Life Lived

Life Lived

Artwork by / Andrew Wyeth

 

 

 

life lived

bequeaths to us

more than wrinkles and gray hair

more than aches and pains

forecasting a probability

of rain

 

it exists of hand crocheted blankets

and grandchildren,

with past generations of heroes of war

all in matted frames

sitting atop a Steinway piano

gathering dust and a funeral of tears

of life lived

 

an accelerating loss of memory

abruptly intercepts the coming of golden years

depleting all recognition

of once familiar faces

now  stoic

by the inventory of a stare

 

years accumulate like winter snows

and i buried deep

in its repose

 

of life lived.

Reviews

[Laz K.]

"life lived
bequeaths to us
more than wrinkles and gray hair"

It is a profound realization when one really comprehends one's mortality, but at the same time the fact that inside the mortal frame there's something that transcends that which decays and dies.

I agree with the many commentators below expressing their admiration of the vivid, deeply touching imagery present in the poem.

[Kelly Scheppers]

That's more than I could have hoped for. Thank you, Laz!

[carl]

I found your words of review very meaningful and encouraging -carl.

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

“years accumulate like winter snows
and i buried deep
in its repose

of life lived.” Yes.

Oh how I wish I had written this poem dear Kelly. You have truly captured the relentless passage of time, sometimes so stark, in your your elegant, flowing, wistful words. Your use of Wyeth’s photo frames the emotions expressed, and memories, so perfectly. In reading your words, I remembered raptly sitting on the floor at my mother’s feet while watching her crochet a beautiful afghan of intricate squares, during the entire time she was pregnant with my brother. I was seven and her magical hands mesmerized me. I miss her so much and still have the afghan that her loving, creative hands made. To see my mother’s hands again…- I can never thank you enough for giving me this most precious gift through your brilliant writing. You are the best. Xo

[Kelly Scheppers]

I felt a lump in my throat when you spoke of sitting at your mother's feet while she crocheted an afghan, while pregnant with your brother. That you have it now in your possession, simply overwhelmed my heart. How beautiful a memory. I will think of you whenever I read this from this day on. Thank you, Annette, with all my heart!

[DIVYA]

I'm remembering one of my grandmother's, as I read your words. She was a beautiful homemaker and her lovingly embroidered and crocheted covers and sheets used to be around, long after she was gone but sadly I cannot find them anymore. If I could, they'd be my most precious possessions now. Time passes, new things become old and dust sets in on everything we cherish, finally even our memories. This poem deeply stirs my soul, as if it's all about me and my life's journey.

[Kelly Scheppers]

It is for all who read it, Divya, it is however you interpret it to be. How flattered I am to know it reminds you of your grandmother. Thank you my dear friend!

[DIVYA]

You are so welcome, my dear friend.

[Ken e Bujold]

another gem chockablock full of incredible images and sweeping avenues of thought. my personal fav...forecasting of rain. so many splendiferous nooks and crannies to pursue that metaphor

[Kelly Scheppers]

I love the character and description of your reviews. I would seek you out just to have you here. Thank you most kindly, Ken!

[John the Baptist]

Yes, the passing years can play hell with the memory, but it sounds here like many good ones have been preserved. Life lived involves pain and loss, but as long as the balance is toward the positive, there can be but few regrets.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Very poignantly expressed, John. Thank you!

[Fabian G. Franklin]

Well, this one certainly fits my life in more than a few ways. Mother was always sewing quilts and making curtains on her Singer sewing machine. It was one of those peddle types with a fold out top. I used to sit and watch her for hours when I was little. I was the youngest of ten (only seven survive). So, as the "baby" I spent a lot of time with my mother as she went about her daily chores of laundry, cooking, cleaning and sewing. But, because of that, I became an excellent cook and I can sew pretty good too if necessary. I went with my dad (a real war hero in WWII) my hero at least, around our neighborhood to do odd jobs, car repairs, electrical appliance repairs, welding, there was nothing he couldn't fix or repair. He was an engineer in the Navy. He had a vast library of technical books but not much in the way of classic literature. I later would tell him the stories I read and he would listen like a child in rapt amazement. I took care of my mother until her death and once I read her Thoreau's Walden. I asked how she liked it and she said, "It seems like he was a man who loved nature and being a part of it." She was the woman who taught me about finding beauty in everything. Your poem here is rich in beauty but also tinged with the sadness of loss we find in growing older. My mother mentioned to me once that the great cruelty of growing old was staying young inside as our bodies betray us with wrinkles and gray hair outwardly. So true. I enjoyed the read, my friend. Your talent and skill shine in your work. F.

[Kelly Scheppers]

I am thrilled beyond measure that this conjured up such memories for you, Fabian. I remember those Singer machines. My grandmother had one and I loved to watch her work the foot peddle. I took a sewing class in ninth and tenth grade. I have my own Singer now and still love to sew. Thank you, Fabian!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

This is so different from your normal work, but I love the reflections within. Your closing stanza is simply beautiful.

[Kelly Scheppers]

I always feel blessed whenever photography inspires me to write. I owe this one to Mr. Wyeth. Thank you for taking notice, Linda. I knew it was different the moment I finished writing it.

[Perdition]

Well if you're going to start by throwing Mr. "Christina's World" at us...powerful story in that woman in the grass. But anyway...I see Neruda peeling off the rind while composing an ode to whatever vegetable or fruit ..is that an apple? Now, this is not the laughter I was talking about but it certainly completes the melancholy of the day. Where's Dylan Thomas with his "Raging" ?? I may have approached that hill but d****t I'm not going over it yet, not without these arms raised. Beautifully done as always!

[Kelly Scheppers]

It is a most powerful story. And yes, there will be more of Andrew to come. Thank you Joseph!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I love this.
I can picture my parents, and love the picture...so simple yet expresses so much.

will the apples ever be eaten, or is there no longer anyone to consume them.
and it makes me hope that I am more than wrinkles and white hair.
great work, Kelly.
if I did favorites, this would be one.
j.

[Kelly Scheppers]

At the risk of sounding egotistical, I knew this one was different. I felt it as soon as I finished writing it. Thank you, Jacob. Your acknowledgement is everything to me. I hope you're feeling a little stronger every day!

[Relic]

Only a poet can express getting older the way in which you have. The detail and sadness of it goes by normal people. They only know the sadness and frustration part.

A perfect poem.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Thank you, Tim. I appreciate it!

[Dave Brown]

perfectly poetically personified although the term 'Golden is somewhat optimistic.
And the memory thingy is double edged
I often forget was I was about to do but I can watch the same move again and again without remembering a thing about it
another fine write

[Kelly Scheppers]

Thank you, Dave. I hope you feel blessed by your friends here, and for the writing you do! It touches many.