once you’ve forgiven yourself
do not un-forgive yourself on
each anniversary of the guilt
—Terri Guillemets
once you’ve forgiven yourself
do not un-forgive yourself on
each anniversary of the guilt
—Terri Guillemets
the scale now shows me
one hundred sixty-eight
but in those simple digits
I see rejection and pain
sugar, laziness, exhaustion
hormones splayed out of whack
menopause ready to rumble
plaque buildup and repressions
anxiety, regret, some depression
the past, the future, sheer panic
tension, disoriented expectations
ice cream, sweet junk addictions
griefs, hurts, disappointments
bad habits, cliffs, fear, falling
the eating of all my emotions
gluttony and gorging ghosts
turbulent raging blood glucose
sleepless nights, too-busy days
nerves, toxins, worry, age
unwelcome rapid-fire change
lack of trying, trying too hard
loss of control, culinary excesses
no longer fitting into my dresses
—Terri Guillemets
I write all these death poems, these grief poems —
and does it really make me feel better? Or am I just
twisting my heart so that I can feel, to remember?
Because I’m afraid that if I don’t feel, I will forget.
—Terri Guillemets
Death teaches us meaning
of the word sudden —
one minute there, one minute
not —
the blackness, the blankness,
the emptiness, the silence, the void —
the most palpable, oppressing nothing
there ever was.
—Terri Guillemets
my eyes can’t see as well anymore
but my heart sees all the better
my ears have begun to fail me
but I hear the quiet budding of success
I move more slowly now
but have learned to be still with myself
my aching body is stiff and sore
but my spirit has never felt so fine
my memory is slipping
but I’ve got a firm grip on what it is to live
my head is going gray
but I have found all my true colors
I get out of bed earlier
but still have plenty of dreams
I live more softly
but don’t back down from doing hard things
my teeth are getting artificially replaced
but my soul is real and all my own
my bones are brittle
but my resolve is strong
I no longer bounce back
but continue to look forward
I tell the same stories over and again
but become a new me every day
I’m nearer to the end
yet I have only just begun
—Terri Guillemets
my youth is caked over
with heartache and pains
regrets and inflammations
and sudden calcifications
of ligaments and spirit
not-bothers and defeats
that went to my head
and bruises that take
too long to heal
cracked teeth and
why-tries and i’m-tireds
that which galloped
now rolls in ruts
my blonde has passed
to mousy and gray —
everyone i know
looks tired and frayed
sagging from the weight
of time and overbusy
and too much stuff
in too-big houses —
it’s too much life
and too little living —
no vitamines will fix this
—Terri Guillemets
cracks in poetry
are not ruins
but gaps to let
meaning breathe
—Terri Guillemets
There is no timetable for grieving —
Grief is a snail
It’s a shooting star
A walk around the lake
It’s eternity
Or frost ’til bloom —
Memories coursing through the heart
It lasts as many heartbeats as it takes;
sometimes all of them.
—Terri Guillemets
Prayer to the middle-of-the-night gods:
please let me sleep —
thank you for the beautiful moon
and winter silence
but please let me fall back to sleep —
no offense.
Amen.
—Terri Guillemets
Aging is millions of moments
stacked upon tumbling years
—Terri Guillemets
The glow of the moon is poetry
The blossoming of flowers is poetry
The blossoming of woman is poetry
The glow of woman is poetry —
and even more so, because
the light comes from within.
—Terri Guillemets
Grieving is being
at the bottom
of quicksand
trying to claw
my way up —
because I need to breathe
When you died, my
breath left with you
my lungs, my life —
filled with half-breaths
I’m thankful for your life
is all that gets me through
—Terri Guillemets
Missing you isn’t just an empty void — it’s what-ifs and questions and endless thoughts and bittersweet memories and runaway feelings and emotions that can’t get a hold on anything physical so just slip and slide around my mind, and hide and re-emerge.
—Terri Guillemets