A Death in the Living Room

Written late at night, inspired by the blue lights that briefly lit up my room.

My father spent his last three days with us, lying dead in the living room. Winter had only just ended. Although the snow had melted and the sun shone warmly through the window, my father still felt so cold. His face was frozen in a peaceful expression, as if he was thankful he could finally rest. We were told that after his heart gave out, he likely only felt pain for a couple of seconds before he was off. I wonder what he thought about in those seconds. 

Maybe he asked for forgiveness.

Maybe he thought of us – his two boys of five and seven, his wife, his other son, his daughters… maybe even the cat? I don’t actually remember him interacting much with the cat. Honestly, I don’t have many memories of him anymore at this point. 

But maybe he thought of the ones I also still remember: how I would squeeze the skin on his hand, between his thumb and index finger. How I would walk on his feet, and he would make me feel as if I was taking giant steps. Or maybe a memory from the photo book, where he held me as I slept in his arms, under a tree in the Amazon. Or maybe it was a tad less dramatic than all of that.

Maybe he just thought: “Wow, that really hurts.” and that was it.

Either way, he seemed to be at peace, at least. 

He lied in the living room for three days, give or take. We painted his humble coffin – his final resting place, with cars, stickmen, clouds, the sun, our names, and every other thing we could think of. We did not question it. After three days his coffin looked rather lively, with all its drawings and colours. 

I even talked to him sometimes. I would just tell him about my day, or about some other small thing. I do think about how it would be to talk to him now if he was in front of me. I would probably just cry. The thought of it already does, anyway. If I really think about it, I don’t think I would say anything, honestly. Any question I would want to ask him would be met with the same dead silence I faced all those years ago. The dead silence I continued to face after he was buried. The dead silence I still face. For some questions, the answer will never be enough.

My father spent his last three days with us, lying dead in the living room. Winter had only just ended. Although the snow had melted and the sun shone warmly through the window, I still felt so cold.

The Giver and Her Lover

She’s the eternal giver,
But what can I give her
Apart from my torn apart heart?
I continue my blindedness – my not seeing,
And allow the intrusive thoughts
To rule me while I try
To sift through truths and the lie
That says that all I love
Will fall apart
And all that I live for
Will leave me as my father did
When his young heart stopped.

My heart continued to beat, however,
And be beaten year after year
As it suffered tear after tear
Till it became the mess it is now
With all its stitches and scabs.

How could I ever be the giver
And not only give her an equal,
But be her equal
When all I have
Is this beaten, beating heart?

Off-beat Heartbeat

I don’t know why
I do what I do
And think
What I think
When I drink
And sink down
Into the misery,
Down into the mystery
Of what it is
I want when I want
To live and break free
Of the me I should be
And be the me I want
To be,
That I see
In my soul
And what makes
Me whole and what
Fills this hole?
Is it love?
Is it life?
What is the endless
Strife, for time –
To be fine,
Or to just
Be okay,
And to just
Wake
Another day.

Yes, that is it
The way out of
The pit,
And so I shall stand
And no longer
Depend, on this temporary cure,
And of that,
I am sure.

The Pain of My Shower Drain

Oh hi there, my shower drain.
I see you wear your hair differently, today.
How it looks so different, after the rain
And all my sweat and dirt and conditioner
And how it’s conditioned you to have hair
In these showery conditions.

I had my suspicions, that something was askew
When from your piped oesophagus, I smelled a certain brew
Made up of what should be in bins,
And all my terrible sins
That washed through you.

Come, I’ll give your hair a rinse,
Although, with a slight wince
At the confrontation of a strange sensation
And being faced with the proof –
An undeniable truth:
That my shower drain used my shampoo.

The Two-Headed Calf

Oh, my two-headed calf.
Your mother loves you all the same,
And will face twice the pain
When the morning comes.

When the sun will rise,
Your eyes will lose their light.
But, the night is young and finite.
So now, my beautiful abomination,
You see all the stars
Twice as bright
During this long night.

The only night.
Your only night.

All you know now is the joy of grazing on grass
And being so close to your mother.
It is all you know,
And all you will know,
My two-headed calf.

One of my current favourite poems is “Two-Headed Calf” by Laura Gulpin. Her poem served as inspiration for this one, and I credit her for the idea of the two-headed calf’s last night.

Under the Morning Star

I can hear the bells approaching –
Charon’s boat on a murky river
As he has come to take me away
To a place where there is no light
And only night
Remains
With my remains.

You ascend with the Valkyries
That take you to the sky –
Through clouds, rain and thunder.
But not before Cupid could shoot
An arrow through my heart,
Of which the tip is barbed
With flowers and stars.

The sun will arrive with its chariot
And the morning star
Will shine bright and guide
Us to each other, with all of us
That remains
After the long, long night.

Of course it’s all a tad dramatic,
But I truly am ecstatic
For every future memory
Of you and me,
And the house
That will always be.

No Point

You know, it’s not the same as it was.
Glares and stares –
No greetings shared
Between friends, an invitation
That comes hours too late.
Maybe it’s you,
Maybe it’s me,
Maybe this is the way
It’s meant to be.

What’s Inside

There is an empty chair over there.
It resides by your side. 
It is where I used to be
Before I set me free.
Or at least,
I thought I did.
But now, still, I bleed 
Red blood
Flowing from scars
That open 
The past and I look inside 
The chambers of my heart. 
There, my eyes can clearly see
The path I lead
And the content emptiness
Inside of me.

This was my 150th post on this blog. I am still so glad that I started this blog, and started sharing my love for poetry over three years ago now. One day I will hopefully publish a collection of my poetry, but for now I am focused on further developing myself and continuing to write more poetry. Thank you for everything.