Posts Tagged ‘missing’

copyright Gay Harper
It seems that,
with every death,
I lose a part of me.

There’s very little left,
of who I used to be and

this person
I’m becoming
isn’t able to see

the person
who I was then or
treasured memories.

Locked in this head
are places to which
I no longer have the key

My identity
must have drained out
with the last bag of my IV.

A hollow shell;
mask on tight,
I still resemble me.

The me
I used to know.
The me
I used to be.


Just to the right
is a ragged string
of pine trees;

that is where I lie.
On top of you,
staring blankly up

like you would be
if you could see
through all that dirt.

A rainbow
half arcs the sun
from a distance,
haze in between.
Tans and browns;
not the prismatic display
it should be.
Pollution or clouds –
Who knows or cares?

To the north,
mountains float,
still wearing winter white.

Your daughter
will be a year old
next month.
Some lives went on
without you.

It’s June, 2011.
Long enough
to understand
you are never
coming back.

This should be the time
of deepening thought.
But the northern wind
wanted to join in and sent up a blur
of brain-dust obscuring distant
noise, as if dimming a light.

It is time for shining light
in forgotten places. That celebrated time
when foggy, distant
race to mind…only to be blurred
by icy wind.

Friendly fire in the form of wind;
cold, from northern lights.
All those colors shifting and blurring,
confound even timely,
mature thoughts;
keep them at a distance

Often the distance
is so far away, wind
hitches a ride on thought
and only the speed of light –
surpasses the time
of arrival which, by then itself, is blurred.

With time and tears, all things blur;
become strangers in the distance,
where there are no reasons or seasons. No time
for goodbyes and the cold, gritty wind
erases all that is good and light
like a whiteboard full of thoughts.

A nightmare of thoughts
smeared, emotion-blurred
hard to find the light
in the vast distance
between two ears where whistling wind
makes its home most of the time.

Time confounds. Clear thoughts
should reign but wind up more blurred
and distant than foggy city starlight.

Memories will fade.
Your face, become
blurred and indistinct.

Maybe you will lose
your grip on my heart;
tight squeeze
of a soul in bondage.

I might forget
eyes showering sparks,
twin-blaze of blue flame;
delicious sound
of your uncontrolled

I carry you
with me wherever I go,
even in my sleep.
Folded tight inside
mind and heart,
like a crumpled note.
Tissue thin
from being read
so often.

I will forget
you’re part of me
the way I forget
I have a spleen –
don’t even know
where to find it.

For now,
I will bear your memory
like a treasured gift:
a thing of inestimable value.
Carry it carefully,

Fragile egg of love
protected only by
the thin shell of memory.

Creature inside,
a shadow-life;
best seen by candlelight.

Pretense and subterfuge.
Nothing’s genuine.
Even the teeth are false.
Every story carefully groomed
to elicit certain emotions.

Character on a stage;
nothing real shows,
at first.

truth crawls out.
Nothing stays hidden forever.

Revealed for what
they truly are,
the sociopath becomes cruel.
Desperate to actually be capable of
the feelings they casually fake.

Devoid of true emotion,
morals or integrity,
they bluff their way through life,
carry the Bible, the Big Book,
wear crosses or cassocks,
business suits or shining armor…
any costume to seem respectable –

To seem human,
be what they can never be;
feed on fantasy
like vampires.

Scrutiny reveals
lifelong patterns of theft, addiction;
adultery, deception of all sorts.
All, of course, misunderstandings.
Poor innocents, led astray
by the siren’s call.

In the world of the sociopath,
responsibility always
belongs to someone else.


There would be no son
who shines for me,
like the noonday sun.

There would be no dogs
to love me.
Two would probably be dead.
Victims of a failed system
and overpopulation.

There would be no love;
that love I cherish
because it took so long
to bear fruit.

No lifting of my hair
in passing
to kiss
the back of my neck.

No one to come home to.
Just a bitter, lonely man.
Betrayed by love,
heart split in two
by the one he trusted
before me.

Not the loving man
who takes the day off
to care for me –
brings me soup
because I’m sick.

Without me,
the world would be fine.
I would not.

I would look through
the dark glass
of what might have been,
wipe away tears
of lost years
of joy, of sorrow.

All that makes us


25 years ago,
my sister gave birth
through her skin;
her 3rd cesarean.

I captured the moment
with a failed flash;
emerging head illuminated
by surgical lights
otherworldly glow –
The door to Heaven,
briefly opened.

I held him first, cradled
his small, still bloody body
mere seconds before
reluctantly releasing him
to his father.

We walked to the nursery
together while they sutured
the gaping wound
through which he arrived.

Last year, I repeated the act of
returning him to his Father.

More painful this time,
because I know
he won’t be coming back.

I am practicing heartache,
learning to let go gracefully,
without tears or whimpers.

Each time I let go,
I am learning the way
to loosen my grip on what
was never really mine.

To say,
not goodbye,
but later.

The things I have
I hold closer.
They too
will leave me someday.

I am learning
how to hold on.

I am learning
how to let go.


Infertility at Thirty-four

Posted: November 15, 2010 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,


The bones that form my hips
are like a white bowl
of plastic fruit,
useless and inedible;
ripe with frustrated life.

The future is here
in a small bitter seed
I carry deep inside me.

Like an invisible cherry,
it sits in the bowl
of my pelvis
longing to be eaten.

Its cries at night
are muffled in flesh.

That seed is the only
real thing inside me.

I didn’t notice
the sky,
like I usually do.

Too many other
things – Sensory

Police cars
parked haphazardly
lights still on, stained
the snow with color
like some bizarre
Christmas display.

If there was
an emergency,
it was far too late
for you.

Echoing static silence,
so loud it hurt my ears –
The sound of
a bottomless pit
called grief;
a tiny word
for such devouring

I knew,
as soon as I opened the door
on that bursting scream
of silence,
that no heroics
would bring you back.

to one, tight,
blue-lipped syllable:

Icy wind & crusted snow,
were witness
to your tears.

Pale stars coldly
oversaw your last
making sure
you tied the noose
with militant precision.

You stepped off
the antique church bench,
painted cheerful red
and printed so appropriately:
“The best journeys always
lead us home.”

And you went home
to meet your Father,
tears still on your cheeks;
blue eyes open to your future –
dressed in your best clothes.

You are a True Believer.
There was no doubt
in your mind
that you were going home.

Away from the burdens
of this world.
Into the arms
of a loving Father
who understands all
and forgives it –

a brother
who loves you enough
to die, already, for your sins.
We lost you
but gained an angel.

Missing you is like a knife,
cutting deeper every day.

It never goes away.

Audio Reading

Coffin Man

Posted: October 9, 2010 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

They’ve painted you
to look like
someone I’ve
long time loved.

Nothing more
substantial than
a brittle, dried out hull.

Careful caricature,
you cannot
fool me.

Always smiling,
never still;
My friend is
not like you,
hollow shell
with nobody inside.

Part II


I miss you,
You’ve gone away
to some forbidden city,
casual with the grief
you leave behind.

Dreams of you
fragment my sleep,
knocking at my door:
That thing
from the coffin,

Not you anymore.

I am angry at
your leaving me.
You didn’t say good-bye,
I have so many things to say,
if I had known.

I am a victim
of you, friend.
I don’t sleep at night;
instead lie here
and think of you.

Your hands
looked just the same.