High on Spring Blues

I wrote this poem a few years ago, on the first spring after my little brother flew out of his flesh and bones. I remember thinking that loss alters the way most of us relate to everything… even the changes of the season.   

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There’s birdsong on my page…
words I planted in midnight soil
are blooming memories of you.

Louder than death and time,
your soul sings to me of life:

“Dance your sobs
into undying laughter,”

I hear you chant,

“let the joy lift your heart
(high on Spring Blues)
and stitch our eternal tale
on the ventricular walls
of my forever home.”

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Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

A Sip of Baileys in My Skull

“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away…” ~ Terry Pratchett   

Wails are absent,
today. There’s Bachata music,
and stubborn tears
gloss my grin—
because I always grin

on February’s end,
when your voice spices
my memory,
when coconut milk simmers
with brown rice and pigeon peas,
under a bed of fresh plantain leaves
(because the original taste matters…
when crafting memory
back to life)
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Wails are absent,
my heart.
But the cauldron is cooking
your favorite meal. And music,
oh yes…
there is music in my kitchen
and a sip of Baileys in my skull.

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the wee notes…
– Today is the 3rd anniversary of my little brother’s death. I celebrate his life by cooking something he liked, listening to music he loved, remembering him as he was—flawed, generous, hilarious… a fantastic dancer with the superpower of smiles.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform, and to Prompt Nights ~ It’s in an old kitchen that the best food is made.