Posts Tagged ‘Sadness



23
Dec
14

Is it silly or insignificant?

The loss of a loved one…a human is profound. What is it about the loss of a pet that we take into our lives, or is it the other way around? Profound loss, I say. Months later it brings tears. So powerful was the influence of Emma Louise in our lives that even today the mere mention of her name or her image causes a pause for reflection and an audible or silent homage.

Emma Louise, The Sweet, SwittersB

Less evident are the pet’s feelings left behind. I am convinced they suffer affliction to their routines, patterns and yes hearts! Harley, was very close to Emma.

 

Harley-pet-dogs-SwittersB-photography

Harley has seemed at a loss for the last six months since Emma passed. Time has passed but the routines are different now. Harley seems to be much more dependent now even with lots of loves. The nuisance and teasing of two cats has not lifted Harley’s spirits.

When I come across the postings of folks that lose a pet, my eyes well up for their loss and for my unresolved loss. So it is.

17
Nov
14

A teen’s optimism…an adult’s reality

expressed on the wall of my daughter’s bedroom, behind the door. She moved out into young adulthood five years ago, yet the words still reflect her optimism and zest for life’s challenges and sense of realities. Today, my daughter learned one of her dear friends took his life….’broken dreams’. I know she will once again strive to be happy. But not tonight.

daughter's wall+upbeat-inspiration-teenager-life-SwittersB

24
Jul
13

Poetry of What Was……………..

Barn Window SB

Abandoned Farmhouse

BY Ted Kooser

He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.
A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.
Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm–a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.



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