile Flesh

Campaigner Challenge #2
The second challenge for the Writing Campaign can be seen here. I wrote a scene with two characters from one of my WiPs. For another piece on Lance, see here. I would love feedback on this piece if you are so inclined. Please critique.

Christopher groaned and leaned back against the rusty supports under the crumbling bridge, gripping his blood-soaked leg. Lance tore a strip from the hem of his once immaculate white shirt, and wrapped it tightly around the gash. The red flow slowed, and Lance’s shoulders sagged as he sat back on his heels, brushing back his sopping, muddy hair. Though he had once been human, he often forgot how fragile the species were, like a burst of fireworks or like ripples in a pond—beautiful, yet fleeting.
Lance stared at the river, imagining that he saw shapes in the random patterns of water: a heart, a winking eye, a pear … then his gaze caught on the thin red line that joined the river near his right foot. He and his brother had once owned jackets in that shade, given by their mother for an early birthday. Raoul had been so proud of that coat! The twins had gone down to the seaside and were building forts with the small rocks that littered the shore when Raoul had slipped and fallen in. Lance had panicked, plunging in to pull his brother out, but Raoul was only worried about his new coat.

2012 Valentine's Day Blog Hop: A Valentine's Letter

Vicki Orians challenged us to write a love letter from one of our main characters to another. I'm going to do this a little differently; this won't be romantic love. So this is Lance, the main character of my untitled WIP, writing to his deceased twin brother.

Raoul,
It has been so many years since I last laid eyes upon your face, so many many years, and yet sometimes I still forget. I turn to ask a question of you and you are not there. I hear your laughter in the next room, but you are not there. I see your face in the mirror, but it is only my face, and you are not there.

Ah, Raoul! I miss our conversations; I even miss our arguments. We always said we'd live forever, but we meant to do it together; eternity is lonely without you. I would do anything if you could live again.Vengeance was supposed to make it better; but vengeance only made things worse. Now your murderer hunts me with the strength and skills I gave him and with a great hatred in his heart for me and all our kind. I fear that this is my fault, for instead of killing him for killing you, I turned him into one of us, turned him into what he hated. For so long, I hated him for what he did to you; but now I only pity him for he is like me: forever alone.

I was always so proud, so proper. I don't remember if I ever told you that I loved you. I wish that I had, even though I know you would have laughed at me and made some joke; I miss your jokes. You were always so impulsive, so happy, so alive.

I miss you.

Your brother,
Lance

David's Lament

I really love the poetic form sonnet, which consists of 14 lines and can be written in stanzas or all together as I have done here. The following is a Shakespearean or English Sonnet of what I imagine King David's feelings were after his rebellious son Absalom was killed while trying to wrest the throne from his father.I'm not sure why I used King James English for this - it just sounded right.
2 Samuel 18:33

David's Lament

My son, my son! Would I had died for thee!
If only I had saved thee from thy pain!
God, if You would, return him and take me--
My life without him is a life in vain.
My son! Why didst thou do this awful thing?
Didst thou not know my love for thee, my son,
Or was it more important to be king?
Now, though thou hast lost and I have won,
I feel that I have lost, and so I weep.
In ashes and sackcloth I clothe myself,
(My sins I sowed, this pain I now do reap)
I tear my hair, I disregard my wealth.
My son, I wish that I had died instead;
If only it was I who'd lost his head...

Never Look Back

I also write fanfiction. Here's an example of something set in the Harry Potter universe:

Never Look Back



Molly Weasley was on her knees scrubbing at the carpet in the living room. In the kitchen, on the stove, a pot of soup was bubbling madly. As it began to boil over, she sat up and pointed her wand at it, lowering the heat enough to stop the imminent mess. Impatiently pushing her hair out of her face, she bent over the spot once more.


"Molly?" a voice behind her said quietly.


She jumped, and put her hand over her heart. "Oh, Arthur, you scared me!"


He knelt beside her and put a hand on her arm. "What are you doing, dear?"


She leaned forward and began scrubbing again. "It's so hard to get blood out of a carpet! I never should have let it dry." Her voice broke.


"Molly." Arthur caught her hand, and turned her to face him. Tears were streaming down her face.


"Oh, Arthur, I'm so scared for them! Why did I let George go like that? And he's probably not the only one that will be hurt, and what will I do if – if –" She broke off with a choked sob. "What if –"


"Sshhh." Arthur pulled her into his arms, and gently rubbed her back as she wept into his shoulder. "George was proud to help Harry, Molly."


"I know, I know. And I would never want Harry hurt, either!" Molly pulled back slightly, and looked up into her husband's eyes. "I wish this stupid war would end! I want all my babies safe."


Arthur wiped the tears from her face with his fingertips. "We all have to do what we can to stop him, dear. For Harry and our boys, that means they'll be in danger, and there's nothing we can do about it."


"I just wish –" Molly cut herself off and straightened her shoulders. "No. No point in wishing. You're right, of course, Arthur. We must do what we can do, and stop worrying at what we can't do anything about." She smiled tremulously at him. "Never look back," she whispered.


Arthur took her hand, and helped her to her feet, and they stood for a moment, wrapped in each others' arms.

Daughter

Written 27 December 2011

He closes the fridge and stares at the picture stuck to the door with a magnetic banana, the milk carton in his hand forgotten. A ten-year-old girl with brown pigtails grins at him from the small photo. Her skinny freckled arms tightly encircle a longsuffering golden retriever's throat; her unselfconscious smile is framed by shiny braces; her clear blue eyes sparkle with joy and life. Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, he reaches out and strokes the glossy print and his eyes burn. For a moment, he tries to hold back the tears -- something from his childhood whispers "big boys don't cry" -- but he is a man now, and besides there is no one around to see the tears that slide silently down his cheeks.