Gone ~ A poem

Gone

 

Civilization swings
one extreme to the other.
You try in vain to understand it all.

A silenced moon hangs low, red,
angry,
and you are on the other side
walking a tightrope of a dream.

Hasn’t anyone told you
that you are gone?

You know I care about you,
you said.

That night I dreamt of sunflowers,
Schweinitz’s, the kind
you don’t see much anymore.

Fingertips pulling at my hair from behind
remind me that
Somewhere beyond my quiet porch,
bent around corners I no longer see,
the rain is whispering your name.

Hasn’t anyone told you
that I am sitting here?

I smile,
because sunflowers are beautiful,
even if I can’t see them.

 

Christina Ward
8/22/06

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note: Schweinitz’s Sunflower is endemic to my region of the world. This precious flower species (pictured above) is a member of the Asteraecae family and has been on the federal endangered species list since 1991. (Gale 2000)

 

“Distribution

Schweinitz’s sunflower is endemic to the piedmont of the Carolinas, where it is currently known from 10 populations in North Carolina and six in South Carolina. The North Carolina populations are located in Union, Stanly, Cabarrus, Mecklenberg, and Rowan Counties. The species has been extirpated from Stokes and Montgomery Counties in North Carolina. All the extant and historic sites for the species in South Carolina are in York County. Thirty-eight percent of the historically extant populations have been destroyed. Most of the remaining populations are small, with four of them containing less than 40 individuals each.” (Siler, R.)

 

REFERENCES:

The Gale Group Inc. (2000). Schweinitz’s Sunflower. Beacham’s Guide to the Endangered Species of North America. Retrieved from https://www.encyclopedia.com/environment/science-magazines/schweinitzs-sunflower

Siler, Robert. Schweinitz’s Sunflower – Helianthus schweinitzii . Retrieved from http://www.scwf.org/schweinitzs-sunflower

 

 

Dear Mr. Valentine

A hastily written but mightily felt wish of the heart…

 

Dear Mr. Valentine,

 

You sleep next to me like a happy rock.
As night rolls over into tomorrow,
I sit staring at our future.
Two creaky rocking chairs are there
Gnawing at the porch as we rest our aching backs
And laugh until breathing hurts our ribs.
Waterfalls and grassy balds and eagles
We’ve shared will occupy our minds
As we, together, will forget to say
The things we forgot that we meant to say
And laugh, still more.
This tea is so good, you’ll say.
I made it for you, I’ll say.
We are great old people aren’t we, Babe?
We’ll agree.
Just like we’ve always said we would be.
Dear Mr. Valentine,
as you lay there sleeping
As the night turns over to February 14,
I just want you to know I don’t need any flowers.
I remember all the ones we have seen.
I don’t need a ring or shiny things.
I remember the suns and the moons we’ve seen.
I don’t need you to say a bunch of romantical things.
I see them in the way that you still look at me.
Just promise me that
We will make great old people someday.

 

Christina Ward
2/14/19

 

 

Because sometimes you just decide it’s Valentine’s Day, and there are things to say. To the “happy rock” sleeping next to me, Happy Valentine’s Day.

Thank you for reading…Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Dust

 

     We can all identify in some way to addiction. Regardless of what that addiction may be, no matter the greatness of it, we all share in the same struggle to let them go, to release that thing which holds our hands behind our backs and our truths hostage. This poem is about the sad dance we do to entertain our addictions, to pretend they don’t own us, and to prepare for the day we will be ready to bury them. Most people can relate.

     I pray whatever has you, that you will one day find the strength to live free of it. I don’t remember exactly what inspired me to write this poem and to my recollection I have never shared it with anyone. I feel compelled to do so now, in the hopes that it will touch the heart of someone in need. Thank you for reading and I welcome your thoughts and comments. Here is “Dust.”

Dust

Addictions collect,
blend in the wash.
We hang their silent arsenal
to dry in the sun.

We pull them down,
flap the dust free,
floating between smoke bunnies
that land and swim in our drinks.

(Dust drinked down
is just as dry.)

We cannot nail the casket shut
just yet.

 

Christina Ward, Feb. 2008

Bluebirds in Late Winter

See the source image    

Hi all. I hope you are having a poetic day. I recently discovered an unfinished poem in my  drafts of an email I hadn’t used in years. What is interesting, to me, is that it was begun before I learned that my mother loves bluebirds. She shared with me that seeing bluebirds is a very emotional and spiritual experience to her; like God is showing her that everything is going to be ok. I love this. Perhaps you, too, have a symbolic experience like this with something that you see in nature? Something that stills your heart, centers you, and touches your spirit in a way that defies explanation? I hope that in nature you have these experiences and cherish them. Another interesting thing about this poem is that the other bird mentioned is my favorite bird, Cedar Waxwings. At the time I began writing this, that collaboration was not intentional, but now it is very special to me. As writers, it is sometimes difficult to adequately express how we feel about our loved ones. How could one ever show the depth of those emotions in their poetry? Well, we try. And with that, this poem is for my mother, a truly beautiful spirit in this world.

I hope that you will enjoy Bluebirds in Late Winter as much as I enjoyed re-discovering it, and polishing it up to completion. Please, do, share your thoughts with me on this meaningful poem.

Bluebirds in Late Winter

Surprising blue spirits descend
transforming snow-covered fences.
They search the snow for pieces of Spring
to pull from sleepy ground.
They carve spaces in the sky
for her to enter.

Flashes of red tuck under as
Waxwings alight, all stern and masked
They pluck berries
Shift and bounce and disperse,
Leaving the bluebirds
To sing of Spring.

Poetry by Christina Ward

February 2019

Yesterdays, A Whimsical View of Childhood Memories

 

Yesterdays

Why don’t you climb inside
my braids and sing
me a song?

swinging
out over the grasses
our feet stretched so high
the chain-link grinds
as we rise
toward
sun

Why don’t you open up your
freckles and let
me inside?

I need
to know where
the June bugs hide in the winter
when swings don’t swing
and the night
stands
still

 

 

poetry by Christina Ward

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