Forever Becomes the Past

Forever seemed so long ago
And now it is at the door
Knocking loudly
Making a ruckus
Because I refuse to welcome it home

A child no more
I must accept the facts
My relationships have not been
What I envisioned in my past

Forever is now present
Kicking at the door
If I let it in, like the drifting snow
It will melt into the past
Returning as my children's
Forever
Will they feel satisfied with
Their past?

Erasing and Rebuilding

Erasing masks leaves faces exposed
Lips moving tell stories untold.

Ignoring the gut
The heart opened up
Longing for the visage to be true.

The pencil stencils emotions in the mind
Uncloaking the disguises.

Erasing faces
Erasing egos
Erasing title of scapegoat
Or fair-weather friend.
Redrawing relationships
With reflections of love and acceptance.
The architect of friendship is finished with her demolition.
Let the new ground-breaking begin.

Apology Flowers Fade

Beauty arranged professionally
Purchased with remorse
Up and down days settle
Until the petals detach

You stumble through the door
With an explanation on your lips
I turn and look at the dying petals
And wonder

Apology flowers fade
Like your promises
To understand

The Motion of E

Emotion: the motion of "E"
What is "e"?
What is in motion?
Lately it is the rapid misfiring of synapses causing
sadness to drench my cheeks,
jealousy to shackle me to self-pity,
anger to burn my skin from the inside out.

Laughter's tickle is too gentle these days
At times it tugs at my pant leg.
Shadowed by melanchol"E"
I do not appreciate the moment.
In the night's silence, I lay down in a bed of regret.

The motion of feelings swirl around
Ravaging stability.
"E" is a paradox
With determination to live in positivity.
To accomplish such a life
I delve deep into the stacks of other's ideas, suggestions, perceptions.

I am not lost I have realized
I just have an inconsistent grasp of the wheel,
So the motion of "E" moves fast, slow, stalls, crashes.
Frustration is loud,
Pedestrians feel the thump as me and "E" drive by.
It is rare these days that someone asks for a ride.
Who can blame them,
The vibe of "E" is discomforting.

So emotion can be defined as the motion of "E".
"E" is abstract
I have come to believe,
Which allows for change in motion and gravity.
While tragedy may have put my "E" in a frenzy,
Effort and time, I am certain, will convert its energy.

Tragedy's Thievery

Walking on tiptoes
Balancing on the beam
Tragedy rumbles below
Such a prediction is unseen.

Moving left to right like a pendulum
Diligent in staying upright
A somersault here
A back flip there
Hoping to avoid the aftershock:
But the flashbacks still come.

My mind's eye is open
Then it is closed
Blinking rapidly as if in REM sleep
At times stuck in between:
These night terrors must cease.

Tragedy shook my beam
Landing hard
I seem to not remember my routine.

Dreams shaken and stirred
Unsweetened and tart
No amount of liquid can induce
A new route back.
I am unsure if I know how to climb back up?
To discover my rhythm
My dance, my song?

Tragedy is the culprit
But what recourse do I have?
This is a solo mission,
No one knows
No one understands.
The journey lies deep within
Not even I can conceive
Of an end to tragedy's thievery.

Eyes are Fortune Tellers

Eyes are fortune tellers
Can you read mine?
I always avoid yours
But not this time.
What I see is sweet simplicity,
But the stars do not align,
Prohibiting me from my moment of sublime.
Oh, how I get lost in those eyes.
It takes me days to erase this reading from my mind.

Remembrances

Remembrances of the past

Fade and disappear

Some remain so bright

They could have happened today

But when they no longer occur

Something has seriously changed

No step will 

Ever 

Be 

The same.

Existence altered

What does this mean?

Carpe Diem or isolation

Are these what remain,

As the only means to continue

Onward while wrestling pain?

To continue onward

While wrestling pain.

Oh, remembrances of the past

Fade and disappear

But some remain so bright

That I am able to hear

I am able to hear.

Haze

The  sun will come out again someday

Erasing the haze;

For now we’ll just have to endure the pain

Of losing out on memories.

It’s a shame the nature of existence,

We are circling the maze

Weaving in and out until we embrace

Moments and days,

People and life,

In a new way.

