Not Quick Enough (A Poem of Tragedy Explained)

I hear your voicepoetry loss

Two words

They hammer at the wall

Of my mind’s death

Heaven sent

Or heart found

I am pulled from the darkness

I breathe

I grieve

I mourn

I want the death again

Why this torture for me

Why the agony of this loss

Why so here and so not

Why

Days of pleading prevail

Please, God bring my ease

Please, God bring me release

Please, God break my mind again

Please, God

Knowing but still nothing

Two words

Freeing me from death

Condemning me to worse

Why were you taken

Why

Where is the never ending joy

Where is my peace

Why does my heart need ache

Why every day

Free me from this tearing of my soul

I pray for an end

Not quick enough

 

@RonovanWrites

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The story of a poem. Think of a man who is in the hospital and unconscious. He hears a voice calling to him, he sees a face. He sees a little girl’s face. He opens his eyes to a place he doesn’t know, with a broken mind. The little girl isn’t there. Where is she? The little girl was never born. She called out to the man. It wasn’t his turn. She used what she could to tell him it just wasn’t his time yet.

Flash forward and the man remembers about the little girl. He remembers who the little girl is. He wants it to be his time. But his time is not quick enough. He wants the memory to go away. But it won’t go away quick enough.

I have seen comments to this poem and I have even seen poems written as  a response in which I am tagged in. Thank you for the thoughts and the words, but the suppositions are nowhere near the mark. This is one that cannot recover, cannot be brought back, cannot be made to have a better day. If  you pray, pray I forget that I once gain forget the memories that came to me that inspired this poem. Please do so.

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Fight for that Mirror.

A mirror sounding
All too familiar to you
But this time you shout no
A shatter will not do

 

This time you are stronger
As you look at the tiny you
You understand what is happening
Unlike what happened to you

 

Nurturing and care to be given
To grow something amazing
Working and fighting
To keep those small eyes from glazing

 

The future is unlimited
For this little view
That mirror you heard
Will not shatter like you

 

Don’t back down
From those snotty uptights
This is your child
Stand up for their rights

 

Ronovan

Ron_LWI

 

 

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2014 © Copyright-All rights reserved by ronovanwrites.wordpress.com

Monday Rambles – Beat the Emotional Funk with I.W.R

I had this planned all week to share as soon as I saw it. I really liked this article and since this is Female Focus Friday on RonovanWrites, as it is every Friday. Here you go.

The Showcase

So its time for my Monday rambles..I missed rambling monday last week not because I did’nt have anything to write about, but more because I was in what you’d  call an ‘Emotional Funk’.

Well, you know times when you just feel disconnected and listless and when nothing excites and motivates you to get out of your Pajamas and you end up looking like a mop. I used to think of it as a spell of ‘Chronic Laziness’ but now I understand its just a phase where you lose your ‘Passion’ for that Special V.V.I.P – You! 

I decided I had to beat the ‘E. F’ with the ‘I.W.R’ and fall in love with myself once more..

I for IDENTIFY The first step to solving virtually every problem on the planet and specially in this particular situation is to – IDENTIFY that you are in an emotional funk and not always…

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Church Playground Memories

Church Playground Memories

by: Ronovan

 After I came home from the hospital even I knew something was missing, but I didn’t know what. I just felt incomplete somehow. For a person suffering from amnesia that probably doesn’t sound unusual, but this was something that I just knew was missing, I could feel it.

But I only had the feeling when I went to the doctor’s office, or some type of testing. My clothes were laid out for me. I had my wallet, keys (although not allowed to drive), a 10 dollar bill, and a pen. Apparently I always carry a pen.

My belt was in place, all of my clothing was the way it should be. It really bothered me though. I put it down as possibly my not driving. Maybe I just wanted to be the driver since I always drove everywhere. Perhaps I just was not accustomed to being on the passenger side of the car looking around.

Then one day it hit me. There was a burning in my pocket. I noticed each time I left the house, not actually my own house, that my right pants pocket felt lighter than it should. There was a spot that didn’t feel right. Even looking down at my pocket when seated there was something odd about how it appeared.

A flash of yellow came to me. And that made me think of the word, ‘pecan’. I wasn’t able to speak yet but I quickly wrote it down and shoved it toward the driver. She looked at it.

