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Her

I was a laughing child
That did not know and
Did not fathom
Time was catching up with me when
Everywhere behind me
Whether looking towards the future or
Leaving the past behind,
Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadow and
Her hair, thick, with wisps of gray,
Would frame her countenance,
So young and beautiful, and
Her hands, thin, delicate and pristine, as
Those of an artist…

Rain would fall in torrents the day
I decided no longer to fear the
Raucous sounds about our home-
She would bake bread and sing tunes,
Leaving me to wonder why
She had stayed in bed for days and nights past-

Those days went by quickly as
The second hand spun around the clock
Above the kitchen table- under which
I would play-
Though always in solitude,
I was an Indian, a princess or
On the best of days a queen-

It was a wonder that
Years later
I was the same laughing child
Weeping tears of despair,
Dark shadows cast upon the walls of
My bedroom would
Obliterate any sunlight left in our lives…

Her eyes, hazel in the daylight’s shadows,
Now tear filled as her hair,
Now gray in the dark of the world outside …

Her laughter, now was transforming to deadly silence;
Flowers stood limply in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table where
She would sit, her head resting between her hands-
Long and thin as those of an artist,
Wrinkled, now, years later-
A tear cascading down her cheek-

I hardly understood
Life’s meaning-
My life was far from under that same table-
My world so very small,
But all mine and mine alone-
I had picked those flowers-
Wilted dandelions- and a single rose
From father’s garden-
Though always alone,
Never laughing, never weeping,
Never smiling-

At night, stars were falling and
My thoughts were screaming
“Come back! Come back! ”
That was the moment I first heard them-
The unfamiliar voices-
She would sit at the same table,
Not noticing the dandelions, but only the rose-
The second hand spun as quickly around the clock as
My world was spiraling out of control-
And she would sit on the edge of her
Wrought iron framed queen sized bed
Her head resting in her hands
Still long, thin and like those of an artist-
Frozen
Still…

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

My Father's Garden

I remember my father as being a warm person-
A strong man in many ways always working hard so that
My mother and I could have the very best-
He passed so many years ago but
I can still hear his laughter, and recall his gentleness-
As he was always there for me-
I still can see him working in his garden
At the time we lived close to the shores of Carmel –
I can still hear the leaves upon the trees rustling in the wind,
And the peaceful rocking of the ocean waves
Soothing me as they were lapping upon the shore close by-
I will never forget the joy the flowers he had planted
Brought to him, my mother and I,
As he seemed to be lost inside a world of his own,
Transforming a yard where at one time only high grasses grew
Into a kingdom of color and beauty for everyone to perceive-
I shall never forget the rose bushes-
Yellow, pink and red blossoms in their colorful hues
Enlightening to everyone’s eyes, as they were, and fragrant as well,
In all of their delicacy;
My father passed years ago- - a terminal illness snatched away
This wonderful being – tears still come to my eyes in past memories- as
I cannot comprehend that if a god exists-
How could he have snatched life away so quickly from
A person who had such a zest for life?
I shall never forget the moment he died, how my uncle
Sat upon a chair in the bathroom with his head in his hands weeping
When my father fell to the floor at his death-
Although he has parted from this world forever, fond memories continue-
People always die but flowers keep growing and live on.
Yesterday I cut a pink rose from a bush in the yard and
Placed it in a small vase upon the end table by my bed side and
As I drifted off to sleep this delicate and lovely flower carried me
Into the world of my fantasies- where my father is still with me always, and
I still feel his loving arms embracing me; I can still hear the rustling of
Leaves upon the trees outside, and I still hear the waves lapping upon the shore
And even though in flesh he is gone-
Departed from this world, he has left valuable reminiscences for me to treasure;
Whenever I stand in his garden I can still feel his presence, as in my
Heart and spirit, he shall always be very much alive….

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reminiscence

A rose reminiscent of my father's garden
I found growing by a pathway outside my home- as well as
Another just lying upon the sidewalk-
I collected them and brought them home and
Placed them in a vase my mother always loved.
My mother and father always loved the springtime and
On this rainy Saturday afternoon,
I find it hard to believe they have been gone for twenty years.
My mother's spirit was as delicate as the petals on these roses-
My father's, as strong as their thorny stems that upheld them and
My own spirit, by them, always misunderstood.
Flowers are blossoming everywhere-
Daffodils and wild violets growing every place I look and
Cherry blossoms and dogwood seemly decorating the trees-
Bring back the fonder memories of my mother and my father-while
The rain and the sky so gray and overcast
Bring back memories of the sadness of being misunderstood.
It has been nearly forty years that
I had made my own special world in which to live and
In this world flowers grew not only just in the springtime months-
But all year around and in every place.
The real world was then, to me, a place I never lived in or comprehended, and
As long as I kept my mind alive inside the world of my imagination-
At that time, I believed that I had not a thing to fear.
Roses reminiscent of my father's garden,
Placed in the vase my mother so loved-
Upon this rainy Saturday day in March, evokes a few tears in my eyes and
Just for the moment I think of the laughter and good times we had together-
These thoughts are interrupted by memories of all of the anger, sadness,
Mistrust and disbelief that now overshadow memories of
These few pleasurable moments we not so often shared, and
I take these roses from the vase that sits alone upon the table,
Open my picture window and throw them to the rain, and
As my tears cease to fall and dry away- I say goodbye to all unhappy memories-and
As thoughts of my self-made world disappear,
I am thankful that I have a life in this world here alive, and while
I watch the rose petals flutter about in a gentle spring like breeze-
I leave thoughts of discontented past times behind me and
I realize that I have just been set free.

