In a Fog of Missing You – Original Song by Mia Savant

To What We Lost – Wrapping up

Wrapping up the series, I wanted to share with you an original song I wrote about the greatest lost I’ve ever experienced. About a decade ago I was pregnant and in a dangerous divorce. In order to protect my child I placed her for adoption in the arms of a loving family. Over the years I have had thousands of emotions coursing through me regarding this, each one powerful, most of them painful, but also filled with love and gratefulness. When I feel these waves, I take it in, embrace its force, and then let it go out with the tide. This song is a moment in that wave, and is dedicated to my daughter who I love with all that I am.


Lyrics:

I’m usually known that I have a thing or three to say

I’ll weave you a picture and then again in crochet

I don’t shy from expression

And I run from oppression

So, I don’t know why I’m acting this way

But you’re the only thing

Where silence is my reverency

Still I wish I wasn’t weak

And I could find something to speak

Chorus:

And I keep thinking

I’m gonna find the words

The ones that you deserve

Perfect as you

But every time I try to find them

I seem to be denied them

Perfectly out of view

I am lost

In a fog

Of missing you

So, silence will have to do

The goal was always for me to stand in front of you

I’d take every hit and carry it all so you wouldn’t have to

But what phrase can I give to comfort your fears

When all of mine now soaked in tears

I’m sorry

Is bleeding

From me

Chorus:

And I keep thinking

I’m gonna find the words

The ones that you deserve

Perfect as you

But every time I try to find them

I seem to be denied them

Perfectly out of view

I am lost

In a fog

Of missing you

So, silence will have to do

Cuz you’re the only thing

Where silence is my reverency

After Mary Oliver’s Uses of Sorrow & Other Poetry by Anannya Dasgupta

To What We Lost – Anannya Dasgupta

Never mistake short poems for lack of might! Anannya Dasgupta’s short poetry is filled with the depth of complex emotions, and full story telling.


After Mary Oliver’s Uses of Sorrow

Used-up sorrow has no fresh edges
but a blunt, gnawed up everyday
surface. Darkness leeched out of its
gift wrap is indistinguishable from
this winter’s gloom. The only gift that
there is – between bushfires and
homelessness – is that the whole
world has become our home in pain.


The Most Perfect Love

After the most perfect love
came and went, I am as a
page before a poem and after.


Poet:

Dr. Anannya Dasgupta
Director, Centre for Writing & Pedagogy
Associate Professor, Literature and Arts
Krea University, Andhra Pradesh

Anannya Dasgupta is a poet and visual artist. She is the author of the book of poems Between Sure Places (2015)

A Parting – Original Music by Acoustic Librarian

To What We Lost – Acoustic Librarian

Listen today to this bittersweet song from Acoustic Librarian. A song that embraces the timeless loss of a relationship.


I saw you dancing across the room;
I smiled, but you did not see.
Last month I would have been by your side;
Now both of us are free.

When I’m alone, thing about you,
Some memories are hard to forget.
Time spent with you, the touch of your hand,
A parting I did not expect.

You said it’s over between us,
A dream, an illusion I’d thought would last.
Now when I see you, everything’s changed,
But it’s hard to let go of the past.

Often I wonder what went wrong;
Was one of us to blame?
Did what we had end far too soon,
Or is this just part of the game?

Sometimes I wish I’d never known you;
Missing you now is still hard to bear.
Being together I took for granted;
Now I’m all too aware.

Now at parties I’m with other people;
Maybe you’re there, but I don’t look around.
Still at times, loneliness haunts me,
Even as part of a crowd.

Did our parting hurt you at all?
Was I so easy for you to forget?
Now I see you with someone else;
And it’s too late for regrets.


Artist:

Acoustic Librarian is a songwriter, open mic performer and technology librarian. He lives in Orange County, California with his wife and their two cats.

Follow:

Follow him on Instagram, @AcousticLibrarian or Twitter, @AcousticLBR

Graveyard for Never Sent Letters & Other Poetry by Martina Rimbaldo

To What We Lost – Martina Rimbaldo

Martina Rimbaldo’s enchantingly sorrowful poetry and photography fills you with many emotions. Her work makes the haunting of such emotions a beauty to behold.


Graveyard for never sent letters

One afternoon when the late summer smelled more like autumn,

she came to her room and took the pen,  in order to make his  wish come true.

She wrote a few lines on a heart – shaped paper .  Lock of her hair, ring, and two photographs she placed inside the envelope, but feelings change ,she and him are not the same.

Now she thinks of letting go, where will her letter go ?

Still hidden in the drawer, 

away from curious eyes .

Still the question :  “What shall i do with it? “ Hovers around her mind as a vulture around the dying prey .

Burn it , throw it , send it …she doesn’t know , it  is just that painful.

There should be a graveyard for never send letters,

 I  have heard,  she maybe  found  its final resting place: „Museum of Broken relationships’ ‘.

