On the Occasion of my Life

On the Occasion of my Life

It is what it is and no more

What can be said of my life
except I survived and tried to do
what I thought was right.
Did the trying always match the deed?
No, there were times I looked aside
and did the thing I thought in error
would bring sweet relief.

I took care of what I was given
as best as I knew how
even when I saw nothing
but darkness rising – no light dawning.
"There will be another day.
The sun will shine again."
I told myself these words,
my mind only half believing.
But it was the right thing to do –
to hope, to believe, to try
to keep the fear from seeping
into my child as he lay sleeping.

I endeavored to impart hope and cheer
to others along the way
when there was nothing within me
but loneliness and fear.
Never quite connecting to another soul,
I knew the hand of friendship;
but it did not make me whole.
I gave when there was nothing more to give,
when it was all I could do to get through
one more pain filled day.
I knew life-giving words to say,
but my heart did not hear them.

I've lived within the chrysalis,
waiting to take flight;
longing to be lovely;
for the wings to make life right.
I thought I felt them once
sprouting from my sides
and hoped it was my time to fly.
I felt the rush of passion,
the blush was on my cheek;
but suddenly my wings were smashed.
My hope turned to grief.

There have been moments,
dashes in the realm of time,
when something akin to peace
seemed to sweep lightly across my skin.
Looking back, it was likely
only the foehn wind
sweeping down from a mountaintop
where I'd never been.

As I write these words,
I see the falsehoods and lies
pouring from the lips of men
as they give their words a spin
not even trying to do what's right.
At least, I've always tried
to share the truth
even when I could not live it.
Surviving is something;
trying perhaps a little more.
I only hope that in some way
I've shown someone the Door.

© Copyright 2010 Karen M. Crump

In a Tide of Transformation...
My reality...

My life's a revolving door which moves both ways
allowing people to freely go or stay.
Inside in the foyer is a welcome sign,
"Now that you are here, please keep this is mind."

"I am who I am - I may never change,
or I may sway with the wind and rearrange
all that you thought I was and go a new way.
Take me or leave me - I can't make you stay."

"My reality moves in the flowing tide.
It sweeps backwards and forwards, side to side.
If you're caught in my wake and constant churning,
No apology - it's not you I'm spurning."
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note: As I go along in life, I find that that my reality ebbs and flows, changes over time. What was once is no more. This is a poem I wrote in 2010 in that regard.

Old Dogs and Grandma's Apron

You know, when we get older we often look back on our life and try to see what was truly important.  This story is about one such look back in my life.

 

Old Dogs and Grandma's Apron

 
I was sitting at my kitchen table folding the laundry, which I'd done earlier in the day, when it came to me like wisdom – about what's wrong with our kids nowadays. It comes down to two things we are missing: old dogs and grandma's aprons and the love which they displayed.

Back in the day – a long time ago it seems -  a kid could go to grandma's house to escape the worries of the day. "Hey, Gran!  Where's old Mike?" I can hear the young boy say as he went looking for the dog who was most likely sunning himself behind the house.

When that old dog saw the boy, he would get up and stretch his legs and wag his tail saying hello in his own way.  Without a word being spoken, that old dog would follow the boy to the woods behind Gran's house until they came to their special place. It might have been a big flat rock or a big old tree fallen from a long ago storm. But whatever it was, the boy would take a seat; and old Mike would lie down at his feet.

If it was something really sad that brought the boy to Gran's house, he'd grab Mike around the neck and let the tears fall into the fur of the dog his daddy called a stupid, mangy cur. Mike would sit there still as stone and then he'd turn and lick the boy in the face as if the tears and the sadness he could erase.  Then back to the house they'd head; problems of the world put into their proper place.

At other times, the boy would wander into Gran's kitchen and watch her cooking at the stove or rolling out dough for biscuits or the lemon cookies that he loved. Grandma always wore an apron, a loop around the neck and tied at the waist with big pockets in front. It kept her dress clean while she was cooking, cleaning, or doing other household things; but it was much more than just a covering.