Burning through the clouds  

The sun forces a chance

To illuminate our minds.

Ah yes, the sun will come out again someday.

The wind delivers this truth,

And we continue to live even when caught in the haze.

Avoiding the Glimmer

Avoidance seems to be the name of the game. My father passed away two weeks ago yesterday and I just don't want to talk about it. Glimmers of pain have rushed through my body as I am reminded of losing my father. Who wants to experience this sadness? Not me, so I ignore the phone calls from certain members of my family, those who stimulate my vulnerability causing an opening for the glimmer to enter. I realize that these loved ones care about my feelings and want to connect with me during this tragic time in our lives, but I can't. This past week I have worked diligently to build a forcefield by which to protect myself. But this field is weak, therefore I must steer clear of people who can penetrate the forcefield allowing the glimmer to enter me.

The glimmer is short and sharp. For a moment I am overcome by a heavy sadness that clutches my heart bringing out tears that I have managed to hide. This glimmer occurs when I think about my father, my relationship with him, and his relationship with my children. It happened today in the midst of gardening. I was superficially aware of my thoughts, remembering things said over the past week regarding my father. This gave the glimmer a back door to slip in and take hold of me. I was grateful my back was to my children and my husband was far enough away to not notice I had been attacked by the glimmer.

I recognize intellectually that some day the glimmer will attack in lesser intervals. Until then I am trying to avoid the glimmer. Honestly, I do not think I will be successful for long.

Melodies in Minor Key

As I walk outside and turn on my IPOD, I search for music that might reach down to the pit of my being and pull me out. I long to swim in melodies in the minor key. These songs capture my reality and enable me to float out of myself in order to review certain moments in my life. It seems whenever I experience a traumatic change in my life, I begin to doubt who I am, who I am becoming, and who I have set out to be. I suppose this doubt is a common response to such events as a dying parent. Nonetheless, its commonality does not change my mental status. So in hopes to rid myself of this doubt, I work to push feelings of rejection and insecurity back into my Pandora box. But like Sisyphus' rock, this doubt is relentlessly returning. As a consequence, I am experiencing moments of reflection, where I focus on a past event that has contributed to this doubt and consider what this says about me. It is painful to reflect on moments of vulnerability in past relationships. This has all been triggered by my father's decline in his ability to exist and also by acting as my mother's sounding board. I cannot help but think about how my father chose to live his life and his relationship with my mother. This leads to my reflection on my past and to understanding how my parents influenced my life.

I am venturing into an abyss. I fear I may never return. To avoid this venture is of no use. It's a siren who sings in the melodious minor key. The music cannot drown out her song for her voice increases in volume. I attempt to turn around, reverse my venture but her voice becomes claws that grip my wrists and drag me down this road. What will this reflection accomplish? I am afraid to find out, but I do not think I have a choice this time. So I will listen to the melodies in minor key and hope they speak to me.

Burn Out

I have avoided writing because I have been fighting this urge to complain. So instead I have silenced myself, which has moved the coping from verbal to physical. Is this another stage of grief? If it is, it should be labeled "burn out." My smile has become heavy and these days when no one is looking it turns upside down. Today it quivered.

I am aware of my feelings of sadness, lethargy, and ambivalence; yet, I seem to be unable to stop them. Usually I can will myself out of any negative mental state. This time I am not so confident. While I continue to fulfill my domestic responsibilities of taking care of my children, I am not taking care of myself. My body aches. I am so tired. I never exercise. This exacerbates my low mental state. Even writing this takes effort. It is so cliche to say, but I want to dig a hole and crawl in it.

See, I told you I would complain. This entry has no semblance of poetics. I should apologize to my muses. No! They should apologize to me for their abandonment. Why do they hide when I am at my low points? It doesn't even matter. I am done. I am burnt.

I Am Still My Father's Daughter

It is amazing how many "stages" of coping one can go through within a two week period. For a brief moment today as I listened to my mother describe her frustration with my father's attempts to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom, I felt a ripple of anger move through me. It could be that I was tired from being out until 1:30 AM the night before; my tolerance for carrying my mother's pain and frustration had weakened. I had to bite my tongue, literally.

