In the fractured sharpness of the day
the stranger came.
Nobody could say when it happened.
It was as if he’d always just been
there.
So vital was the presence
replacing an emptiness
that once hung in the air.
Then after the steady fading of light,
a scream broke the silence
and pierced the night.
Light.
A hand. A pink blanket. blackness. A smile. Family photo. Christmas tree. Backyard swing-set. blackness. Puppy kiss. Best friend necklace. Tree-house. blackness. Riverbank. Sun. Flowers. blackness. Ocean waves. Mountain mist. blackness. Banana splits. Picnic table. Fireworks. blackness. Lollipops. A bridge. Orange, yellow, and red leaves. Tear-stained reflection. blackness. Prom dress. Cap and gown. blackness. Skyscrapers. blackness. Two hands as one. blackness. A ring. blackness. Wedding photo. blackness. Car keys. blackness. blackness. Phone. blackness. blackness. Shattered glass. blackness. blackness. blackness. Flashing light. blackness.
Eyes blinking. blackness. Each time a new scene. Then blackness. Pieces of life…slipping away. blackness. Throbbing pain as blackness overtakes the still frames. All is blackness.
Until there is light.
In the last couple months, I’ve been questioned as to why I haven’t been, and urged to begin again, to write. It is something I love to do, so why has it been so hard?
I finally figured it out. Writing is my release of feelings, and I’ve been keeping some in for far too long. The result, my constipated writing. Why should I hold back any longer? If I want to write again, I think I need to let this go.
Throw Away Children
I pray daily that I can forgive you for what you've done, but so far that battle has not easily been won. Did your advisors tell you a new one would "validate" tossing the others aside? Are you hoping maybe you can actually do this one right? Yeah, right! In raising your sweet little girl, according to her, I became her mother. And with my parents raising your son, does that make him my brother? The kids don't need or ask of you now and probably won't even past twenty, So if you love them at all, leave them alone as the damage you've inflicted is plenty You should try to walk sometime in someone else's shoes, though it's clear the only ones that concern you belong to you. You affect concern and dole out unwarranted, nonsense advice, but they haven't even seen you in Christmases thrice. You thought they'd think your not wanting them, yet starting over with another would be good news? An obvious piece of evidence of the good your exit from their lives now proves. Some things, believe it or not, are more important than eating bananas Or the price of avocados in Florida.Terri Klaes Harper 2017 Oh, and congratulations on being so tolerant, you know, except when it came to raising your own kids.
I haven’t really done much poetry in years. Somehow the perfect storm of discussing writer’s block and reading the poetry of a few talented kids made the following today:
I can’t start to finish
when I can’t even begin.
Lack of inspiration
may be all in my head.
But I can’t seem to find the words
to get me through a line.
Do I have it in me,
to write a verse this time?
Empty words are dulling me.
Nothing now has meaning.
I don’t want to be a writer
with no substance, no feeling.
With my head in my hands,
I let out a monstrous moan.
Yet somehow I have done it.
I have written this poem.
Terri Klaes Harper
Copyright 2015
Cleaning our home office has yielded the discovery of many treasures, such as this poem. I had long forgotten its existence, but when I found it, I remembered the point when I came to the epiphany that in neglecting my writing, I had neglected a part of who I am. It’s not always easy to find time to write, and the world around me often leaves me unable to sneak in even a few sentences, but I need it as often as I can. I need words.
Words…
wrought with anger,
dripping with tears,
pure intensity.
The salvage of me.
And who am I?
Don’t you see?
I am Frankenstein’s creation…
dead pieces melded together.
Now bring me to life!
A perversion of self,
no longer who I used to be.
Now bring me to life!
Can I again use words
to find my inner self?
Can words bring me back to life?
My soul has no voice.
My heart bereft of inspiration.
I need the words…life.
Terri L. Harper
Copyright 2005
It’s my 200th post, and I’m cheating. I guess I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Honestly, I have so much going on in my head right now I know I should be writing it out, but I just can’t articulate it yet, for several reasons. so in the meantime, I’m sharing an old poem I wrote in 1995.
Life Is Like a Box of Chocolates Life is like a rose when it slowly blooms. The bud is childhood Closed tightly. Unaware. And innocent. One petal at a time it opens. At this stage Life is delicate. Hopeful. And frightening. In full bloom life is at its peak. This is the time To live. Happily. And beautifully. Finally the rose is doen with life. Old age and death. The rose turns brown. Withers. And petals fall. -Terree L. Klaes— 1995My parents both come from fairly large families, yet growing up, there were a consistent few family members outside my immediate family that I really saw, and my Aunt Georgia and Uncle Bud were two of them (I called them Juju-Bud; I am uncertain as to the spelling because I couldn’t spell yet when I called them this… obviously, I could barely talk). My Uncle Bud passed away nearly twenty years ago now. At that time, I wrote a poem for my Aunt Georgia.
An Empty Space Losing someone special leaves an empty space. Suddenly what filled your heart is missing from this place. It seems that even when something new enters your life, that void in your heart continues to cause you strife. And the dear one who is lost you can never replace. But you always have the memories of what once filled this empty space. Terree L. Klaes 1995
I wish I had a picture of them together, or something cute from when I was little with them. My mom has some, I’m sure.
Almost a month ago now, my Aunt Georgia passed away. It had been years since I had seen her, but I suddenly had memories of holidays and trips to Disney as a child, which revolved around time with my Aunt Georgia and Uncle Bud. I now dedicate this poem to the both of them, my Juju-Bud.
caverns of my mind 