Sea of Grass, Sherry Russo

Sea of Grass
by Sherry Russo

My son’s grave sits

on a sea of grass

in line with other graves

like a row of rocks

sitting on the distant shore.

Trees abound giving shade

while the wind blows.

Shade that never comforts

anyone above the grass,

except for the birds

who make their home.

A sea of grass

so calm, so serene

were it a park or a garden.

Although it is,

albeit a different one

where peace never comes.

Only sadness and a heavy heart

to be reminded of

how dead my son is

buried 6 feet underground.

08.02.11

1635

:::

about the poem.
I wrote this to express how I feel about the cemetery. 2 1/2 years into my loss, and I still can't accept that I have to go there to visit my son. It's painful being there and it triggers so many emotions. Thoughts and feelings that I manage to compartmentalize so I can move on with my life and be the best mother I can be for my two living children. As much as I hate the place, I still visit on a regular basis, out of obligation and out of love. - Sherry

about the poet.
Sherry describes herself, "I have been married for 10 years to a wonderful husband, a mother of three, one in heaven. Our world was forever changed when our twin babies were born at 28 1/2 weeks due to an incompetent cervix. Our twin baby boy Brandon died shortly after birth from complications of a collapsed lung, and Sophia stayed in the NICU for 48 days. I mostly write about Brandon and my journey in this world without him. It's the only thing I have that's devoted to him. It helps me heal, while keeping his memory alive." Sherry blogs at Remembering Brandon. 

Poem for Sky and Mizuko Jizo Magnets, Skytimes.

Poem for Sky.
Skytimes.
Poetry and photography.

Mizuko Jizo Magnets.
Skytimes.
Craft.




:::

about these pieces.

A poem for Sky... wherever dead-baby-heaven is, this is how I'd like it to be.

Mizuko jizo magnets...four years along the dead baby road I dreaded the built-up for Sky‘s fourth birthday. Hence I lined up tons of crafting projects to keep me busy. What seemed to work best for my grief-stricken mind was to play around with bottlecap sized canvas and create little Mizuko Jizo fridge magnets. A babyloss mom can never have enough jizos around and it's nice to spread love in his name.

I stayed true to my turning-rubbish-into-beauty credo and everything I used was basically rubbish and too small of an amount/length to be used otherwise.

Materials: soda bottlecap, scraps of coloured cartons or pieces of dark wooden veneer, leftover cords and strings. Pencils and love. --Skytimes.

about the artist.
Skytimes is a graphic artist and designer. Her son Sky died on August, 14th, 2007 and was born sleeping 5 days later on August, 19th 2007, at 33 weeks. She maintains a blog at Skytimes.

Today the still life 365 community remembers Sky on his fourth birthday and abides with his mama in love and thought. Skytimes asked me to share this additional picture, so you can head over to her blog to win one of these mizuko jizo magnets in Sky's name.

Preening, Abi Crouch

Preening
by Abi Crouch

Today I met another

Mama

who lost her little boy.

We traded photos,

Complimented and preened.

And looked with hungry eyes

At babies

still

but not asleep.

:::

about the piece.
My son Corbin was born still at 41 weeks gestation.  There were no indicators during my pregnancy that there was anything wrong with him and the many tests I've had since we lost him have not provided any answers about what happened.  He simply slipped away from us between dinner on the 18th and the wee hours of the 19th when I went into labor.  After he was born I had this ferocious need to share him and the love and pride that I had for him.  Because of the circumstances and the taboo around talking about dead babies, I didn't feel like I could.  This piece is about the first Mama I met who also had a late third trimester loss.  We met for lunch one day and shared our birth stories and boys' photos.  It was such a relief to be able to share freely and to have someone look at my boy, and to be able to see HIM and not just death.  This afternoon holds a very special place in my heart.  -Abi

about the poet.
Abi Crouch has an impressively large set of skills made irrelevant by technology from the 20th century. Driven by art and writing, she has become a horrible house keeper, a fabulous quilt maker, a loving and (mostly) attentive wife and a mama with her heart on fire for her two boys; Wills, who is three and Corbin who was born still at 41 weeks in January of 2011.  Most of Abi's spare time is wrapped up in building A Heart to Hold.  You can learn more here; a Heart To Hold or find us on facebook at a Heart to Hold on Facebook