While within the ripple, my father's neglect of his body felt personal. His refusal to find ways to repair his broken body over his lifetime has led to his need to rely on my mother as caretaker. It has led to me sitting at his kitchen table listening to my mother's suffering.

Within the same momentary ripple, I recognized my mother's actions toward my father show she cares for his well-being, but her words of frustration sounded unloving. My mother has courageously took over as caretaker; I am proud of her. However, it is hard to hear her speak as if she doesn't empathize with my father. Because he does not reciprocate or demonstrate recognition of her sacrifice all the time or the way she wants, she feels under appreciated. I think this is reflective of underlying issues within their relationship. Regardless, due to my weakened tolerance, I wanted so much to tell my mother to think before she speaks. I want her to realize that even though she may feel like she can unload all her feelings onto me, I am still my father's daughter.

While I empathize with my mother's situation, while I know who she is, I wish she would listen to me. Not that I would even know what to say because we never really had a reciprocal relationship in this sense. She would always say how I never opened up to her. And I always wanted to respond, but didn't, "it's because you could never handle what I have to say." While I realize I may be underestimating my mother and my ability to articulate my feelings to others without fear of judgement or confrontation, I have been disappointed in the past. My mother's ability to truly listen and be present for me is a crap shoot; one I have stopped gambling on.

But I did successfully handle the anger ripple and repositioned my attitude in order to be present for my mother and my father. I love my parents and want to make sure the loss of my father does not destroy my mother emotionally and financially. Being an advocate for my parents requires that I keep my subjective lens into my parent's affairs in check; otherwise, anger, resentment, and fear will blur my vision and taint my actions. Understanding one's self is a never-ending process: this is life. I am realizing how limited not only my understanding is, but those of my family members. My father, the person who acted as if he did not want to understand himself, is the reason we are all being forced to take a deeper look into ourselves.

Sometimes I want to take a break from this intensity, but it lingers behind me like a shadow. I decided to go out with some friends as a way to take a break from carrying this heavy burden. While it did take my mind off of things for most of the time, there were a few moments when I felt sadness clutch the back of my throat. This guy was talking nonchalantly about his father and their relationship. I wanted to tell him to not take it for granted. I wished for a moment I had this type of relationship with my dad, where we could sit back, have some beers, and talk about life. The sadness lingered as I remembered how my dad used to listen to me and how I enjoyed his stories, even though I knew them all by heart.

There is never an escape from life. There is never an escape from one's reflection. There is the ability to close the eyes and smash the mirror, but the repercussions are dreary. While I almost lost a few marbles today and let my tongue speak harshly, I didn't. I believe I experienced Schon's "reflection-in-action" in an emotional sense--I was able to see the situation, think about my reaction before taking action, reflect on the consequences and my purpose in order to make the best decision.

For the moment, the ripple of appreciation for my husband and kids, for who I am moves through my body. I am reminded of this stanza from a previously written poem, "As a child I wanted to understand/This world I breathed/Now that I am older/I realize life is not just what we perceive/It is what we deliver and what we receive./This is making meaning." Even though my father's condition prohibits him from normal interaction, he continues to support my personal growth, my ability to make meaning of life.

I will always be my father's daughter.

The Quicksand Hold

Quicksand pulls with such a strength

That even the world's strongest man

Can not release himself.

Quicksand goes unnoticed to the hiker

Until it is too late.

It swallows her, silencing

Screams with the rush of granules into the mouth.

Unmovable limbs, cemented into place;

The sand crushes forcing out a quiet whimper

From the hiker's chapped lips.

Where will this hiker go?

Will she forever be stuck in this hole?

Is there a way out of the quicksand hold?

If I can catch my breath,

I will surely let you know.

Temporary

My mother said to me the other day that an experience such as this makes one question life's purpose. I wanted to say to her that I have been questioning life's purpose ever since I can remember; instead, I just listened.

What this experience magnifies for me is how everything is temporary. I suppose this is where the concept of Carpe Diem becomes meaningful. But what does it mean to seize the day? It certainly does not imply I shrug off my responsibilities and run off in search of something more fantastical; this would be too much like a romance novel or ABCfamily movie--simply unrealistic.

