Sunday, June 29, 2014


Another bowl of cold cereal.
Coffee burnt to the pot.
Monday's shirt on Tuesday, Wednesday
pit-stained and wrinkled.

Buying diapers
for the woman who diapered me.
the woman who diapered me.

Sleeping in snatches
of conversations
between medications
and limp, dead weight.

Prying at fear's thick fingered grip
with words, words
I'm good with words,
but I can't.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads


Sylvia K said...

It does hurt, doesn't it!! What a perfect word picture, MZ! Can't has become a word already being used more than I ever wanted to.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

I so know that "I cant". And yet, somehow, we do. Wishing you strength, my friend, for all you are walking through right now. Look into your daughter's eyes and remember, the cycle is ever growing forward.

Kerry O'Connor said...

And yet the words appear, white on black, even at the darkest hour.. It is what a poet must do, to turn personal suffering into art, so others may know the dull, slow ache they feel is not theirs alone but a legacy.

So it goes.

hedgewitch said...

We end where we begin, and all the while we travel on the wheel, up high flying, then broken underneath it, but it never stops turning, and where one ends another carries on, because they have to. Hang in there.

Anonymous said...

A beautiful poem, and you seem to have risen to the impossible. I have so much sympathy. I know a bit of how difficult it is going through my father's illness and death. You are a wonderful poet and, it seems from this perspective, wonderful person too. k.

Fireblossom said...

I don't know what to say except, you will make it through this.

Brian Miller said...

and there are is just like that...especially when you are switching roles with parents...oy...def not the easiest time....

Jim said...

This is a tough one, M.Z. I won't be on your poet's end as both my parents and parents-in-law have died. Perhaps one or more of the five will do that for me, I don't know. I hope not.

I like the Monday's shirt bit. It reminded me of the Johnny Cash song, Sunday morning coming down lines, "And found my cleanest dirty shirt."

My favorite lines were in the refrain:

"On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone

And there ain't nothin' short of dyin'
As half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleepin' city sidewalk
And Sunday mornings coming down


Björn Rudberg said...

It's tough to diaper the one you diapered - really says it all. Aging so tought

Anonymous said...

sorrowful ~

Mark Kerstetter said...

Like the ache of a tear that won't come...

Anonymous said...

Hardest thing is for a poet to find the words too fucking difficult. To go where heart doesn't want anything to do with art.

Anonymous said...

Hardest thing is for a poet to find the words too fucking difficult. To go where heart doesn't want anything to do with art.