Twilight Love, Amy McCarter

Twilight Love
by Amy McCarter

There you are, in the space that is no longer
The place that was yours and now gone
In the light that mingles with dark
Your story drifting on the silent current of sorrow
Dancing in the magical twilight sun
I feel you though my eyes can not see
You are the dream that once was and should have been
You are my love for all time
My Hope
Inspiration
You are Liam

:::

about the poem.
I wrote this poem after finally taking down Liam's nursery in July 2008 and converting back into a spare bedroom. While the room was no longer a nursery, I saw ghost shadows like whispers of what it used to be... sometimes I still do.

about the artist.
Amy lives in North Carolina with her husband and two greyhounds. Amy describes her journey, "Our only child Liam was born alive and apparently healthy on September 25, 2007, and was the joy of our lives. Our son Liam died soon after birth due to unexplained/unknown causes, shattering our world and our hearts. Art is an expression and release of my grief, and a way to honor the memory of our little man who is missed beyond words." Amy maintains a blog showcasing her Creative Everyday Challenge at Surviving the Day Every Day. 

Mykelti, Dawni

Mykelti
by Dawni

Though I never took you here, you line the seashore,
your figure running across the rocks and dipping down
into the tidal pools. Cradling an underwater orb in
clumsy palms, the blunted pencil urchin a perfect fit;
your eyes sparkle, reflecting rainbows of colour.

At day's end, you race the setting sun's fire,
joyous, you dash along and fling the sand loose
with bronzed limbs flailing. In this moment,
wreathed in the sun's glow, you look your part.

And mine, mother to an angel, is obvious: everywhere
I stand, every direction I face, I watch your lips
as they shape words that the wind carries away,
buries in dark caves along the water's edge.

Every day you disappear, slip a little further under the waves;
and still, though I never took you here, you line the seashore.

:::


about this piece.
My inspiration for this poem came from a couple of factors. First of all, I was challenged to come up with a unique poem using a set of words (fire, lips, rainbows, orb and angel), but bigger than that, I was holidaying half-way around the world and feeling a bit lost. Immediately when I saw the list of words, I had a vision of my son romping on the beach, and I knew exactly what I wanted to write. This poem was originally posted to my Writer's Cafe account, Penulis Kecil. -Dawni


about the poet.
I'm 28 years old now, but I was barely 14 when I lost my first child, Mykelti Noah. Circumstances around his loss are much more complicated than those around my daughter Elyssami Faith's death, ten years later, but I do love and grieve for both of my children. I find a measure of solace in creative pursuits, and have dedicated a number of artworks and poems/lyrics to one or both of my children. My blog, Dialectic Dichotomy, focuses on my recovery from mental illness but also visits other topics (such as my children) at times. -Dawni

Reflection, Jill

The Glass Baby
by Jill

I wake one morning
Aware of molten glass
Pouring into me.
It burns and the pain makes me cry.
But my tears don't cool the fire
So I grit my teeth and reach down.
I pull and push until a shape is formed -
A tiny glass child.
I look at my hands, burnt and bloodstained,
And I fold them over my belly
To protect the fragile life within.
IT ISN'T ENOUGH.
Until suddenly, my little glass boy floats.
I look inside and see his sister.
She is rocking him and crying tears of joy.
Her tears surround him in a warm, wet bath.
He floats, protected and happy,
My tiny man.
Her tears reflect in the glass of his limbs
And Rainbows burst from my womb.
Her tears, my broken hands, his rainbow
Surround him on our journey
'Til he bursts forth in a gush of her tears and my blood.
I recognise his newborn cry
As a call of goodbye to his womb mate
His newborn limbs flailing a wave
To his loving sister,
Who smiles and kisses his head,
Before wrapping herself in our rainbows
And tucking herself back into my heart.

