Tag Archives: death

~without shadows

I know I’ve loved you before

you were the perfect taste
bodied in dandelions
in the late summer air
you smuggled sunrise
to the moon’s other side
I know I’ve loved you before

& I was strong in the stillness
in bare fields of winter’s solstice
too naked to be cold
your voice wandered through me
the echo of our footprints
shame this darkness for what grief
brings the heart
blame its changing beat, bearing the weight
one last breath, just shy of memory
I know if I loved you then, I’ll love you
& if forever is a lonely room
I’ll stand in that space you left

lah 1.18.17 ©®


~notes on explaining the ache

the only cure for mourning
is night
I prefer shadows

flowering in my veins
as the noise fades
the silence grows louder
I follow your voice through the mirror

I write you full of my darkness
my skin has worn thin
feel an ache in the breathing
after the lung’s last sigh
I float in the absence
of your gravity

until the space becomes
sshhh…listen to the echo
from the hollow of my throat

calling your name
what is the acceptable time for a heart
to grieve?
x. someday, I will turn to rain
my footprints are words left
behind that no one will read
the pause
& then
the afterwards
the alchemy of us dissolves
like the moon
the only real sound
must come from
the soul

everywhere, a poem

lah 1.23.17 ©®


this might be yesterday, or tomorrow, the same
wind rustles corn, row on row, the same search
for faltering light, threaded loosely like ribbons of former clouds, like palsied wingbeats of my own breathing, mourning stands the lonely tree
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~lesser than

half-moon belly
slight curve

like lost night
to mourning’s bright

churchdoves flew
the steeple
this ninth day
of august

your body
gone from me

tiny wings flutter

slow hours
blue a dying field

a solitary pilgrimage
follows the holy fog

nearer the breath of god

RIP JonThomas
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~notes on writing parables

late july is familiar and two dozen months
have scurried on the way seasons do
changing as they stay the same

caught in this motionless moment
this pause of mourning
pinned between blue heavens
and blessed waking
still life lingers in summery light
like bits of quiet conversation
or a brief blossoming peony

a bird in flight

waiting to be captured and kept

held as memories that have not died but
become buried in graves of metaphors
to grow words from seedtime to harvest

but in this long blooming sentence
of grief

only verbs have adjusted to
the past tense
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~slight measurements

my sky stayed blue the summer

after you died, like a lull of lakewater

still, the walnut stood strong

wise and throwing shade

only the wind has moved on

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.


to be a lonely tree on a lonely hill
rooted deep with grief

what once connects to me, leaves

august grieves
again, the weightless fall
small hours of my mourning

watch a whitewashed woman in her
uncertainty fade with the fog
her aimless stroll
her milk-heavy ache

watch the warbler, bare-breasted
nesting wheat with tangled verses

threading condolence the color
of poetry

lah  7.8.15

~reactive depression



the river craves an impossible blue

between us, a few words from here
a small color
inches along her veins

the long-grass swallows
another january

buries the morning chill
roots within a rusted hinge

foothills hesitate against
the clouds

time recollects absence

like cemetery air
like moss between bones

to the north of sunday
everything is sky
everything has wings

nothing right is left


©  lori hamilton

~mourning walk



I’m not a purple flush
that bridges the halted rain

I’m not old conversations
and vertical poetry
left behind in creases of black and white

I’m not in the photo
I trace
one finger following
the whiskered bend of jawbone
half-expecting to feel a pulse

you’re not awake
and I’m not january
just beginning to understand the cold

I’m not buried
yet I’m muddied

I’m salty and unearthed
unsettled in the distance between who I am
and who I used to be
I kneel before a stone the shape of

and the silence
– god, the silence
it whimpers, too
an annunciation
disguised as wind

and I swear it’s mocking me

for not knowing
how to untangle the not’s

©  lori hamilton





three times this morning

I’ve stumbled


argued with the barometer

about the changing pressure of

some dogs are chasing snowflakes
oblivious to a cold january

they don’t notice me
as another sunday slips away
and I watch this thinning

its slow unraveling



©  lori hamilton