It is your eyes that pierce me
Bright baby blue
In Sicily they marked you
In Jordan, both men and girls followed you
Hoping to see your wonderful eyes again
It is your eyes that hold me
Windowing your soul
In your much loved face
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)
I have found one of my mother’s poems, it’s very poignant and rather obviously not written to my Father!
Let me see your coat
full as it is
of laughter and tears
Let me touch your voice
as it wraps
loving ties around my bones
Let me hold your feet
sore as they are from walking
through this life
Let me see your truth
stuffed as a rucksack
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
While weaving a garland
One fine day
I found that midst
The roses lay
The god of Love
I picked him up
And dipped him in
The wine-filled cup
I took and drank him;
Now he clings
Inside me, tickling
With his wings
by Julianus, Prefect of Eygpt (6th Century)
From ‘Great Short Poems’, Ed. Dorothy Pollack, Dover Books.
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.
We wade though the bright grass
Tired, footsore, happy
Hearing a bird calling by the reeds
Notes curling amongst themselves,
Spinning through the warm air
Distantly, traffic busies itself,
Here, tranquility reigns,
After a full night dancing,
Copyright © 2016 Kim Whysall-Hammond