:::

about the piece.

"I've been reading through all the posts from the "Where are we right now?" project and it has lead me to reflect on my own relationship with my daughter and my grief. I have felt distant from all things babylost recently and it has been valuable for me to re-connect. I was drawn back to these two pieces, both created in the first year of my grief, to remind me that I carry my daughter and her loss with me always, in all situations - not matter how far down the path I travel." -Jill

about the artist.Jill's third child (her second daughter), Emma, died during labour at 40 weeks on 14th October 2008. She blogs about her beautiful girl and her journey without her at Only a Whisper.

The Cardinal, Sara

The Cardinal
by Sara

they say he passed in the night on a whim,
or maybe he was conjured out of me and sent to live in thin air.
three days gone only nature could quell the ache.
a small cardinal was perched on a branch nervously fixed in my direction.
i begged silently: "let it be my boy."
let him get close enough so i can see the puffing of his chest,
the quickening thump beneath his feathers, rhythmic like the morning hiccups in my belly.
did he feel life independent of my body?
i wanted to know he saw glittering lights beyond the clouds,
he touched the trees and was blinded by fog.
he felt weather, cool air.
he had memories of water.
he dodged the rain.
he sensed danger in man's machines and was deafened by contraptions.
living above, he marveled at how we look like simple automatons,
scurrying about like ants on a schedule.

the cardinal inched away.
no whistled confession arrived,
my insides felt more empty than the moment he was yanked into that fluorescent light,
laid down like a floppy doll.
still.
our blood spread across the floor like an abstract streak on a blank white canvas,
a table of sharp silver was mottled with red.

for fourteen hours i held him like a sarcophagus, stony and shocked.
a hardened vessel immobilized by a catheter feeding numb to my spine.
with no sense of urgency the nurses shuffled into the room wearing their most serious faces
and the doctor spoke of options like a funeral director.
i wondered how many coffins she had pried open.
how many sleeping babies found their way into her arms?
three days later these were questions of no importance.
birth, the consummate beginning, had been absurdly preceded by death.
basic dates were reversed,
essential words redefined.
the future became blank.
all of my middle chapters were torn out and thrown into a river with my stygian womb.


december's sun lost its strength and the cardinal departed.
a breeze played the sterile branches,
they rattled like the hollow toys he was supposed to hold.
i am a wasteland,
a childless mother,
an origami woman who was folded into grief and half-crumpled by death's harsh hands.
my boy is ashes in a box on my headboard,
his only experience of life was the sound of my muffled heart and stirrings.

:::

about this piece and about the poet.
I wrote the below poem about my son Lawrence. He was born still in the third trimester on December 15th, 2010. I don't have a blog and this has not been submitted or published elsewhere. I'm a 33 year old single woman in Kansas. I'm not a poet and I doubt this is particularly good form-wise, but it's the only thing I've written that fully explains the experience of his death / birth. -Sara

An Explanation, Katie

An Explanation
by Katie.

I am mourning my miscarriage

I am mourning my pregnancy
I am missing the flutters and kicks of my baby in my body
I am missing the morning sickness and the aches and pains
I miss being so tired I could cry
I regret that I do not get to labor to bring my child into the light
I am sad that I don’t get to hear a cry and see a scrunched up red face covered in blood
I wanted to hold him to my chest and for the first time see his eyes

