Tag Archives: Grief

Wardrobes

Wardrobes of tailored jackets
packed tight with empty pockets
still scented with her perfume

Silver spoons and Indian brassware
tablecloths, hand embroidered
saved for a time that never came

Teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl
enwrapped with gaudy Chinese dragons
given to her by a friend

All her rings, except for
Dad’s engagement ring
which we buried her with

a huge box of jumbled photos
full of memories, undiscovered history
and her, lithe and young

Those eyebrows I see in the mirror
the laugh that is also mine
her legacy pulses within me

Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond

The Journey

The wind is time boisterously unfolding
buffeting our lives

we are immersed in it
go through it, always

although we may not appreciate
the destination

sometimes it is still, quiet, like
those memories that are snapshots in your mind

sometimes it picks you up
throws you down splat

Paris never leaves you
nor does grief

Copyright © 2021 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Friday Poem: On My First Daughter

Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,
It makes the father less to rue.
At six months’ end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother’s tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

By Ben Jonson

How to change

Find several boxes of various sizes
place them on the floor
cast sorrows into the smallest
make a grand throw of these
watch as the box splits, is soaked through with
shed and unshed tears
watch the resulting river
flow under the door
and out into the hallway

Look at the largest box, bring it into your arms
tender loving arms
hold it tight, not caring about the squashing
rumpling, loss of hull integrity
that is the box of happiness

Now fill it

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

MOURNING

via MOURNING

From Lou Faber:

You never know how the news will arrive
you are just certain of its arrival.
You know it on some level, even as the event
is happening, but that doesn’t blunt
the piercing tip of the blade
that finds the soft spot in you and cuts deeply.
You hoped for a miracle for her, for her son,
her husband, for those who knew her
gentle smile, warm compassion, cutting wit,
when the situation demanded.
She was a friend who would appear
when needed most and slip away
when the need began to dissipate.
The news came today, the hole is fresh
and you can only attempt to fill it with memories,
knowing even as it seems again full
as do so many others as you age,
when you step into it you will plunge
back into the well of loss
and again struggled to find the sun
hiding in a too often darkening sky.