Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul



Heavy by Mary Oliver

Featured poems and spoken word poetry

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
“It’s not the weight you carry

but how you carry it –
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled –
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

Sharing this poignant poem about dying and living after someone’s death. For some unknown reason, I find myself drawn to this piece today. I hope we all heal from all kinds of loss.

What Visits In The Night: The Healing

Image result for girl at night bedroom window favim

What Visits In The Night: The Healing

Another night has passed
Of whispers and deep sighs
But she no longer hides
From the fears that now subside
The memories still linger
They flicker like the stars
These visits are what heal her
So the bedroom door’s ajar

In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Leave the porch light on hosted by Lillian. I remember writing for MTB before about the memories that visits in the night. These are memories that don’t just leave because the other person might have. What would you do? Do you let them build you a ruin? Or do you let the night be your healing?

Image Source: WeHeartIt

Head over here to join the fun!


I Surrounded Myself With Emptiness


I Surrounded Myself With Emptiness

I surround myself with emptiness:
an empty jar that was once
filled with the sweetest jam
an hourglass whose sands
of time were blown by the wind
a light bulb— unable to shine
with its filaments gone
a wine glass that I sleep with
till my waking days

Call this madness or a hint of desperation
Curse this bed of despair from which I lie
But I surround myself with emptiness
So I can simply forget about mine

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Written for A to Z Challenge: Letter I.

Today’s photograph is Reylia Slaby’s latest work entitled, I Surround Myself With Emptiness. You can find more of her works on her Facebook Page and Instagram account.

YAY! Let the challenge commence!


Read more 2017 A to Z Challenge entries here!

Perfect Spot: A tribute to Barbara

MFtS 7

She thought she found the perfect hiding spot,

…and a perfect spot it really is.

The setting sun dropped a little lower, shifting the skies to a golden palette of colors that stretched across the horizon. She could feel the sea slowly creeping over as she walked towards the water and felt the crashing waves at her feet. Beautiful, she thought.

Her happiness rolled in like the waves of ocean echoing their gaiety as she recounted the treasured moments of yesteryear like times past held delicately between her fingertips—the myriad highs and abyssal lows, the surge of love and the grief of loss, the rise and fall, the fear and peace, the infinite procession of life. She remembers great friends, lovers, families, and acquaintances with passionate embraces, then departing with fond farewells in hopes of meeting once again.

Taking a deep breath, she realized that she wasn’t really trying to hide, more likely, she sought to be found. And in finding her being, she found her peace. Slowly, she walked towards a large tree near the shore and sat beneath its shade.

“Goodbyes do often come in waves.” She softly whispered as her lips curved into a smile and saw the last remnants of the day fade.

As a tribute, I’ve decided to use my very first entry to Mondays Finish the Story entitled, Perfect Spot.

My experience with Mondays Finish the Story prompts goes beyond the number of posts I have made and the tales I have weaved. It became a place for meeting brilliant minds and quarters for learning and fun. All praises go to Barbara Beacham. Thank you. You will never be forgotten.


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