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Celebrating Life....
This page is dedicated to family and friends. Fun
times, together times, alone times. Snapshots and verse that carry us along life's pathways...
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Embracing the Past
I am again in
our space but not
our time
Memories drift by
good, bad, indifferent
everywhere
Am I wrong to
look for you here and
there
You are in the
light..the
shadows
You are in the
glint of the rippled
ocean..
cool forest
I look for you
always
Surrounded by your
presence yet
nothing
tangible to
touch or
see
Embracing the past
to move forward
isn't easy
I must try
hold my hand love
..please
©7/2007/SQB
FOUR YEARS LATER
It's that time of year again.
You know, that time, yeah.
I've managed to write a poem
laced with sorrow and yearning
three years running. I can hardly
find the words right now, much less
the emotion.
Have I forgotten you? Never!
You were my life, two became one.
Then what is it..why am I strangely
empty? Do you not matter anymore?
I think you matter more than ever.
I think you are here with me, mind
and spirit.
Ahh love, what I would give for just
one peek at your face; one touch of
your hand. I have photos of our life
together. I see your smiling face
daily. I thank God I can still hear
your voice in my mind. I thank God
He placed you in my life at all.
Maybe what I'm doing right now is a
bit of therapy, to ward off the wave
of sorrow that may or may not come.
Maybe I'm just moving on, learning
and living; accepting. Maybe this
isn't quite a poem, as much as a
journal entry. But who cares.
This is from me to you. This is about
me and you. I miss you. I love you.
I want you.
There now, that's a little better.
A few tears; normal, at last...
© 2006/SQB
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UNTITLED
The
struggle has been long,
the battle fierce. In the end
the war is lost.
Enough! he cries to doctors,
his wife.
Dear, faithful wife,
enough. Take me home, please.
In the comfort of his bedroom
those he loves gather round.
Brave
smiles a frail front for sorrow.
Murmurs, vague recognition. Faces
of family, fading. Angels all, fading.
Fading..enough
dear family, enough.
*Dedicated to my Uncle Carl.*
© 03 May, 2006 Susan Britton
My uncle gently landed on Saturday, May 6th, 2006.
Sawdust Wisdom
Once more the smell of sawdust
fills the air, taking me back to
childhood memories.
Suddenly jerked from my reverie
when the old carpenter mumbles under
his breath about
how I'm helping him.
A 3/8 inch of cedar falls under the
saw to exact measurements, to spend
life as a desk
for the pastor up the road.
I watch the hands of this white-haired,
72 year old man I still call Daddy move
with
swift and steady speed-rain's comin'.
Thunder rumbles, the old man grumbles and
I laugh. He chides me for being
a good-for-nuttin',
we move the cut wood into the shed for shelter.
I tell him I've got a couple of splinters
in my hand
and he tells me it builds character, leave them there.
I say I'm 46; he nods and says he knows that-smiling.
| CAPE HATTERAS |
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BEFORE THE MOVE
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Hatteras
by Moonlight
It was one of
those adventures that
weaves itself to every fiber of your being.
The camping trip that stood out above
all others,
told time and time again...
A party of three: husband, son and me.
Took the long way round by truck, across
the
bridge to Bodie Island, Pea Island, and
finally onto Hatteras Island proper.
On the cape I am transfixed by the
golden color
of the sand; transparent when held in one's hand.
I watch a rusty Jeep towing cars and a shiny new truck
out of what could only be described as shifting dunes.
I stare out at the water and I realize I'm standing on
hallowed ground. Deep, ancient sand upon which
stands the lighthouse itself. Towering and impressive,
with it's
black and white stipes, and I am humbled.
Graveyard of the Atlantic, the Lost Colony, and
Pirates' booty; I hear
the tales swirling around in my
head. Folklore abounds unchecked, my imagination
runs rampant. I decide I could live
here forever.
We talk to a few fishermen , getting a feel for the place.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the
sandbags piled
by the breakwater, a feeble attempt at protecting the
mighty tower from the encroaching sea, as if
it could.
We set up the tents and cook our dinner over the
campstove. I hear the distant roar of the waves on
the shoals, and I feel a primitive tug at my heart.
Adreneline rushes through my body, I smile within.
Off
we go, fishing gear in tow. Tide's coming in and
the sun sets magenta in the west. My son's surprised
face etched
forever in memory when a baby shark is
caught on his line. To be a nine year old boy, I'll never know.
Fishing
rods bending with the pull of the current,
shorebirds dance with the incoming waves, crabs go
scurrying by. Suddenly
a swath of light cuts across
the water. Everything goes into slow motion .....
I turned my head and saw for the
first time in my life,
the beam that has been a light of hope to so many;
saving ships and men from the shoals that
lay offshore.
Rising behind that sweeping light was a full moon.
It seemed to hang, just there, behind the beacon
for
an eternity, as I simply stared in awe of the beauty
unfolding in front of me. It's just the moon, behind
a
lighthouse, yet I felt like I'd been given a gift.
The beacon of Hatteras Lighthouse a comforting
presence, we
sat on the tailgate of our truck as the
moon made it's way across the night sky. Laughter
of fishermen brought to
us by the steady breeze.
It is a simple memory, with minute details engraved
in my mind, and on my heart. One
told many times;
the shark that grows bigger with each telling , and
the fish my husband and I never caught-yes, true.
I write it for my son who will read it one day to his son,
and by then the shark will be nine feet long; the waves
ten feet high. I write it for those who have never seen
the great tower with it's broad stripes of white and black.