The boy would hang around the door not saying a word.  Gran would wash her hands and dry them on her apron before going over to a chair at the kitchen table.  "Boy, come over here and give your Gran a hug," she would say.  That's all it took sometimes to get to the bottom of things.  The boy would run to his Gran with tears in his eyes and get a big hug and then lay his head down on her lap and cry into that apron while she stroked his head.  "What's wrong, boy?" Gran would ask.  And between the tears, the words would tumble out.  It's not that Gran always had an answer to the worry of the day, but she was always there and took her apron and wiped the tears away.  Somehow that old apron, worn by many washings, was like magic; it set things right just by its touch.  Or did it simply reflect a grandma's loving heart?

On happy days, the boy would take the old dog and play.  Tossing sticks for Mike to fetch and then running here and there.  No better companion could be found.  He didn't complain or want to be "first" or get mad when the boy decided not to play anymore.  It was an easy friendship.

And if the boy should take a tumble and skin his knee up real bad, Mike would run over and lick the wound and wait right there until the boy got up from the ground.  The boy would head to the kitchen where Gran could always be found.  She'd take a look at that knee and say, "Boy, come over here and get up on this table."

The boy would go over and use a chair to step up to the old wooden table.  He'd take a seat with his legs hanging down.  Gran would wet an apron corner at the sink and come over and wash the wound clean.  She'd take another corner and use it like a fan to dry the boy's knee.  From next to the stove, she'd grab a jar of salve and put a small dab on her hand and gently, oh so gently; she would rub it into the wound.  "There, boy," she'd say.  "You're fine now.  Get on down now and go back and play."  And fine he was.

Old dogs and grandma's apron.  I paused from my laundry folding and thought long and hard about this new found wisdom until tears filled my eyes.  I don't even own an apron, and my grandchildren are far away.  We have some very fine dogs, but none of them is an old mangy cur named Mike, a plain old dog who will lick the tears from my face.  We've lost some irreplaceable things some where along the way.

Copyright ©  January 5, 2010  by Karen M. Crump

Edited: May 29, 2011

A Lifetime to Realize

A Lifetime to Realize
The fires of life shape our souls

It's hard to remember who I am
in the midst of life's conflagrations.
Traced in constellations far away,
a light without darkness lingers.
Being what good is supposed to be,
my original bright conception calls out to me.
Sometimes it takes a lifetime to realize
that the fires burn the chaff away
leaving just a lovely lasting glow.

© Copyright 2011 Karen M. Crump

Dedicated to a still brightly burning star: Larry Ray Powers

Simply Functioning

This is a poem I wrote in 2011.

 

Simply Functioning
Tales of Aging

Stress fractured mental condition,
interruption causes me to leave things behind.
Staying focused on the subject
prevents me from skipping vital steps in my mind.
Simmering frustration foments
when enormous efforts don't produce in the end.
Simple factors complicated,
brings agitation when I cannot comprehend.
Senior faculties faltering,
makes simple functioning a monumental task.
Self forgiveness isn't easy;
keeping it hidden from others is all I ask.

© Copyright 2011 Karen M. Crump

Aging Woman in Repose

This is a poem I wrote in 2011.

 

Aging Woman in Repose
Living in the past tense

 
She gathers and guards her treasures
there is little else to measure
a lifetime in the past tense.
She mutters not making much sense.

Yellowed letter from her husband,
envelope opened, reopened,
a twist of lovely golden hair
from a time he was young and fair.

A ragged heart shape with childish scrawls,
"I love you, Mom," the message calls
to old memories of days gone by.
Oh, how quickly the time can fly!

Ink penned poems in a journal,
paint a picture like a mural,
of a woman's romantic soul,
composed when her mind was still whole.

She gathers and guards her treasures.
These tokens provide a measure
of a lifetime in the past tense.
She mutters and to God makes sense.

© Copyright 2011 Karen M. Crump

Old Worn Out Parts

This is a poem I wrote in 2006.

 

Old Worn Out Parts

Old men and pick up trucks

 

Hole in the manifold,
a glitch in the starter;
the engine has grown cold -
don’t run like it “oughter.”

Transmission stuck in first,
the u-joint going out;
the radio is static -
worn out beyond a doubt.

Aging trucks and old men,
their time has come to pass.
The parts may all be there;
but they’ve run out of gas.

Copyright © April 12, 2006 by Karen M. Crump