breathing
is really more important than the other in-and-outs,
and it’s never consciously thought about
until the final one, in that stark white hospital
room
where family sits together, in quiet grief.
the empty shell cleaned, now unfurnished of blood,
getting smaller and smaller and that
is
the way we all go after being, our undoing.
all the stories that made us us, told you what we were,
all connected by these little words
only
to be forgotten, not amounted to much, there
may be others but just a few who scratch
their name somewhere, to be seen to break through,
born
under the lights, to brightly shine, made all
fresh and new, furnished again with blood.
a tiny temple, a clean empty shell
with
first breaths made together, familiar families
sit again in familiar rooms, in familiar places.
going home with more to include, in this
space
where new blossoms bloom, grass grows,
streets lights wander up to the mountain skies
where new stories are born in the twinkle of an eye.
Shared with dVerse MTB: taking a fine line down where I have reused the line ‘breathing room is only born with space’ from my own poem from a couple of days ago, ‘On The Usefulness Of Emptiness’. This line is then used as a word acrostic and each stanza defines (somewhat, in my case) the meaning of the word. The prompt and my write was inspired by Laura Bloomsbury’s poem ‘An unbundling’.
I started writing this thinking about my mother passing away on the other side of the world from me. My cousin was there holding her hand as she took her last struggling breath after a couple of years of suffering with COPD. This then unconsciously took a turn towards the circle of life.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 
Such a beautiful flowing poem, that holds much in the words. So sorry about your mum, and you not being there. It would be so difficult being across the other side of the world.
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My mum and I had a deep love and respect for each other but we were never in each other’s pockets updating our lives once we were living on different continents. She told me not to come back when she was in the hospice. It was not how she wanted to be remembered. I had been to visit the year before, just when she was starting to struggle with her breathing.
As might be expected, my son and I have a similar relationship now too.
Thanks for your appreciation of the poem Di, it really got my brain focused for a while! 🙏
Also – I noticed that I couldn’t comment on your entry. Not sure if that was by your design or not.
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Your mum sounds amazingly brave and so glad that you had time with her and you and your son have a great bond. Sorry I am not sure what is happening with my site, certainly not by design. I changed the template and got a new computer and the whole thing has been a pain since then.
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Love how it started and grew into that rebirth, from sorrow into joy, as life should be
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A poignant poem, Shaun; I’m so sorry for your loss. I like how you wrote about the in and out of breathing, which is indeed more important than the other in-and-outs ‘never consciously thought about until the final one’. I also love the enjambment, the way your poem flows, like Laura’s, and these lines:
‘all the stories that made us us, told you what we were,
all connected by these little words’.
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such a remarkable poem Shaun – in structure and poignancy of the lines that turn the circle on a lost life. Read and re-read for sheer pleasure asside from the loss – so sorry to hear of your mother’s death
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