I am mourning my child
I am mourning first smiles, first grasps, first steps, and first words
I am missing snuggles and sweet smelling baby hair
I am crying because I will never change a dirty diaper and never have my sick child puke all over my shirt
Never wipe his grubby fingers, never clean a muddy face
Never have the chance to clean the pee off my carpet when I mess up potty training
I will never have his hands reach for my shirt
Never have him run to my arms
Never hear him say mama
I am mourning lost Christmas pictures with Santa Claus
I am mourning lost shopping trips when shoes become too tight
I am mourning lost walks in the park, trips to the zoo, and pushes on the swings at the playground
I am mourning lost first days of school
I am missing finger-painted hand prints stuck on my refrigerator
I am missing piano recitals, sports practices, field trips and birthday parties
I am missing Sunday mornings in church with wiggles and shushing

I am mourning my child
I am mourning the fact that I do not get to see him graduate, marry, and have a family
I am mourning the fact that my words of wisdom, my love, and my tears have no landing place
I want to give kisses and hugs
I want to give lectures and groundings
I want to make the mistakes my parents made
I want to be a better parent than my parents

I am crying because until my baby died I didn’t even realize I had made plans
Seen his whole life and calculated my place in it
I am mourning the fact that every day I am missing something important
I am mourning my child
I am mourning my pregnancy
I am mourning my miscarriage





:::

about the piece.
After I had a first trimester miscarriage in August of 2010 I felt like people didn't understand why I was so upset. I had a friend tell me that it shouldn't be this difficult for me because my baby never even got a chance to really live. I tried to explain my grief to her but didn't feel like I expressed it well. I went away, thought about it, and I wrote this poem to try to explain and articulate exactly what I was mourning. - Katie

about the artist.
My name is Katie I had a first trimester miscarriage in August of 2010. It was an unplanned pregnancy and I was all by myself but I wanted my baby from the moment I knew I was pregnant. I never found out the gender but while I was pregnant had dreams about a little boy, so I named my baby Nathan. Writing has always helped me unravel my feelings and it has been especially helpful in dealing with the mixture of regret, sadness, relief, and shock of this whole experience.

For our Sweet Collins, Nikki

For our Sweet Collins
Love, Mommy

I’ll never get to rock you,
or softly comb your hair.
I’ll never get to tuck you in
with a well-loved teddy bear.

There’ll be no Mother’s Day cards,
no wild flower bouquets,
no puppet shows, no zoos, no parks,
no graduation days.

I won’t dance at your wedding,
won’t watch you hold you own first born.
Your life, too brief, and stolen from you,
has left me and your Daddy torn.

But I’ll cherish the time, sweet Collins,
when we were connected by a cord,
I’ll rejoice in knowing you are now safe
in the arms of the Almighty Lord.

I’ll look for you in each sunbeam;
I’ll feel your presence in the wind.
And you will live in our hearts, forever,
Wrapped in a love without any end.

:::

about the piece.
I wrote this poem and read it at Collins' funeral. He passed on May 19 of this year.

about the poet.
Nikki shares her story, "I have a beautiful 14 month old son, and Collins was going to be the "completion" of our family. Two perfect little boys. He died one day after birth due to PPHN, something that occurred despite the fact that I had a perfect pregnancy and barely took a Tylenol during it. It is very rare and we still have no idea why him-- a robust 9 lbs and 1 oz.I am blogging at imissyoulikehell.blogspot.com It's private, but if anyone tells me they read this poem here, I will gladly add them.

For A While, Sherry Russo

For A While

by Sherry Russo

For a while time stood still

suspended when you died

My heart, my mind

confined to where

you left me

In a haze

I muddle through

oblivious to the world

that continues to move on

Apathetic to everything

but my grief

my sorrow unyielding

For a while

I will stay here

in the depths of darkness

the valley of death.

05.24.11

:::

about the poem.

