A Place, But Not a Home

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

A Place, But Not a Home

I am in limbo

            A place—

            But

Not a home.

I move the bed.

I move the chair.

I lace my pretties

            Here—and there.

A place—

            But

Not a home.

What is the difference?

            A place?

            A home?

I need to feel secure.

            Entwine me—

            Hold me—

Keep me here.

Let me know

I’m needed here.

Don’t chide me—

            Scold me—

Draw apart—

I need to heal

            A wounded heart.

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I Have This Place…

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

I Have This Place

I have a hurting place inside

Is it a place I wish to hide?

All things come in.

Few things go out.

Is it a place?

I have my doubts.

What can it be

            That tortures me?

I have this place inside of me.

A special place that few will see.

A place of peace and

            Love secure—

A promised peace that

            Will endure.

I have this place…

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Farewell, Goodbye

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

Farewell, Goodbye

Farewell, goodbye

So long, see ya

‘Til we meet again.

So many ways to

Acknowledge that

One is leaving

Anxiety, emptiness

Pressure, excitement

Depression, uncertainty.

So many ways to deny

One’s inner feelings.

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Where is My Well?

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

Where is My Well?

Where is my well?

Where does the spirit dwell?

Why don’t you lift the ache from my heart?

Why don’t you take my cold clammy

            Hands and make them warm and useful?

You’ve done that in the past, you know.

Why do you leave me alone?

Is it that I’m tough and can handle it?

Is it that pride is closing you out?

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So Much to be Thankful For

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

So Much to be Thankful For

So much to be thankful for—                          

            So little to regret.

I gave thanks for

            Life itself;

A touch from someone who loves me;

The joy I feel that is beyond my understanding.

A burst of color across the western sky

As a full moon rises in the east;

Safe flights;

Awareness of truth without knowledge.

I have so much to be thankful for.

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A Perfect Match

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

A Perfect Match

You were right, my sweet darling.

It’s not the attraction between two people.

It’s the combination of people that provide the surprises.

So absolutely unsuited—

            A mismatch.

Yes, we saw it so often in our life together.

But—

We were different—

Made for each other—

A perfect match.

How could we lose—

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Professor and cheerleader

        

Cat Person

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

Cat Person

Why do you say I’m basically a cat person?

I don’t meow, or feel comfortable on high places.

I don’t use my claws unless it is necessary.

OK – so I pick my friends—

            No apology.

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I Know I’m Right

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

I Know I’m Right
I know I’m right –
            Or-
Perhaps I’m wrong
I recognize your weakness
            But-
Not my own.
What I recognize
Is what I perceive.
What I perceive
May be me.

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Four Letter Words

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

Four Letter Words

I must stop using those four letter words.

It is a sign of a deficient vocabulary.

I’ll drop hate, love, hope, and pray.

And save the others for the hard times.

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The Loneliest Lonely

On Sunday’s I’m posting poetry written by my mother-in-law, Bettie Lou. Writing poetry was a form of therapy after losing her husband and then her youngest son in 1985.

The Loneliest Lonely

The loneliest lonely

Is to be lonely

With the one you love.

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