There are mornings
whose blues are unspeakable,
whose yellows are far too dandelion
to dilute under sun.

You should have died in November.
I could count you in raw clouds,
reflected in reds rotting to brown.
I could paint all color siphoned to straw,
brighten it with blood kissed from my fingers
caught on the skeletons of roses.

But there is room for loss
even in blooming.  I can mourn
you vineless, thornless,
worn open as the hole I tear
over my chest, where my heart was.

About Susan L Daniels

I am a firm believer that politics are personal, that faith is expressed through action, and that life is something that must be loved and lived authentically--or why bother with any of it?
This entry was posted in New Free Verse and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

36 Responses to Keriah

  1. annotating60 says:

    Excellent. Excellent. Is it going to be a long night? >KB

  2. Miriam E. says:

    ” i could count you in raw clouds”
    perfection. xx

  3. Heartafire says:

    Beautiful and fine poetry.

  4. When the world seems turned up too bright, like a TV picture tuned all wrong. I can identify with the emotion in this Susan – it’s very beautiful.

  5. nelle says:

    This is superior work.

  6. You couldn’t get more brilliant dear!

  7. Alice Keys says:

    This harpooned my heart and yanked. Good work.

  8. this may be my favorite poem written by you Susan. absolutely stunning work

  9. Lindy Lee says:

    You bend your reader’s heart in your direction so that one feels the grief you continue to experience for the loss of your Mother…

    • Lindy, thank you. My grief has mellowed to the point I can write about her loss now. Took a long, long time. I remember the morning of her funeral was a gorgeous May morning, and I remember thinking a thought that generated this. Took three years to rise to the surface, though.

  10. BroadBlogs says:

    Wow! All I can say.

    Thank you so much for sharing your poetry.

  11. Jeremy Nathan Marks says:

    I am finding myself circling around the yellow and the dandelion especially.

    I am taken with your idea that it is easier to mourn at a darker, rainier, grayer time of year. Maybe what makes mourning even more enveloping is the fact that blue is so blue and yellow is so alive, so living like a dandelion and not hidden away in some rainy, lock box of the heart. When things are beautiful we want to share that beauty, don’t we? And that is what is so lovely and what stings in this poem.

    I sometimes think that sadness is never more acute than when it happens in the midst of such spectacular and yet gentle beauty. There is the beauty of mourning and of the sublime, but that to me is a terrible beauty that awes and overwhelms. Sometimes it is the soft beauty of things that makes me feel loss more than anything else. Or when I walk outside and feel all of this marvelous life and at the same time feel the intense suffering that is out there too. They are always paired.

    This is lovely, Susan. It deserves an even larger audience than the really great community of people you have already attracted to your wonderful blog.

    • Jeremy, wow–thank you! What struck me about that thought I had (initially in 2010) was its arrogance–that I wanted the world to be November and not so damned beautiful the morning I buried my mother. But, you are ultimately right, and the truth in your words is a comfort, as well. We can mourn in beauty as well as desolation.

      I am thinking about sharing this one. It has a truth to it that I think might work well for a larger audience.

  12. George Ellington says:

    This is stunning, Susan. And so very real. I always enjoy reading your verses but there are times when reading you delivers me quite unerringly into just the right place and the right moment in my thoughts. And i cannot help but feel that this is precisely where I should be. Thank you for allowing me to mourn with you. To remember mourning for all of its tender meaning.

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