 Above the letter, now a showpiece left behind underneath  the   plexiglass ,one may read the  sign :

“It was never a relationship, just an online thing ,it was not meant to be . I am sorry if we were stronger maybe …but still…it is not a guarantee…“.

Now she attempts  to be strong , but tears betray her every time she finds herself alone, she attempts to be free she still holds on …..to thee… And she wishes silly things like ,to have a giant Teddy Bear, the ones she owns are not large enough, to pretend, to imitate the human shape.

She just does not want an empty bed …of loneliness…She needs a hug ,somebody who will warm up her freezing heart and  body… 

She has been alone for too long, but does anyone care at all…….??? 😦



black pearls

I guess some can not  pass trought the darkness 

Without the darkness glues herself on to them 

They drag her around like the treasure chest  filled with black pearls 

If the chest is opened they end up on their neck 

Suffocation  becomes  their  end 

For them pearls are  precious friends 

But all they bring is death …



Luna Lacrimosa

lunar silver rug is on the floor

her lifetime is here no more

river of tears hits the piano keys

creates a heartfelt melody

her life was taken so violently

she can’t find the open door

Earthbound by this place

still enslaved can’t escape

dark hides her cry

harm is done cant be undone

church bell chime midnight

drawes her last breath

drifted away

cant see why the stranger to her eye made her die

he was too blind to see his belief was a lie

dark hides her cry

harm is done cant be undone

heatspell brought her hell

summer waves please erase that few days

her faith is sealed forever

follows her to the final resting place

what have they done

blood on psychedelic neon starlights was her own

his cold-blooded eyes stare at her no more



Unrequited love

Unrequited love is a stillborn

Never took his first breath

Never opened his eyes

Never spoke a word

Never got a chance

Gave up at the start

Defeated by death



15 TEARS

white corridors hide the secrets once stored in your mind

as the only silent wittiness who saw it all

from Alfa to Omega

White marble slabs broke down

under the heavy steps of the angry ones

could not stop the pain

nothing was ever the same

Tell me who is to blame?

oh how sad it is

oh how they miss

even after all this years

fear still sleeps near

finding the sane reason in the senseless crime

is the hardest task

so we should not ask

WHY?

so many words left unspoken

from the lives that were taken

13 teardrops

13 blood-drops

falling down to feed the roses on 13 graves

but where are the 2 more who lost themselves

what happened to their souls

torments us all

Lord do you know how to mend our hearts

from all the brokenness

Please tell me you saved them all

that no one was lost in the infamous lake of fire

I’m offering you my strong embrace

to protect you, to save you from yourself

oh if only i could ….

oh if only i could stop you now ….

once and for all…


Artist:

Martina Rimbaldo is a 30 year old woman who lives and works in Croatia . She always wears a pen and a notebook in her purse in the case of a sudden inspiration in order to write it down . Her work is published in Nightingale &

Sparrow, Oddball Magazine, The sage cigarette magazine, Spillwords com .Thruly you, TheStreet Light press, Six word stories, Poems, and Poezija noći websites, and her artwork is published at weekly blog of Royal Rose Magazine, her photographs are published in Bleached Butterfly and Anti heroin chic. Loves to paint abstract paintings, read religious books, watch horror as well as old movies with Audrey Hepburn, Sharon Tate, Brigitte Bardot who happens to share her birth date and (over)thinks specially about death, what some people find morbid but not her, it is a part of life too. Her goal is to be a good person.

Eulogies in Quicksand – Poetry by Frogg Corpse

To What We Lost – Frogg Corpse

What a special tribute this poetry is by Frogg Corpse that was written for his brother. The expression of internal struggle while handling such a great loss is truly a powerful testament of complete and genuine love.


Eulogies in Quicksand

by: Frogg Corpse

For what I’ve grown to know

Numbness towards my end

All these wars inside,

Tearing my dreaming head

Quaking rites find comfort

Second guessing in the sand,

Separate the folly,

Of what makes us meet again;

Changing words of scripture

Writing our eulogies,

Hero I need you now

More for them, than it is for me,

I am counting down the time,

For what emotion has in store

I would wish it all away

To hear your final words.

In memory of Jeremy Robertson

My brother who took his own life.

April 25, 1976 – June 22, 2020


Poet:

Frogg Corpse is a poet, vocalist, and actor from Louisville Kentucky.
Frogg’s poetry has been published by Artifact Nouveau, Cajun Mutt Press, Necro Magazine, and Louisville’s LEO Weekly.
Frogg has performed poetry readings on the Quintessential Listening: Poetry Online Radio w/ host Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram. As well as Bar Poetry, and Easton Book Festival’s Open-Mic: Halloween Edition. He has also read his work numerous times on Poetry Super Highway w/ Rick Lupert. Frogg has performed Live at Gonzofest during 2014-2016 which is a Louisville festival that honors writer, native, and journalist Hunter S. Thompson.
Frogg has also been a contestant in 2020 for a Poetry Slam hosted by spoken word artist Suli Breaks.

Radiography of Time & Other Artwork by Sohyun Park

To What We Lost – Sohyun Park 

Bringing us images of new perspectives and intricate thought is Sohyun Park! Take a look at his work and his inspiration behind the art.