It seems the meaning of Carpe Diem is contextual. For me I think it means enjoying my children even when I have no idea how to stop an almost three year old from running away from me after screaming "No" in my face as I carry her four month old brother who begins to cry because he is hungry. Often I have heard parents say, "This stage or behavior is temporary." So is my time with them. Before I know it, they will make a life away from me. My relationship with them will become a lower priority. Everything is temporary.

Everything is temporary, even the pain I endure as I watch my father die and my mother wonder why she struggles to cope. My mother fears the temporary; it means life as she has come to know it will forever be changed. If I prayed, I would pray for my mom to embrace the concept of Carpe Diem. The only thing I can do is try to embrace it myself. This too is only temporary.

His Cancer, Our Cancer

Hands crossed across the chest

Eyes closed with quiet distress

Mind firing rapidly memories of the past.

What does he dream as he exists

Between time and space?

Today is yesterday,

Yesterday is ten years ago,

Tomorrow is another reality

Fabricated by criss-cross synapses

Turning his thoughts upside-down

Inside-out, side to side.

What is real to him is not real to me

Then what does life really mean?

Cancer digs its claws deep into the flesh

Taking over the breathing corpse.

Who rests behind these crusted eyelids?

At times it is the father, the husband

At times it is a child-like man.

His wife works diligently to assist in his existence,

He comforts her with subtle praise.

Every minute she is reminded of what she has lost

He forgets she was there, and fears when she is gone.

The cruelty of brain cancer should be a federal crime,

Sentenced to the death penalty.

The disease has no conscious; spreading

Injustice as it grows

Taking place of any judge who would never

Declare this man life without parole.

Life is unfair.

Life is beyond clear.

Life is undefined.

Cancer's barbarity contaminates

All in its path.

His cancer is our cancer.

Tears fall incessantly.

Curse of Cancer

I named this blog Too Common of a Life after a coming-of-age type poem I had written many years ago because I truly believe that any of my life situations/stories or those I witness of others are not unique, although how one experiences these situations are unique to the individual. This make life so interesting. This is why I love poetry, its ability to capture commonality and uniqueness.

For those who read this, you know that I am witnessing the curse of cancer. Cancer is too common of a life. Google cancer stories, cancer poems, cancer walks, etc and there is a plethora of people who have survived, been killed by, or witnessed the curse of cancer. While I factually knew this to be the case, I now personally know it.

When knowledge moves from external recognition to internal reality, it is powerful. This knowledge can become a tsunami, damaging everything in its path. It is a knowledge that one must get a hold of and it is this experience of "taking control of such intense knowledge" or "controlling the aftermath of the curse" that I am interested in hearing more about. I suppose this is what support groups are for, or message boards, but these venues just don't appeal to me, at least not at this particular moment.

I don't want to talk about my experience of steering this knowledge (although this blog is exactly that), I want to understand my experience through the voice of others. I want to listen deeply to how others make sense of this reality. This is how I cope. This is how I learn. This is how I will be able to live through the cancer disaster that is devastating my father's life, my family's life.

The riptide is forceful and coming up for air is not always an option, but it is a necessity to my survival. My father will not survive this curse, but his family must. My father's life must remain meaningful even after he leaves us. I know what I want or where I need to bring my experience, but I am unsure of how to get it, or how to get there.

Damn the curse of cancer; I raise my fist to you. You will not drown me. You will not confuse me. You may be taking my father without his choice (a sucker punch I have no respect for), but I will not go down without a bloody fight.

Muses of Metaphors

Today my father came home. My mother and I met with the hospice nurse. It was difficult to leave my mother alone. She has called me four or five times since I left. My children and I will be spending the next couple of nights at my parent's home. But I am tired, so tired. Tired of holding back the tears. Tired of holding strong. Tired of feeling out of control. Just tired.