I actually wrote this due to my father's recent and very sudden passing. Although the grief I feel from losing a parent is a little different than that of a baby, the sentiment of the poem is universal. All of this really brings me back to when I first lost Brandon. - Sherry

about the poet.
Sherry describes herself, "I have been married for 10 years to a wonderful husband, a mother of three, one in heaven. Our world was forever changed when our twin babies were born at 28 1/2 weeks due to an incompetent cervix. Our twin baby boy Brandon died shortly after birth from complications of a collapsed lung, and Sophia stayed in the NICU for 48 days. I mostly write about Brandon and my journey in this world without him. It's the only thing I have that's devoted to him. It helps me heal, while keeping his memory alive." Sherry blogs at Remembering Brandon. 

Not Mine, Kara Wansbury

Not Mine
by Kara Wansbury

She picks the sprinkles off her cupcake one by one
She wears Barbie bandaids
She cuddles her worn, well-loved bunny rabbit

Her hair is disheveled from a morning at the park
Her shirt wears this mornings babycino
Her giggle warms her mothers heart
And gives her a reason to get up in the morning

She isn't my daughter
I am not her mother

:::

about this poem.
I went for my usual morning coffee and noticed a mother and daughter together. She was about four. I thought of all the things I won't get to do with Marin. I came home and wrote this. And cried. -Kara

about the poet.
I am 30 years old, single and I live in Sydney, Australia. I am in the Navy and I work in public relations. I have been granted the good fortune of considerable time off work and I will use this time wisely to study and explore my grief in whatever creative outlet I pursue. I am not alone in this journey: I have Marin with me every step of the way. - Kara

Broken Heart, Krista

Broken Heart.
Krista.
Digital Media and poetry.




:::

about this piece.
I did the drawing and wrote the poem the same day but had no idea they went together until I put them in the computer. - Krista

about the artist.
Krista is a 27 years old woman who has had three healthy, full term pregnancies followed by three miscarriages. First at 12wks (blighted ovum), second at 16wks4ds (Benjamin), and the most recent at 21wks (Kadence).

I also had a chemical pregnancy the first cycle after my first loss and the first cycle after my last loss, both were devastating. Since my last loss I have been using art as a way of getting my grief out and have really appreciated this site and seeing other women's work. - Krista

I Wear My Baby, Krista

 :::

about this piece.
A poem for my second loss, my son, at 16wks4ds. - Krista

about the artist.
Krista is a 27 years old woman who has had three healthy, full term pregnancies followed by three miscarriages. First at 12wks (blighted ovum), second at 16wks4ds (Benjamin), and the most recent at 21wks (Kadence).

I also had a chemical pregnancy the first cycle after my first loss and the first cycle after my last loss, both were devastating. Since my last loss I have been using art as a way of getting my grief out and have really appreciated this site and seeing other women's work. - Krista

Community Poem XIII - Water

Water
By: The Community



I.
Dry lips and starved heart

Moistened and fed by my tears

II.
I baptize the forehead with my tears, cross myself,

A ripple of grief soaks the small, still form

III.
You were baptized in death, holy water sprinkled over your still body in my heavy arms

From the blessing on your tiny chest, ripples rose into waves--a tidal deluge of guilt and love and God

IV.
This invisible roller coaster of in-comprehendible pain saturates the expansive abyss of grief within my soul.

These wild, violent undercurrents drench, rip, flood and flow to incessantly cut their bottomless gullies.

V.
Deaths intimate bond permeates, dehydrates,

Grief delegates life, playacting proxy navigates the ceaseless stream

:::


about this piece.
This months theme was water, contributors were asked to write two lines of prose exploring their reflections on water and grief. I posted two lists of words and the contributors were asked to use one of the words from each list in each line of their prose.


about the contributors.
Each person created one stanza, in this order the authors are, Kara, Angie, Crystal, Janice and Julie.

Four years and one day, Audrey

Four years and one day

by Audrey

Yesterday I looked for something to hang in your tree.

I wanted something to catch light and move

In the wind without sound.

The sounds would be disingenuous since you are stone silent.

But you do catch light in the corners of my eyes.

You rustle leaves. You are my hallucinations and ceaseless longing.

You are the ghost baby like a lost limb I still feel.

