Special Gifts

 Lauren McBride 

 

 

Happy Memorial Day

Lauren McBride shares powerful poignant poems about grief as we remember our lost loved ones on Memorial Day. All poems first appeared in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review.

 By Lauren McBride

 Looking back at my school days, I always enjoyed creative writing assignments, although ultimately, I was drawn to science for college and grad school. Then came marriage, career, and kids, and I stopped making time for my scribbles.

 Ironically, it was my children who brought me back to writing, as a way to encourage them when I heard from their teachers that they did not like to write. I thought writing a story together might help. Soon after, the teachers' complaints stopped, and later, when older, both children went on to publish a piece or two, either independently or with me. Back when we started our story, I had published nothing and began to wonder if I could, and how to go about it.

 Around 2009, I started submitting some short poems and flash fiction with mixed results, especially my early attempts at mainstream haiku. More than once, a rejection letter also gently suggested that I buy a book on how to write haiku!

 

Since then, I have published a few short stories, a couple of articles, hundreds of poems, and my debut chapbook, Aliens, Magic, and Monsters (Hiraeth, 2023). My chapbook features over 20 poetic forms from rhyming to free verse to minimalist - including an appendix on how to write each one, my way to share the joy of writing poetry.

 

A far cry from joy, my poems today are about grief. They were written in various forms for a variety of reasons. Only one, "He Loved to Play," is a work of fiction inspired by a poetry prompt involving numbers. "The Song Ends" was something I witnessed. "Mournful" was inspired by stories about a haunted lighthouse (Minots Light, Massachusetts). The remaining three were a way to let overwhelming feelings find release on a page, and through words memorialize a young girl in "Epitaph," and my father in two minimalist poems. 

 

 

 

 

Empty Mug

He used to read
the comics to her
over coffee.

Now she reads
to his photograph
 

 

 

model train silent
on dusty tracks by dark towns
after Dad's passing
 

 

Epitaph for One So Young

             For Michelle, who was willing to hang on

             until her parents were willing to let her go.  

Our tender phrases eased your grief
till gathered guests too soon took leave;
all cards and flowers in plain sight
when tearful day met empty night.

Then loneliness consumed once more,
and sorrow from all thoughts of her.
But please do not remain in pain;
your daughter did not die in vain.

Her voice grown weak, her frame so small,
yet lessons she did teach to all:
that love endures and life is prized -
though fading from her young blue eyes.

Now all those gathered on that day
will find new meaning when they pray,
for all those know this world has still
true friendship, love and strength of will.

And all those know within their hearts
the pain that’s felt when one departs,
and joy that’s felt when one is free
of earthly strife and misery.

Please let fond memories sustain,
for her sad death was not in vain.
Renewed are friendship, love and will
with those who miss her voice grown still.

 

 

He Loved to Play

His hands lay drumming on stiff white sheets.
Not drumming, she realized when she arrived
at his bedside, breathless and rushed.

"We had to restrain him," the orderly was saying.
"His tap-tapping was bothering the other patients."
"I came as soon as I heard," she protested, watching his hands.

"Not drumming," she said. "He’s playing piano."
Grabbing one hand, she kissed his brow.
He smiled, fingers flying.

"Release him," she commanded, and fixed fierce eyes
on the orderly until he obeyed.
Then she took both hands in hers and counted -

123, 123 A waltz danced from his fingers
across her palms. Music he loved to play
before sickness came and slowly erased his mind.

3/4, 6/8, 4/4 rhythmic recitals
racing in cut time
slowing . . . stopping . . .

He was gone,
leaving her memories -
and music clutched in her hands.
 

 

 

 

The Song Ends

There were two eggs
in the nest.
I know because
I snuck a peek,
but no bird came
to chase me off,
or sit on them.
And there were feathers
in the grass.

It would help to know
that somewhere
some hungry
creature lived on,
nourished by
this little bird
who left only
a fistful of feathers
and two eggs
in a nest.
 

 

 

 

Mournful

Mournful the howl of the wind
            bringing clouds of darkest gray.
Mournful the cry of the keepers
            feeling the lighthouse sway.
Mournful the rain, the lash of waves
            washing the keepers away.
Mournful the wail of the widows
           for loved ones drowned in the fray.
Mournful the old stone lighthouse
             where ghosts now walk, they say.    
 

To read more about Lauren:

 https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2024/01/storyteller-of-week_19.html