PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I vividly recall scattered Sunday mornings in May in the years of my youth

We would skip church and silently pray in the field of forget me nots behind the congested chapel

Marveling over the splendid shades of blue, yellow, red, and violent while picking a bouquet of tulips and cherished time well spent from the rainbow on the ground

You would always remind me of what April showers would eventually bring

And you were always right

You would never lie to me

Honesty is something almost impossible to come by these days

Except for in the eyes of an 80 year old angel



I distinctly remember abundant August evenings walking barefoot along the Connecticut shoreline

Looking out across the sound to Long Island, trying to touch Grandpa’s grave on the other side

You found a seashell buried underneath the sand and said that it reminded you of me

So little…yet so beautiful and shiny and full of potential once someone grabs it out of the sand and throws it into the water

You always had a way of making up these magnificent metaphors and spectacular similes that even a perfect poet, such as Plath or Poe or Pope, would never, in a million years, imagine  

So I thank you for throwing me into the ocean on those never-ending nights

And teaching me how to swim



I often replay in my head our final cherished seconds together

Holding your hand in the hospital assuring you everything will be okay and you’ll soon find home in a more peaceful place

The woman who always offered me the best advice...now looking up to me for the right words to guide her soul to a safe flight

I skip church every Sunday to visit your grave in the field of forget me nots behind the abandoned chapel

And I wait until May comes along to make you another rainbow

I often climb the family tree hovering above your headstone

Scrutinizing the many branches of our past, present, and future

But I never even try to make it up to the top

For I would never dare to even attempt to take your place on the pinnacle



And sometimes when the snow falls hard, and a smaller family tree with presents under it is placed in the living room

I look at old photographs in my mind of the times we spent together

And reminisce on the memories I wouldn’t exchange for all the riches of the world

But I would throw this poem away into the Atlantic Ocean

Or bury it in that forgotten field of flowers behind the decaying chapel

If I could just make those tree shaped Christmas cookies with you

One more time