“Do I have a pecan?”

“Yes,” she said.

I held my hands out and shrugged.

“I don’t know where it is,” she said.

I quickly scribbled down my flash.

“Yellow toy box.”

“Yes. I know what you mean, beside your chair.”

A few days later it arrived.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pecan before. They are oblong and pointy on the ends, but not this one. This one glows and looks like polished wood. When the light hits it there is character and grooves you don’t see in a normal pecan shell.

When I touched it for the first time again, the smoothness of the shell was comforting and familiar. I instantly held it to my ear and shook it. I could hear the rattling inside.

My eyes closed and I ran my finger tips around the shell slowly and could feel the ridges that you normally didn’t realize were there. Maybe they normally weren’t. Then I slipped it into my pocket and the weight was right. My balance was right. Just a few ounces but it was right. When I sat down, the sight was right.

My mind tingled with it with me again.

“For you, Daddy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I found it for you.”

Of course the smile crossed my face and a big hug was given. “Then it goes right here and never leaves,” I said. I slipped it into my pocket. The smile crossed his face.

A pecan as a prized possession may sound a bit odd to some, but six years earlier my little son had walked up to me with a smile from the church playground and given it to me. To him it may have been just a find that day.

The grey shell had turned into polished brown like the finest piece of furniture. But this hadn’t been done by a machine. This had been done by years of being in my hands through the day, and living inside my pocket forever being polished.

My Pecan - Copy

Now that I had it back I was more at ease. Every night he comes to me and asks “Do you have your thing?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” He now knows how special it is to me. He knows I remembered it. He knows I know him. He knows I don’t want to lose it.

Some prized possessions may have monetary value to them, even family heirlooms, but for me, a moment of innocence that can never be captured again . . . that’s my prized possession. The pecan is a reminder of it, but the real possession is the memory of it. That’s what I have, that memory. Memories of your children can bring you back to life. That’s what happened to me.

Maybe you have a memory. Perhaps riding along with your child in your lap in a golf cart, or smiling up at you with such love in their eyes at an ice cream parlor, or giggling when you tickle them. Those are prized possessions.

Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites©.wordpress.com-June 27, 2014.

Lemon Squares and Stupid Boys

Lemon Squares and Stupid Boys

by: Ronovan

 Lemon Squares

“What’s wrong, Becky?”

“I don’t get it, Jonesy.” I kept my eyes on the people across the street. “Why would Old Chubs kick Mrs. P out? She’s lived here longer than anyone else.” 

“Your dad said her sons won’t help her pay the rent since Mr. P died.”

“Ugh! Boys are so stupid and mean!” 

“Really?” Jonesy asked. 

I glared at him. “You don’t count. You know what I mean.” 

Brown eyes stared at me.

“Besides, who is going to make us lemon squares now? Mom can’t make them. She pretty much sucks at those.” I thought for a moment. I thought so hard my brain hurt. “Wait! Maybe she could sell lemon squares and make money for rent.” I jumped up.

“Sit down, Becky,” Jonesy said. “It’s too late. They’re bringing her out now.” 

I watched a policeman help Mrs. P down the steps. Chubs stood on the sidewalk, and looked up at the window of the apartment. The flowerbox was full and overflowing with purple and yellow somethings. 

“I hate him,” I said. 

“Hate’s one of the biggest little words there is.” 

“Hush up, Jonesy.” I wasn’t in the mood to hear what was right and wrong. I knew people had to pay bills and stuff, I just hated that her sons were so stupid. Six sons and they couldn’t put in a little each to help her with bills? “She did all the nasty stuff for them when they were babies. They should do something.” 

The door opened behind us. “Becky, it’s time for lunch.” I looked up at Mom. She glanced at Chubs and frowned. “Make sure to clean Jonesy’s feet off before he comes in and hang his leash up. You keep throwing it on the floor. He’s yours remember, so you have to do things right.” Mom closed the door.

I looked down and scratched Jonesy’s golden head. “You better take care of me when I get older, Jonesy or no more hotdogs for snacks when Mom isn’t looking.” 

Jonesy licked my face. “Eww … Jonesy, I know where that tongues been!”

 

© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites©.wordpress.com-June 25, 2014.