Grief Poems

We do not remember days, we remember moments.

In their book Spiritual Literacy (Touchstone Books, 1998), authors
Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat tell about Oggie Rand. He manages a
cigar store in Brooklyn. Oggie has an unusual habit - at precisely
eight o'clock each morning, he photographs the front of the store from
exactly the same spot. He collects his daily snapshots in photograph
albums, each labeled by date. He calls his project his "life's work."

One day Oggie showed his albums to a friend. Flipping the pages of the
albums, the man noticed in amazement that the pictures were all the
same! Oggie watched him skim through the pictures and finally replied,
"You'll never get it if you don't slow down, my friend. The pictures
are all of the same spot, but each one is different from every other
one. The differences are in the detail. In the way people's clothes
change according to season and weather. In the way the light hits the
street. Some days the corner is almost empty. Other times it is filled
with people, bikes, cars and trucks. It's just one little part of the
world, but things take place there, too, just like everywhere else."

This time Oggie's friend looked more carefully at each picture. No two
were alike. He slowly became aware of how unique every moment is.
Through a series of photographs, he became conscious of one of life's
great truths -- that each minute that passes is special, even sacred!

Writer Henry Miller has said, "The moment one gives close attention to
anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome,
indescribably magnificent world in itself." But we'll never get it if
we don't slow down. For it is these moments -- not whole days, weeks,
months or years -- that we will finally remember. Whatever happiness
and joy is to be found in life will be found in the moments.

Pay as close attention to each moment as you can, as if you were
carefully observing a series of snapshots. Don't rush through them,
allowing your mind to jump so far ahead that the present is lost. Each
is unique. Each is sacred. And each holds a special place in time. In
the end, it is these moments you will cherish and remember.

About the author:  Steve Goodier is a professional
speaker, consultant and author of numerous books. 

surely he would have been proud
smiled
watched him teeter
through those initial steps
ran along side his first bike
played catch with him out back
seen him through those rough teen years?

been there
for more than a back slap
more than a note
scrawled on the kitchen table

“don’t come downstairs, dad—
call an ambulance instead.”

I was there.
I sat with you
the vigil through days
and nights, pleading with heaven
that I might take your place.
Heaven did not want me,
but you, my beautiful boy.
I was there.
I held your still hand,
never to clasp mine again,
as it so often did
when you were small…
How is it then,
that I look for you in every crowd?
The breeze blows open my door,
I turn to see if you are there.
Footsteps approaching,
I raise my eyes
expecting to see you,
hands in pockets, all smiles.
Then I remember anew,
that heaven has taken you.
My boy, my boy,
that you could sing to me
just one more song.
That I could hold you
in my arms once again,
if only for a moment.
How is it that I see you
around every corner?
How is it that I hear your voice
upon the evening breeze?
That lovely gossamer thread,
that binds mother and child
together,
That part of me that was you,
the part of you that was me,
Is still tightly woven together my son,
I hear you on the breeze
because you sing still,
out of heaven .
That gossamer thread
will lead me home to you,
wait for me my darling boy.
I love you.

Copyright © 2002 Kelly Cummings. All rights reserved.

About the author: I lost my son Joshua on Jan. 18th, 2002. He was only 21.

Where does a Mother’s love go
when she is no longer there to give it?
Where does her warmth and kindness end up
when she leaves the ground to
soar through the clouds
on a rendezvous with God?
What happens to her strength
her passion, her elegance, her grace
when her body is planted in the ground
like a marigold in the spring?
What becomes of those she left behind
weak and still in need of nurturing
when she can no longer be there to nurture them?
Shattered pieces of them go with her.
Hearts shrivel and dry
from unrequited emotion.
Where does a Mother’s love go
when she can no longer be there to give it?
Perhaps she’ll tell me
when I see her
on the other side.