Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

FORGET ME KNOT
I worry sometimes that you'll forget me
a postscript in this play we call life
"she was here...now she's not. O well"
As I sit on the deck watching birds
a hawk suddenly swoops down and a
Inca dove flies straight into window
right next to me, breaking it's neck
she was here...now she's not. O well.
that bird looked just like all the others
that frequent my domain and I wonder
is she missed? Is there a mate somewhere
who pines for her passing or is she just
forgotten, another in a long line of doves

It is so easy to forget the imprint of one
on those that love them dearly like my friend's
ashes on the mantelpiece that her mate
kisses twice daily, morning and night
he keeps her clothes in the closet
and her car in the driveway saying
"I'm still married, she still talks to me"
she was here...now she's not. O well.
so I wonder if that dove's mate
keeps her feathers in the nest or
just moves on to another and I
muse that we are only remembered
if someone doesn't forget...

SAL, 2/09/2018

so beautiful Soo... gracias for sharing it!

Gracias Arcadia!

ashes
dust on someone's ashes
memories of dust

oh well

Moths and butterflies
Made of pollen

relevant age old musings that will always have a place at the table...does any of this matter ?...and to whom ?....

there doesn't seem to be a correct way to grieve...that's unique, like fingerprints and snowflakes

Tears sometimes appear
And trickle down the wrinkled
Face of generations
That wept in diligence
Humility spoke in whispers
Touching souls

Well for as long as I live and probably beyond I won't forget SAL, because she talked of stars, and how we take our little corner of the universe too seriously or too much for granted, and maybe too often don't appreciate our little life boat planet NOW, and tend ignore or dismiss the (rather alarming) loss of species and their contributions to the biosphere, subordinate to the concerns of "MAN"...

I would have liked sal I’m sure

like an old silver back gorilla
I lost that race to mate
even so
I remember poems as the people who wrote them
and when I remember them after they have died
I still get a feeling of presence when I think of them
the old folks used to say of the dearly departed
"blessed be her his memory

thank you for the poem
please pardon the ramble
amor fati