Aftertaste is a collection of poems written by a woman attempting to come to terms with the sudden death of her husband. Feeling lost and alone, she seeks solace in her grief. As she tries to stay afloat among the flood of emotions pouring forth, she finds a measure of comfort in the words emerging from her sorrow. Trying to adjust to the new role of widow that fate has cast her in, she withdraws into herself and attempts to overcome her battle with depression. Now she must reach deep within herself and find the strength to move forward. The author describes her poetry as layman’s poetry. Written in a clear, direct style with a subtle touch of imagery, the reader is brought into the author’s experience. Aftertaste is a book for all to read and nestled within its pages are the steps of a journey on which we must all someday embark.
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Window of Words
Walk Through the Graveyard
On our walk we took the shortcut
through the home of those long dead.
My son said, "Did you know any of them?"
"They died a hundred years ago."
"Long before I was born."
A month ago I couldn't have
walked among the ghostly past.
Yet here I was, feeling at peace
with the spirits of those I never knew.
We stopped and read their epitaphs.
Names of strangers--born and died.
So many infants--Young women too.
I wondered what their lives were like.
I felt as if I knew them all.
Mortality is the bond we share.
Someday in a world reborn
others will walk among the past.
Read the marker's etched remains.
Dates engraved on sculpted stones.
Feel the common bond of time.
Wonder what our lives were like.
Mechanics of Life and Death
I watch your pictures
flash against the screen.
Momentarily here then gone.
Similar to how life operates.
Unknown mechanics behind the scenes
accepted by most without question.
Never understanding how it works.
Never really caring.
Flesh--hardware--It's all the same.
Being used until it no longer works.
System failure--too much damage.
Buried in a sacred place
where all of us and our worn out parts
are safely placed to rest and weather.
when the trumphets blow
and new models are born.
The Meaning of Life
Upon some obscure mountain peak
capped in snowy whiteness,
caught in the void of timelessness,
a profound discussion takes place
among the greatest masters.
I listen intently hoping to gain a shred
of wisdom that will explain life to me.
Clothed in robes of shimmering opalescence.
Flowing beards of distinguished character.
They debate philosophy and ponder
answers that make no sense and
sense that has no answers.
"What is the meaning of life?" I ask.
"And why must there be death?"
"Answer me this if you can."
Finger to chin, they scratch their heads.
Twist long white hair into a configuration
of nonsense and mutter something symbolic.
Then the day's lesson concludes with,
"Even the dove must someday fly
with the wings of a lowly crow."
I leave--to meditate in solitude.