Writing Wings For You

Marie Lukasik Wallace ~ # I LIVE Poetry – I'm passionate about life and writing and all things creative and poetic!


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My Daddy’s Angel

daddys angel

Guardian Angel

Cascading your love and light

Send out your legions to

bring peace and joy

everywhere

Today was My Daddy’s birthday, and he would have been 78.  It felt strange not to be able to call him and gush birthday greetings, telling him all the reasons I love him. While I was so very grateful for all our chats and for the chance to get to know him and feel closer, I can’t help but to have wanted more time with him.  Last year, I sent this angel to him to guard over him while he was at the nursing home, guardian angels being our thing.  I sent her two  day mail so he would have some holiday cheer for the Christmas season, but no one even took her out of the box for two weeks.  Disappointment couldn’t even be a strong enough word for how it felt when he had to remain in a sterile white room with no holiday cheer.  Finally, my brother found it and set her up on his table ; but alas, not in all her magnificence.  Now she graces our tree with her elegance and protection.

This year, since I couldn’t be with him, I sat under the guardian glow of our angel, reminiscing on our fond memories of this past year, writing small clips down so as not to forget them…and calling on the legions to bring Peace and Joy to our world for this New Year 2016.  In loving memory, rest in peace my daddy, and keep watching over me.

Love you so much, Ree


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The Watermelon – I Remember

I remember last summer

You were sitting at the table

Like so many summers before

With skilled hand piercing

watermelon skin

And with a fluid motion

Began the ritualistic carving

I had seen you do this

Hundreds of times

But not through these eyes

These eyes savoring precious moments

These eyes watching an ordinary act

As if it were extraordinary

You cut it in circles

Then slicing them in half, forming tasty boats

And the knife followed the

Curve of the boat

To free melon from the rind

Then up, down, up, down,

making cubes

on the curved “u” stand

Lightly salted

And a knife stab of a savory chunk

Plopped it in your mouth

How I remember

I hadn’t eaten mine

For I was mesmerized

In the moment

Watching your face light with delight

At each piquant morsel

A sweet summer treat

I did and didn’t know

that would be the last time.

-This post serves as my “I Remember,” a collaboration with fellow writers, and as savoring a precious memory of my daddy.

Sometimes the beauty of knowing that someone is in their last days, you hold on to the how extraordinary ordinary moments are.”      Sounds like another collaboration of “extraordinary ordinary.”


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Breadcrumbs

You left me breadcrumbs

to figure out your life

put together our sorrows

make sense of your strife

never knew why the door was to stay closed

and locked up so tight

you barely arose

and now you’re on the other side

We are left here wondering

filled with mystery

digging for knowledge of you

knowing no history

couldn’t you have stopped a moment to provide

a trail of crumbs on this side?

Wish there was a way to lift the veil

It seems I knock and knock,

but to no avail.

Poets inspire each other.  Sometimes it’s a poem…sometimes it’s a phrase…and sometimes it’s a word  like breadcrumbs.  Curiosity gets me to write.   Where do “breadcrumbs” lead you?   Thanks to Poetry Channel for the inspiration.


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The Value of Run On & a Tribute to My Daddy

In my experience of writing, often the muse is elusive.   I do Poetry Therapy, which is healing through writing.  Our writing is on demand.   Talk about an elusive muse!   However, Natalie Goldberg, in “Writing Down the Bones” talks about the power of first thoughts and she encourages run-on sentences.  In my group work, it’s imperative to keep on, keep on writing, without critique, without the inner critic, getting to the first thoughts, the raw, ripe emotion of things.   In other words, it allows the writer to “get real.”

In honor of my dad, who has now left this earth for six months, a man, I was just getting to know, and didn’t get to say as much as I wanted to say, I decided to do a run-on.  (By the way, taking dictation for Alzheimer’s patients and asking them to just keep talking and not stopping works well too!)   Not only do I get first thoughts, but there is ‘Gold in them hills!”   I can always go back and underline what strikes me or my reader or has great emotion or provocative, intriguing language and rewrite from there.  Nothing is in stone!

Here goes my vulnerability:

I want to tell you daddy….