I hear Maya Angelou singing her poem Caged Bird as I search for the metaphors. The caged bird opens her mouth to sing. I open my mouth in hope my silence might be heard by the muses hidden beneath the layers and layers of heaviness upon my chest. If only metaphors would become my cocoon and lift me up and away. Breaking the bars that imprison my father from any substantial existence would be a gift from heaven. This gift cannot come too soon. Yet I will have to carry my father up to heaven to make sure he is not afraid. I just don't want him or my mother to be afraid. Oh, muses of metaphors where are you when I need the strength to carry on? Maya, can you be my muse? Sing your beautiful metaphors into my ears, into my soul, so I can hold on to the words of the wise, the poet.

I bang my wings against this cage hoping that soon my family will be freed of witnessing a slow death day after day. My wings bleed from the force they expel in anger towards the cards my father was dealt. He is a great man. I wish for him to be free of the disease which has control of his mind and body. Oh muses of metaphors please come to me, speak to me, guide me to live, to love, to be.

Finding Poetics in Journal-like Prose

I so want poetry to guide my fingertips to touch the liberating letters on the keyboard, but I find the metaphors are stuck somewhere. I am unable to wrap my mind around poetic images, which often have been my magic rug taking me from sadness or confusion to serenity or clarity. I have never experienced the event of a dying parent. Many people have and I seek them out to find connection and understanding. I suppose other's experiences with such a horrific situation have become my poetics, my means to pull myself up and out of this haze. I cannot seem to articulate how I feel, which is sometimes more frustrating than feeling.

I am like a mountain for my mother who is having to accept the unfortunate fate of her husband, a man she has been married to for almost 39 years. 39 years! I love my father. He has supported me unconditionally. But I cannot imagine losing a life partner of 39 years. My mother apologized to me yesterday for leaning on me. I am okay with her leaning on me because she needs someone as she transitions from my father to herself. I am saddened by her feelings of loneliness, a void no one can fill but herself.

If only I could find the poetics to express what rests in my core. If only I could release the suffocation and fly away like a hot air balloon. Instead, I act like a robot--calm, collected, mechanical. When alone I turn into rain, falling hard to the ground collecting into a puddle only to be stepped on by the foot of life.

Maybe if I journal like this, I will find my way through this crazy maze and come out more alive than when I entered. (My children are waking up; time to morph back into a mountain.)

Do Not Ask

Why?

A question children ask from an early age.

A question I used to ask every day.

A question I have ceased to ponder because

There are no satisfactory answers.

A question that is the cause of my mind fatigue.

A question that is incompatible with my father's rare, incurable disease.

So, I just do not ask.

I just don't ask.

Life's Lens

As my father lays quietly while poison

Drips into his blood to kill the

Other poison taking over his brain,

His personality, his being

A Chaplin enters and comments how

Such an experience can test one's faith.

Faith? Faith in god? Faith in life?

I do not question why this horror is

Happening, but rather what we are doing

About it.

I do not wonder why god, if he or she exists,

Has allowed such pain to exist.

I question how to love enough that my father

Does not fear his own existence.

I know about faith, for I believed in the concept

From a very young age.

But I no longer hold onto this concept

As a means to control my psychological situation.

I don't have time to feel pity,

For there is a man who has worked

Tirelessly so I can live a "good life" in need of my care.

Faith does not help me,

"Being present" for those in need

Makes an undesirable situation bearable.

I am not knocking those who look at life

Through a lens of faith.

It just is not how

I look at life.

So if you come into the room and see me

Sitting next to my sleeping father, do not

Project your Life's lens onto me;

Instead, listen or leave.

Speak Up

Speak up

She can't hear you

Over the chatter between longtime

Girlfriends celebrating over drinks.

Teetering on the circle's margin

Is you, an apprehensive man

Wanting to be heard, to be understood

Yet you do not move as if this position

Is your destiny.

Speak up, man!

Stop mumbling, fumbling

Within your insecurity.

Girls just want to have fun,

So pick up a glass,

Smile and give a toast

To friendship

Because if that is all you got

You are at least not alone

And who knows

Appreciation may change your position.

She may see more, offer a hand

Bringing you into the place

You have patiently and consistently awaited

So speak up--not just

with voice but with action

Or she will forget your face

Ignore your embrace

And any chance will be erased.