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Story

The woman came home to find her husband and children sitting around the table
as they'd done so many nights, the lamp on the sideboard casting its usual glow
over the rough wood, some flowers the children had picked in a blue vase,
the youngest daughter's drawing of a horse tacked beside the window
with its burlap drape. They sat around the table with their severed heads set before them
on the woven placemats, and each one's arms had been lifted so the hands
rested on top of the hair, thick hair of her husband she'd wrapped around
her fingers, fine hair of her two daughters, and the baby's soft, barely visible wisps
over the small skull the baby's hands were tiny, they'd had to nail them in place,

and this is where I begin to hate the man who told the story, who made me see
not just their deaths but the soldiers standing around afterwards, the arc
of the hammer as it comes down and drives in what I now can't forget;
the best I can do is to think of Christ, so I can somehow bear the nails,
so I can carry them to you, and maybe I'm no better than the soldiers to do that.
I'm asking you to walk into your own house, to see a child's head
bent over her homework as she scissors pictures from a magazine,
the bright or dark hair she brushes impatiently out of her eyes.
I don't know why I need to say this, or what good or evil it does. I want

the old, acceptable story of suffering, the cross become icon, holy blood
in the chalice. I want not to know what I know as I turn back to my life,
my friends who love me, as I set the table with candles and glasses for wine
and later put my hands in my lover's hair; he enters me, we fall together
onto the bed, he bites my nipples as hard as I can stand it and then harder,
and still it's pleasure I feel, we are given this, too; I tell it to myself over
and over as we make love like animals deep in the forest, far from any village,
caring nothing for the world, ravenous for each other, crying out
while workmen slowly hack a road toward us, while the machines come on.

poem by Kim Addonizio
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Downhill Path

Life is never a flowering tree and a hurricane snatched some brutality away-
In one sense of the word freedom would rule and
In another, I can only see the rain. I foresee no future-
Only dandelions grow all summer long and
Leaves fall from the maple trees as autumn sets in.
I grew up in a home in which
I often believed I was living in purgatory-
Far away from stars in the sky, although overshadowed by clouds-
The sun always rose at dawn.
Today rain falls upon the essence of time and
I can feel the heat of the brushfires in hell below me
Searing the road I am trying to walk- all uphill with no direction-
I have yet to find my place in this world, in other words, reality-
It hardly matters because behind me exists a downhill path upon
Which I can turn back and walk back upon to the world of my thoughts;
Life has never been a flowering tree and although rain has been said to
Nourish trees and make them grow- fog is dense and I am locked inside
A chamber of madness where the only sounds I can hear and see are
Monstrous beings and voices that cannot be seen or heard by anyone else-
I would pick a bouquet of dandelions in the summer if I believed that
As a gift they could bring joy to somebody- but flowers die soon after they are
Plucked from their mother stems and when all of the flowers have been picked,
All I can see is rolling hills of grass, that is when cloud cover and fog
Become too impenetrable for me to foresee any destiny?
I often wonder if the stars so many speak of truly exist-
If they do so exist, they are many light years away-
Rain is pouring and I can hear the wind, as I walk down that hill where
The world of my fantasies awaits me- there I can find some freedom ruling.
Inside the world of my reverie I cannot fathom what the future holds-
This gives me hope that there is a chance I may someday sit peacefully
Beneath a flowering tree- at dusk looking up towards the sky seeing the stars, and
As past memories dissolve into nothingness and my future remains a mystery to me-
I shall just keep on watching the rain falling- but I am not without hope, as for
Some reason- I know that there is always an end to rain, I have created a world for myself,
And I am certain that the sun shall rise again- even after all of the flowers are gone…

poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Past Tense

long, long time ago
in the past tense of my life
there was once a rosey rose
with a beauty sharper than a knife
spoiled by every dropp of rain
on her petals so reddish as blood
playful in such childish vain
though never she had to leave her bud