Motherless (WC)

Motherless

Grief, some say it’s an ending. 

But that’s impossible.

Though I lost my Mom this January.

January too, the month I emerged, a 60’s babe.

Takes some rearranging, this living now.

The kitchen for instance, stacked with boxes.

Pantry supplies await the shelves Joseph builds.

He dubs this deep end, blames my doom scrolling. 

He may think differently, if supply chain snaps. 

Meanwhile, snap fingers, tap acupressure points.  

To soothe freeze response, sense flow. 

Therapist tells me moving might be enough. 

Set hand to heart, to feel what feel. 

Motherless.

A physical impossibility, if one is to be born. 

What is it swims, simmers, 

                                                    waits for birth?

*From prompt: Craft a Duplex poem, from Jen Keretnick (of the Poetry Salon)’s Walking into the Duplex, May 18, 2025.

Kaddish Candle (WC)

(Wendy Cabell, May 13, 2025 – feast day of Blessed Julian of Norwich (note her universal appeal), Our Lady of Fatima, Our [nursing] Lady Dawn of Peace, Our Lady of the Most Blessed Sacrament… and in true synchronicity, Jewish calendar commemorates Matzah Depleted during the Exodus (1313 BC) --- which would be replaced with daily Manna.)

Kaddish Candle

(for Pope Francis)

As heart beats, even in sleep. 

Sun wakes without an alarm. 

Sinews stretch, shake. 

Rain splashes regardless. 

Milk thistle, dandelion keep growing —

a nesting bluebird’s breakfast.

Mourning birdsong.

*From prompt: Freewrite as inspired by “To a Young Poet” by Zaina Alsous; from Lisa Freedman’s BreatheReadWrite, April 27, 2025. Edited at Tresha Haeffner (The Poetry Salon)’s editing class, May 13, 2025. 

===Add Teresa's goodness has left the room on Tresha doc

I’d almost forgotten, this year a Jubilee (WC)

(Wendy Cabell, May 8, 2025)

I’d almost forgotten, this year a Jubilee*,

(thoughts, as unbeknownst, Pope Leo XIV ‘s electing)

Pilgrims of hope, 

Pope Francis Emeritus’ theme. Loosed,

the debts, notes, former claims upon our days.

We can always start again, morning’s tea bag says… 

 

Do I really need to process, pigeon-hole it all?

Does not the Spirit speak, and still? 

O day, to us you give 

such ample time to live.  

*Above piece is a response to/turning of The Lien by Adelaide Love, which explores how life can become relinquished to the trivial (found in All the Silver Pennies by Blanche Jennings Thompson).

**From prompt: Contradict a chosen poem (chose The Lien by Adelaide Love), optionally incorporating phrases from the original. From Tresha Heafner’s Write Games class (The Poetry Salon), May 8, 2025. 

Remnants (WC)

(Wendy Cabell, composed sometime near before Pope Francis' passing, date chosen is just a guess)

Remnants 

I find the tile shards on the sand. Artifacts really, a prehistoric air. Swirls and spirals. Silent. They wait just near the card table at which I’d spoken with Pope Francis. In this dream, he makes an impromptu visit to Venice Beach. I remember breakfasts of younger days, I’d scan for dolphins at dawn. Now, I confess the fusses I’m having with Joseph. Our mounds of clutter. Debts and dust. The Pope, he waves this off.

Shards like stars -– Sweep of

Spirit. Each pass of paintbrush,

pen, dry bones they rise