You are my undoing

And all the grace I have ever known. You

Are poems and images, tributes and tears.

You are the thread that holds me together at the seams.

You are the ocean between me

And every other person alive.

You are a long rope bridge to understanding.

You are my 7 Nation Army. You flick the lit match into

The rage that threatens to engulf me.

In your aftermath, I surrender all my pride.

Four years and one day brought this poem to me.

A day too late. Four years too late. Eighty years too soon.

All the ingredients are here in full supply.

It is from these things that I will cook until I can eat no more.

:::

about the piece.

I wrote the following April 5th, for Eva, a day after the 4th anniversary of her death.

 

about the poet.
Audrey is the mother of three. She is raising two and writes at Glutton Button. 

She Never Took a Breath, Kara Wansbury

She Never Took a Breath
by Kara Wansbury

She never took a breath
(Take mine)
She never saw the sun
(It brings no light to my life)
She never saw my smile
(I have no joy)
She never heard my voice
(It echoes in my empty heart)
She never felt my touch
(I want for no one but her in my arms)
She felt my love and it was all I could give her

:::

about the poem.
I wrote this poem a few weeks after my gorgeous daughter was born into peace on 2 March 2011. I named her Marin. Marin, of the sea. She was diagnosed with hydracephelus and spina bifida at 20 weeks so I made the heartbreaking choice to endure pain every single day so she was spared it. I started writing poems so that I could explore my feelings and this piece allowed me to explore my feelings of guilt and sadness. Throughout my journey I have always owned every emotion, feeling and experience. I refuse to follow a grief timeline and I refuse to let others guide my feelings. I will not give in to shame and guilt regarding my decision. I will embrace sorrow and hope, equally. I will love again. - Kara

about the poet.
I am 30 years old, single and I live in Sydney, Australia. I am in the Navy and I work in public relations. I have been granted the good fortune of considerable time off work and I will use this time wisely to study and explore my grief in whatever creative outlet I pursue. I am not alone in this journey: I have Marin with me every step of the way. - Kara

Notes from the Guest Editor: Theme Challenges and Community Poem

Hi to all my friends, fellow babylost community and artists.

I would like to say thanks to Angie for letting me come onto still life 365 to be a guest editor for the month of April. Angie has selflessly offered this experience to me, so that I can know what it is like to be in every day contact with such amazing artists and supporters. I am having a great time already, and its barely even started. I am having lots of email contact with Angie and I can't help anticipating all the inspiring work that is going to flow into this sacred space this month.

I love still life365, I can't say it enough. I am such a big fan. I love seeing the photos arrive on Photo Sunday, as a group we all contribute a photo that expresses our perception of the theme, for me it's like seeing a piece of your soul, being invited to look out from your window and see your world. I love the secretness of the group poem, because everyone submits something individual but no one sees the lines that others are submitting. The group poem always takes the temperature of grief in our community, even though each portion is so deeply personal and straight from the heart it all fits together. And I love the questions that Angie posts, so many contributors have posted that their exploration of the questions have prompted something unknown to rise to the surface, things that have been lying in the depths.

Speaking of depths, this month I have chosen water as the theme

I personally connect with the analogies of grief and water. Ones like "grief is as heavy as water", or it feeling like an unnatural state "exhausting as walking through water", and the very commonly stated "waves of grief rolling in".

We all use water everyday, for most of us we have very constant and unremarkable contact with water. I mean do we call up our best friend and tell them the story of when the water came out of the tap and into our sink? Of course we don't. We flush it, wash in it, drink it, we do countless other mundane things with it. It's just ordinary.

But, there are times when water becomes something else, especially when it gets bigger. Like a lake or a stream or a river or the sea. Being near water becomes a spiritual thing, we feel closer to the source of our beings, we feel a connection with the universe, our creator. Things are more intense and more intimate when we can hear see or feel water.

