Tag Archives: grief


it’s winter & the night smells of smoke
& ache

I’m alone
in a house full of black ink
a thousand miles from here

searching for something that belonged to you
older than an apology
something quiet
like the cadence in caesuras of
february’s shifting snow

as white as an empty page

it’s always winter & I am not this

when I measure the sound of clouds
moving their darkness like yesterday’s words
& when I measure the thickening air
between us by months
by my shadow’s long bones
sleeping in a bed of separation

it’s the same way I assemble assonance
in a small room with small walls
as it calls out metaphors
until it echoes in my ribs, ghosting
my voice

it’s still winter & I remember forgetting

I’m growing older
colder between these sheets
writing you in this poem I pretend to be
& trying to name this grief
lah 2.11.17 ©


~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