**and i write it for me, a bittersweet memory of
a family of three**
Grandfather's House
It stands as it always has,
square, flat
roof with a lean
toward the back. Made of
rock, shells, and cement.
A wide concrete front porch
with a nice
wall to sit on.
A mango tree for shade, some
hibiscus plants for color.
...i used to
play here...
Big rooms, for a big family.
Memories are stirred as I pass
through each
one, remembering:
laughter and tears.
I hear it I think, the laughter
from yesteryear. I feel his gaze
as
I touch the walls..Grandaddy..
smile at the ready.
...i'm not scared...
I am comfortable with ghosts these
days. I talk out loud in the kitchen
about
the times around the table.
Did you know he was six feet tall?
We cousins used to run barefoot
through the neighbor's
yard; yelling
at old Mr. Hartman's cows as he
herded them down the road.
...gramps
hollering at us from the porch...
© 2/23/05 sqb
Visits With Oma, Part I
Oma was a thin,
frail looking
woman, short of stature.
Her outward appearance
belied her inner strength.
Born and raised in
Holland, she
had lived through the German
invasion and had hid Jews in her
home, with secret codes and all.
These
stories I listened to with
eyes wide open, sitting at her feet.
The Diary of Anne Frank come to
life. I was transported
in time.
A weekend with Oma consisted of
dinners of delicacies, prepared with
ease. My first taste of Asparagus
spears
and Hollandaise sauce.
Early morning breakfasts out on the back
porch, watching the sun come up to
coffee(even
though I was too young),
and tomato slices on rye.
She tried to teach me Dutch, but Danish
came easier to me,
she spoke both.
I would browse her bookshelves looking
for something I might be able to decipher.
Oma had interesting
trinkets which I perused
with care. Everything had a story behind it.
She was strict, and sometimes intimidating;
but
somehow it never bothered me.
My weekends with her and my grandfather
were never long enough for me. I could never
seem
to quench my thirst for the adventures
they related. Now is my time to pass those along.
Visits With Oma, Part II
I woke to the smell
of frying eggs
and fresh coffee. I took a moment
to gather myself, at 12 years old that
can take a while.
Suddenly
I leaped out of bed and hit the
floor running. "Are we going, Oma? Are
we??" She turned and sternly looked at
my
slipper-less feet, I backed into the
bedroom and put them on.
Oma was all about being a lady, and set
on teaching
us girls, my cousin and I,
about becoming one. I was reminded to
brush my teeth, my hair and then to come
to breakfast.
As
I stuffed my mouth and my eyes stared
at her, she relented and smiled. "Yes," she said.
"Today we look for the seahorses."
I almost
spit food across the table with my shout of
glee!
I wondered if my cousin in the house across
the
yard was awake yet. We had to go! Now!
The elusive seahorse lived down by the sea,
we had to snorkel and try and find
him.
I must find him!
Sad to say that seahorse has remained
elusive
all these years. We saw many wonderful fish,
star fish and sea urchins. My aunt told me she
saw one swim
by her while snorkeling a month
ago; my heart skipped a beat.
© 2/19/05 sqb
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Everywhere I Turn
You, my love, are everywhere I turn
the ocean our playground, we share
our delight like children as we run
across the sandbox of life
To the waters of sustenance
We frollick in wild abandonment
with the creatures of the sea
Our love, so tangible, one remains
I run to the sea to find you
Always, you are there
© 2004/SQB
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TRANSITIONS
To move between things,
places and time.
Changes are transitions.
Life changes, major loss,
birth and death are very
much transitions.
Where do we go; what do we do?
Are we conscious of the move,
or is it so sublte we never
knew when it happened.
Is it something you "get over"?
Or does it "get over on you?"
You are in control. You are not
in control. Where are you?
Ahh Life! "They say", ...take time
to smell the roses; but they have
thorns and I might get hurt.
Or will I hurt becuase I missed
the opportunity to smell the roses?
Changes, transitions...between and
betwix.
I am getting there you yell out!
Does a tree in the forest make
noise when it falls?
Learning to live by yourself,
rely on yourself, is a major
transition. learning to be
happy with your decision is
a change.
Can we, must we, would we...
make that change within us,
in order to transition from
place to place;
© 12/23/2004 sqb
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Third Piling on the Left
The massive pier sits there.
A silent sentinel that observes
the territorial dispute of fishing
lines.
Battered by the endless tides,
stomping feet, childrens laughter.
Smell of fish permeates the air
that
seeps into aged wood.
the sentinel watches
This day, dark with drizzle,
the sea the only sound.
The lone woman approaches,
something precious tucked tight
under arm.
She marvels at the absence of
people,
but hurries nonetheless.
The sign says:'No surfing past
this point'-
yes, that will do.
Carefully removing and opening
the bag,
a tear escapes.
Tide coming in, vibrations of
water on wood.
The woman turns and counts, lest
she forget,
surfing sign, third piling on
left.
the sentinel watches
With a quick prayer, a wish,
and a shell to drape;
the contents spill out,
white on damp grey.
She leaned on another piling,
singing of her love.
The stars make an appearance,
lights of shrimp boats blink.
Sees large wave strike wood,
feels shudder, ashes gone.
A peace, tangible in the air,while
walking away.
Looks back, third piling on the
left.
the sentinel watches
THIS
POEM IS DEDICATED TO JIMMY
MAY 20, 1959
- AUGUST 19, 2002
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