In Australia we are so focussed on water. It surrounds us, there are thousands of miles of it between us and just about everyone else. We have a very fragile existence because of the lack of water, many parts of our amazing country cannot be inhabited by the ordinary person because they would just die of thirst. We have just had a 10 year long drought which was broken by an extremely rainy and tragic summer. Huge tracts of land disappeared under water and caused the most catastrophic consequences from the top of our nation to the bottom. Some of that land is still under water, or it has been flooded for the second and third time this season. In Australia it seems that there is either too much or not enough. Of course it's not true

Our babies were all protected by water, they floated in an climate controlled amniotic fluid filled sac while they were alive.  That sac of water was one of the lifelines that our body gave to protect their life, for every single one of our babies. For some the water was too much and for others too little, and that signaled problems. For me that is where my journey with grief became coupled with water. 

This month I would like you all to create art using water as your theme.

Please send in any submissions that relate to water at any time, especially if you created something because of the prompts. Angie has been calling for submissions over the last week or two weeks, so if you are not sure please send it to Angie and she will forward it to me and one of us will reply (because I still have my training wheels on) with encouragement and love. I know that I personally have art that has never been published here, so I will take my own advice.

We are trying something a little different this month, instead of posting the community art challenges on Sundays we are going to do them on Mondays.

The publication dates and deadlines are:

Photo Monday 11th April and the deadline for submissions is Saturday 9th April at 8pm

Community Poem 18th April and the deadline for submissions is Saturday 17th April at 8pm

Visual Community Poetry Project 25th April (Easter Monday) and the deadline for submissions is Thursday 21st April at 8pm (because of Easter)

Please send your submissions to stilllife365days(at)gmail(dot)com. And use the submissions type (photo sunday, community poem, visual challenge) as the subject. Next Monday will be Photo Monday, and you have less than one week before the deadline. The challenge with Photo Monday is to take a picture that explores your grief using the theme of water. If you find you are having trouble getting a creative visual idea, post a help message in the comments section of this post and we can all help out with ideas.

I love the Community Poem, I think I already said that. It is going to be the following Monday 18th April.

About the Community Poem. This month I would like you to write two lines of prose exploring your reflections on water and grief. I am posting two lists of words, please use one of the words from each list in each line of your prose. So that is one word from list 1 written into Line 1, and one word from List 2 written into Line 2

Here are the lists,

1.

aqua,

awash,

baptize

bathe,

damp,

dehydrate

drench,

drool,

dry

flood,

hose,

inundate,

irrigate,

moisten,

saturate,

soak,

souse,

spatter,

spray,

sprinkle,

steep,

submerge,

wash,

wet,

2.

flood,

deluge,

rain,

ripple,

storm,

stream

tidal,

tears,

waterfall,

I did a poetry workshop last year sometime and there were so many wonderful individual bohemian type people there who wrote some very amazing things. One thing I remembered from the guest poet (Drew Dellinger) was that poetry was essentially "memorable speech". So I will attempt some memorable speech to explain where I am going.

I will use the words bathe and ripple.

First, I try to collect phrases and words that come to mind that relate to the word bathe;

stepping into, foot first, hot ankles, naked, prepared, wash, pink, heat, anticipate, bubble

This is how my two lines read;

Awkward weary steps in fear spreading

wraps grief ripples round ankles unused to bathing in death

Here is the second part of this challenge which I am calling the Community Visual Poetry Project. Its a visual project because we are going to see your written art take the form of visual art.

I would love to see your handwriting, in this technology age we rarely see handwritten things. Please try to use your natural handwriting, so that means the language and the style that you would normally scribble a note to yourself is perfect. I would like you to please write your lines in circles like the ripples that raindrops make in puddles. Then scan or photograph it and send it to stilllife365. I will create a visual project from everyone's lines to post on the third Sunday in April.