  •  That I started a garden with all your favorites:  tomatoes and cucumbers and green beans.  I have sunflowers too with big bulbous heads and radiant petals and some intense jalepeno peppers and onions with ruffious heads, so I can make your wonderful salsa.  You would love the spot…maximum sun spreading its goodness all over those plants.  It’s going to be a good crop daddy.
  • I want to tell you that last summer when we got lost and stopped at the Dairy Queen and slurped ice cream sundaes together to relieve ourselves of the hot sun and long car ride was one of my favorite memories.  I got to have you all to myself.  I don’t even ever remember a time I had you ALL to myself…and no one could call us and bother us…and no t.v. and no dogs or anything but you and me.   And I want to tell you that the other day I went to Dairy Queen just to spend time with your memory…it was most lovely.
  • And I want to tell you that I miss you terribly and that I want to call you all the time and tell you things…but I can’t…they say…just talk to his spirit…he can hear you…but it’s not the same…Joe preserved many of my tapes with you…that was nice…I can hear your voice now and again…and I want to say I’m so frustrated sometimes that our time was so short…we were just getting to  know each other and have great conversations…and now…well…you know…

This wasn’t great writing, but there are jewels in there and places I can write from that I want to explore or know more about.  The beautiful part of this journey is that I can keep practicing writing…I can keep working on my dad’s book..  This is also great for if you only have a few minutes.   I believe in the book “The Artist’s Way” Julia Cameron has writers do “morning pages” which is much the same thing.  And by the way, the TRIPLE ADDED BONUS is that it’s therapeutic too…no longer running around in my head.

Happy writing to you.  And may the power of run-ons forever be yours!

Marie


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It’s the Small Things

ernest-lukasik_5728580 (1)

When I wrote, “Where are you Daddy?”  I was really lost.  It seems like a rollercoaster of emotions this grieving thing.  I don’t like it much…but I understand the need for it.  I also know that there is beauty and glory in all of it.

It’s the little things that remind me of him…my daddy.  My sister and I balled when we went to his house and saw peppermints  on the counter.  He always had them with him in his pocket.  You see my dad quit smoking 30 years ago, and his peppermints replaced that habit…so you can imagine, he always had a pocketful.  Then, my sister taught him how he could let the grand kids sneak up on his lap and steal one out of his pocket.  We built those memories together.  At the same time, he also replaced beer with Sam’s cola.  So, if we were at the store, he would ask us to get him beer & cigarettes…cola and peppermints.  What fond memories.

I still hear him through music, even if it’s music we didn’t listen to together.  Sometimes it’s the emotion or feeling that will zip right to my heart and remind me of him.   Last summer on a road trip, and when he was in the nursing home, we listened to a lot of Carole King, Tapestry.  He sure loved that album…I listened to it over and over while he would sleep.  What a brilliant, soulful woman who gets to the heart of everything.   While I listened, I KNEW which songs would be at his funeral…funny thing is that others have used “Way Over Yonder” for funerals before…and I never knew it.  I just knew that at that at the time my daddy was in the most pain of his physical body, I prayed for his sweet release and told him he could visit “yonder” anytime he wanted…and that his mama and papa would greet him.  And I also knew that the song “I Feel the Earth Move Under my Feet” would be played at the end…because my daddy would want people dancing, not crying.  Even the last week of his time on earth, when he could barely move, he would rock in his chair or tap a finger to that song.  It will always be our song.

I believe with all my heart that he graces me with his loving presence every day.  I just get to be still and listen and look.  It will be in the little things, the song of a bird, a dog that looks like his, or maybe even a Sam’s Cola.

 


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Where are You Daddy?

lily

I selfishly let you go…

They tell me you are at comfort and peace

now that you’ve let go of your earthly restraints.

I believed them.

For awhile.

You see, you and I have, on many occasions

connected by heart.

Why would the spiritual and physical world

be any different?

At first, I heard you everywhere,

especially in my music.

As the words slipped the singers

mouth, I felt they were the vehicle

for you to send me messages.

And now, as the rituals are over

and daily life begins back,

I feel less an less connection.

Are you truly comforted my daddy?

Are you truly at peace?

Whisper to me my daddy…

My heart desperately needs to know.


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My Daddy’s Sweet Release

eagle

photo courtesy of Travis Jessop

 

My daddy finally received his sweet release from this world.

And now his journey continues…but without it’s restrictive form.

I was reminded this week by a dear fellow blogger, Michael,

of an old poem I read when I was younger.  My dad might

have even shown it to me.  It’s the perfect poem for my

poet friends.  Thank you for all your support in this difficult

time.  It’s bittersweet.  But am grateful for his peace.

Good friends knowing that both my daddy and I love

words, especially poetry, have offered some beautiful

gold nuggets…I will, if I can, pass them along this week,

or at least weekly.  Thanks for loving his sweet spirit.

A Thousand Winds

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die. – Mary Elisabeth Frye