His alabaster hands rise toward mine.
Are there any real people left he asks?
I have no answer for him, I only
know they don’t live on my street.
This graphic place has become my disaster,
The altitude brings me chills in his mourning
amongst the chaos in my cacti and agave garden.
I can’t see the plastic consumed landfill from
here, but sense its existence. I can’t see
seagulls circling the foul mess searching for
a scrap of bread, yet I know they’re not far from here.
Every morning it’s cold and the nights are even worse.
I force my feelings into a small box, I am done
asking why any of this has happened.
Death’s cloud surrounds me in this square room
while I sleep. I want to touch his hands one more time,
but I can’t reach them.
wordsandthoughtspjs 
This is a definite “Wow!” Bravo!
“I only know they don’t live on my street.” Ain’t that the truth!
Sad, well written poetry of lost loved ones is a treat to read. Bravo indeed!
They are felt even when not around, The feelings for loved ones will always be there! Wonderful write Pamelita!
Hank
Beautiful!
I’m imaging two sets of hands here..human and spiritual…i think maybe they are there..perhaps sometimes we don’t know how they feel when we need them most..i can relate to the sense of unease home can be when it is no longer secure or protected from the spoils of reality.. a hand to you this sunday xo
I sense two sets of hands here..human and spiritual..i think they are there but perhaps we can’t feel them when we need them the most..i can relate to home not feeling secure any more..a hand to you this Sunday.. xo (Sorry if this is a copy)
Pamela, this is so wonderfully expressed. The plastic, the birds seeking scraps, “the altitude gives me chills in his mourning.” And the wanting to touch his hands one more time. Grief is so hard, my friend.
Oh Pamela, I feel for you so much sympathy. The fact that you can write like this must be a real comfort, to express your feelings in this perfect poem.
This is so sad.. so true and heartfelt, I particularly like how you can feel the landfill and the sea-gulls… and that last stanza.. I so hope you’ll heal..
This is just an aching poem. The image of alabaster hands is all too real. I’m hurting for you, with you.
you can not for now…asking why does no good other than stir the ask as well..and any explanation as to how it could be for the good only frustrates…it does and in the after we learn to live once more…
It’s just too real for me…memory awakes…hugs
This is my favorite line: “I force my feelings into a small box, I am done” … as well as the last sentence.
…any real people…I often wonder
I’ve completely forgotten it’s a wordle. “I force my feelings into a small box.” Such a great line.
Oh, Pamela. (hugs)
Beautifully expressed!
Simply heartbreaking
Perhaps it is not quite the same, but I lost my mother at a very young age – And often I think if I could just remember one of her touches…
Hugs, Jules
No, I don’t think there are any real people anymore. Nice writing in this!
Gosh, really liked how this turned out. Thanks!
…and “chaos in my cacti and agave garden”
A scintillating write, Pamela! As Pearl said, a true “WOW!”