This is how I did it, I drew circles on a piece of paper with a black marker. I put my sheet of copy paper over it and wrote my lines using the black marker circles as a guide. This is how it looks. I am sure yours will be wonderful and together it will be amazing.

Happy photo snapping and poem building my village.

Love from Australia,

Julie

Grief, Sherry Russo

Grief
by Sherry Russo


Grief is the feeling
that consumed me
Paralyzed my being
My heart, my mind

Grief is the pain I feel
So raw
So excruciating
So real

Grief is what changed me
Yanked me out of life's comfort
Tore me into pieces
Molding me with time

Grief is accepting the reality of my loss
Missing my child that will never be
Living with the fragments of my broken dreams

Grief is a process that unfolds
A long, lonely journey
Of highs and lows
Ebbs and flows
To self discovery
To life
To healing

05.18.10

:::

about this piece.
I wrote this piece as a response to Still Life 365's creative prompt last year but never submitted it. I realized after I wrote the poem that I was only supposed to submit a line or two and not the whole thing. The site's creative prompt was a source of great inspiration to me. - Sherry

about the poet.
Sherry describes herself, "I have been married for 10 years to a wonderful husband, a mother of three, one in heaven. Our world was forever changed when our twin babies were born at 28 1/2 weeks due to an incompetent cervix. Our twin baby boy Brandon died shortly after birth from complications of a collapsed lung, and Sophia stayed in the NICU for 48 days. I mostly write about Brandon and my journey in this world without him. It's the only thing I have that's devoted to him. It helps me heal, while keeping his memory alive." Sherry blogs at Remembering Brandon. 

It's Getting Dark in Here, Sharon Chatham

It's Getting Dark in Here
by Sharon Chatham
7/20/09

There once was a light for all to see
It shone for you, your daddy, and me.
It turned on day you were created
Rays of light that had us elated.
But now there is no radiant cheer
It's getting dark in here.

Gone are the sparkles that were in your eyes
The used to dance like fireflies.
We will never be warmed by the glow
Of the flash forward memories we made long ago.
Now the future is dim I fear
It's getting dark in here.

The sun once shone on you
In my belly where you slept and grew.
My soul was illuminated with your presence
My heart expanding in your incandescence.
I need your beacon to draw me near
It's getting dark in here.

The shadows of your memory fade
The light your love has made.
Whenever you need t to find us in this world
The spark that is left will be unfurled.
My dear angel son have no fear
Though, it's getting dark in here.

The splendor of your life warmed your daddy and me
It won't fade altogether you see.
The space of light will grow
When the memories of you flow
Until then my dear,
It's getting dark in here.

:::

about the poet.
Sharon  blogs at Angel Steps.

Green Box, Sherry Russo

Green Box
by Sherry Russo


Green box
with all your stuff
is all I have left of you
A lock of hair
I could barely touch
So little, so fine and few
A yellow cap
meant to keep you warm
sits lonely and cold in the dark
A blanket that lingers
without your smell
lays idly in it's spot like a lark
The tiny gown you once wore
draped every inch of your skin
Is all that's left
without your flesh
for me to have
and to hold

07.27.10

:::

about this poem.
I couldn't open this box for a long time. As if I was afraid of what I will find, of how I will feel. As if opening it is worse than holding my dead child and giving him away knowing I will never hold him again. I had to brace myself each time, and still do. To bring a box home instead of a baby is so unnatural, so f*#%*d up. But I'm glad they forced me. I'm glad I have it... - Sherry

about the poet.
Sherry describes herself, "I have been married for 10 years to a wonderful husband, a mother of three, one in heaven. Our world was forever changed when our twin babies were born at 28 1/2 weeks due to an incompetent cervix. Our twin baby boy Brandon died shortly after birth from complications of a collapsed lung, and Sophia stayed in the NICU for 48 days. I mostly write about Brandon and my journey in this world without him. It's the only thing I have that's devoted to him. It helps me heal, while keeping his memory alive." Sherry blogs at Remembering Brandon.