After Your Death

Solitude is cruel;

A lone tree, when the wind blows,

desires the forest.

Ariel

Jan 8, 2012

Zoe's concert

I’m sitting where I was

Suppose to sit last year.

Ariel

Dec 2, 2011

Anniversary

I’m not sure I have learned my lessons;

the ache has not lessened but expanded.

Your absence takes up so much room -

A year – you are not camping.

I know- I remember that whispering hospital;

urging you back, and at times you did.

But you couldn’t stay. And so I lied to you.

            I said I would be okay.

Promised. You could go.

And I’m not. Even now

I feel like one on life support.

“Just get through the day. Just get through”

but at night the sound of you doesn’t breathe

And I lay there, waiting for them to start again.

Pretend you’re just gone camping.

The money is gone; I have not learned to budget.

Food is often take-out; still do not have the habit of cooking.

My phone reminds me to put out the trash can,

Pay the bills, buy groceries. I cling to it.

And at night – I have not learned to sleep

Without the breath of your sound.

Ariel

Nov 30, 2011

The Surviving Spouse

Dead brown cracked leather -weathered

stiff - layers of drying mud on soles.

Laces frayed, my hands still grasp them -

draw them around hooks, pull them tight

as they envelop aching feet; our day

is not done.  The sunrise dies and I

lower myself into the dank crawl space

searching out the burst rusted pipe;

the corrupted water softening the leather

but its chill and moistened rot permeates,

ensuring I will never lose its rank entropy

Ariel

Nov 4, 2011

House Equals Home

“People with no hope are easy to control”

The walls have survived your passing.

They still surround; the doors still open.

The wood has absorbed your breaths

and daily exhale it into still air.

The floor still presses against your footsteps;

the curtains attempt to shield you yet from the sun.

Your last book still waits for your fingers;

the imprints still show you sitting in your chair

To a house, time does not exist;

we always exist there, our movements

fixed in it’s memories as a constant now.

Every inch filled, sealed with existing.

Don’t ask it to forget, don’t ask it to be aware

if I’m to survive your passing.

Let us exist every moment of our life as if in a loop

and daily exhale it into still air.

Ariel

Nov 3, 2011

Forming Again

Running errands,

They are forming again.

The air

            Humid

            Cold

You can get lost in this

            This ache

Ariel

Oct 8, 2011

October's Blackberrires

There’s nothing I can do for crying eyes
spent & dry as october’s blackberries;
Husband, didn’t you live for me?
MyLord, rascal , scoundrel, spade;
didn’t it all turned out in the end richtig?
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?

Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Even, in those years of crying eyes,
when nothing solid between us could be richtig;
those Marches we cut back too hard on the blackberries
hacking away at them with hedge clippers and spades -
Husband, didn’t you live for me?

Husband, didn’t you live for me;
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Though sometimes it’s a dull edge of a spade
Still, you again started wiping my crying eyes,
Rubbed my bruises dark as blackberries,
Said, without me, the world would not be richtig.

I wait for life to speed up, become normal, become richtig;
oh, My Husband, didn’t you live for me?
It’s like holding breath waiting for ripening blackberries;
Remind me - happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
I rub my drying, no-longer-crying, eyes;
longing and loneliness rains down in spades

The long file bites the metal flat of hoes and spades;
The ritual sharpening will make them work richtig,
The silver slivers will fall out of my crying eyes.
Still … Husband, didn’t you live for me?
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
In the evening I gather the sun-warmed blackberries.

I walk past the over-ripe blackberries,
Put away the sleeping hoes & spades;
Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
Insulate the house tight and richtig;
(Husband, didn’t you live for me?)
how do I stop the crying eyes?

Crying eyes, spent & dry as october’s blackberries;
Husband, didn’t you live for me? Your leaving cut like a spade;
Nothing is alles richtig.  Happiness happens sometimes, doesn’t it?

Ariel
April 9, 2011

The Day Your Cat Died

Tomorrow another September begins
the leaves will begin to flame,
but there will never
be another like this.
I’ve been sifting
through the ashes,
forgetting I still burn,
still char,
still disintegrate;
my heart blackened on the edges
but the center burns white.

The days begin to shorten and
the nights turn chill;
what can I say
about September
that hasn’t been said
before?<

But this time will
be the first September;
not fresh
but accepting,
not new but a
different shade
a different temperature –
a flame you could hold
your hand above.

We began
the countdown in August.
Three weeks ago
I packed your jackets.
Two weeks
your shirts.
One – your pants pulled
off the hanger and folded.

Now I send you your cat, she’s missed you.
She’s turned cold.

My August
is a strange amalgam;
part only me,
part still “us”.
When I’m alone
I toss & turn in the ashes
‘til I fade with dawn’s ember;
during the days, I scatter myself,
at times remembering
I scattered you in June.

This was supposed to be a love poem.

Tomorrow September begins;
my year burning towards this
multi-hued
Fall.
Fade.

December comes.


Ariel
Aug 31, 2011

Salem, Oregon

Because I am not sleepy,

            I have the skin of a quince

that has spent its life wrinkled;

            inside the quince

I am drawn in. I cannot tell when

            a finger reaches in

and scratches the atoms

            of the chest, sometimes

a tattoo will bring the knee

into my strap

or the yellow scabs falling

            on the dirty floor are stars.

Beginning to itch each other

            out of their drifting cloak,

all the clocks I have known

have been chambered by the fog

and the locks crossing the docks

at night.

Ariel

April 10, 2011

Trees on Memaloose Road
CC Willow

based on Jacksonville, Vermont by Jason Shinder