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Lynne Rees

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Email: lynnerees (at) yahoo (dot) com

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The Applehouse

Aldon Lane

Offham

Kent ME19 5PH

UK

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Popular Posts

Reflection ~ On being the next in line to die

The Last Uncle The last uncle is pushing off in his funeral skiff (the usual black limo) having locked the doors behind him on a whole generation. And look, we are the elders now with our torn scraps of history, alone on the mapless shore of this raw new century. Linda Pastan From her collection, The Last Uncle, W. W. Norton & Company (2003) My last two uncles died a couple of months apart, at the end of 2022 and the beginning of 2023. At one of their funerals a cousin expressed the same idea that Linda Pastan so eloquently describes in the second stanza of her poem: we are the older generation now. The idea of being next in line 'to die' does not bother me. I am deeply grateful for all of my own 'torn scraps of history' and I do not feel alone on any shore. I don't know what lies ahead and I have no need to imagine what it might be. Not beleiving in any kind of afterlife, or second chance, is a comfort rather than the source of any fear. Having survived to be

Haibun ~ clichés I keep living through

clichés I keep living through carpe diem, life is a learning curve, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, time heals, be the change I want to see in the world , the exhausting relentlessness of trying to be motivated, generous, at peace, forgiving in the presence of things happening for a reason, and lemons and fucking lemonade, because sometimes I don’t care that it’s over and I just want to cry because it happened, so it’s a good thing I can throw the latch on a small door in the corner of my mind and say hello to Robert Frost and ask him to tell me, again, in three words, what he’s learned about life: it goes on , he says. things that happen when I least expect oak saplings

Prose poem ~ When cats curl up in your heart and fall asleep there

It is strange how an absence of weight makes me feel heavier rather than lighter. Her warm, black-furred body, usually pressed against my hip all night, has been replaced by emptiness, weightlessness, when I reach out for her in the dark and fall into a depth of grieving I thought had passed. Perhaps that one small grief for a cat calls out to the others that are still sheltering in my heart. And maybe all they want to do is shake out their resting muscles for a while, take a walk around my bed. Still here, they say gently, proving to me, once again, that grief is the proof of great love. But this addition of a cat's life to the parade seems, for now, almost unbearable. This will pass, I know. We owe it to ourselves, the living, as well as to the memory of the dead, to turn our faces to the light of the world, remind ourselves of the joy we have gathered, the joy there is yet to be gathered.

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