Radiography of time 


Artist:

Sohyun Park 

Follow:

drawing: https://www.instagram.com/satgat__/

painting : https://www.instagram.com/satgat_/

photography & sculpture/ installation etc : https://www.instagram.com/le_chapeau_de_bambou/

Letter to a Traveller – Poetry by Abiodun Peter Ekundayo

To What We Lost – Abiodun Peter Ekundayo

Abiodun Peter Ekundayo fills our day with serene poetry. Take some time to read his beautiful work below:


Letter to a Traveller

I remembered scaling the fence of your house just to see you bathe with the pail on your head.

Through the walls of your house have I called

You to play with the stones on your roof as my emissary,

Whistling with the calls of your name behind my damp palms, and the shy knock on your door, requesting to see you.

Do you remember?

I came again tonight,

Under the rolling eye of the sky

Like a stagnant water set free,

To play under the rain like we do always.

I walked through the passage that boils like the brain of a lunatic,

Only to see it

Flowing like the blood of a new-born.

I whispered again tonight,

Through the knob of your door

With my flip-flop orchestrating my gait.

I called Papa ,

He told me you went on a journey,

To a place far away from home, through the Seven Junctures.

I asked Mama ,

She said you’ve danced well to the tune of the Sacred soil and you’ve been invited for a festival that might last forever.

I asked Bingo ,

He barked and looked at the sky, I looked too .

I saw the moon in its half, sailing on the sea of fluffy clouds and,

The Stars , charging the chagrin along with the tempest of clouds .

I searched your room, perhaps, you dropped a letter to tell your destination.

I rummaged,to get

nothing but the silence of a labyrinth

Spiced with seductive lime that garnished my eyes. You left without telling me.

Dear friend, come back soon ,

To tell me the stories of the Seven Junctures

And the festival of your ancestors.


Poet:

Abiodun Peter EKUNDAYO is an undergraduate student of the Federal University Oye Ekiti. A poet and an award winning essayist who was born and raised in Lagos. An indigene of Ogun State, Obafemi Owode Local Government Area. He loves fantasising and musing the moon ; he could also fit in for an actor. He plays football with passion and enjoys company of his friends likewise tranquility and music.

Follow:

Link to work ;
https://ewafuoye.home.blog/2020/07/11/embers/

Laughing Bones – Poetry by Meg Smith

To What We LostMeg Smith

Meg Smith takes the memories of her loved one and holds it as a continuous gift. Her poem is a touching expression of the immense amount of love and goodness that stays even though there has been loss.


Laughing Bones

In memory of Lawrence Carradini

We share a joke before sleep. 

I confess my lives

that stir in a dark well, 

and we will still laugh.

I pray to his innocence. 

I am the only one waking.

I light every candle for him. 

I pray for us in our sleep, 

where everything waxes whole.


Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass.

In addition to Ponder Savant, her writing has appeared recently in The Cafe Review, Trouvaille Review, The Horror Zine, Dark Dossier, Sirens Call, and many more.

Her poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost, This Scarlet Dancing, Night’s Island and Pretty Green Thorns, and her short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor, have been published by Emu Books. They are available on Amazon.

Follow:

She welcomes visits at megsmithwriter.com, on Twitter @MegSmith_Writer, and Facebook.com/megsmithwriter.

Escort Service and Other Poetry by Mike L. Nichols

To What We Lost – Mike L. Nichols

In captivating rawness, Mike L. Nichols expresses his experience of losing his mother. His words pull you into an understanding of the loss of oneself within such grief.


Escort Service

I didn’t expect a weathered man
my age wearing a Stetson hat,
one thumb hooked in the pocket
of filthy jeans, to come drifting
from behind the rusted yellow
dumpster in the back-alley of the
Blue Moon Gentlemen’s Club.
My grandfather, who drank himself
to death twenty-five years before my
birth, escorting me to the next plane
when the bullet torpedoes quick
through my whiskey soaked brain.

Who makes these assignments,
some cherubic bureaucratic being?
Probably not God. He’d have bigger
things to see to, what with tsunami’s
and hurricanes washing people away.
Unattended toddlers tipping into
irrigation canals. But it could be He
purposely picks who the escort will be
just for a laugh at the look on the new
ghost’s face when a stranger floats
into view. Why wouldn’t God have a sense
of humor too? He must get bored, telling
the same old jokes to the angelic host.

“A pirate stumps into a bar . . .”

As it was, I couldn’t stand by and watch Mom
waste away, age two decades overnight and die
after the last round of chemo was several
months behind. Instead, I stood on the other side
of her bedroom door while she sank,
awash in a private sea of pain meds.
Maybe she didn’t show at the Blue Moon
out of resentment for all those days I hid
doggy-paddling through bottles, drifting
off on a stone pipe’s smoke. Leaving her
before she could leave me.


Proximate C.O.D.

I followed the simple set of instructions
promising power over death while
offering nothing for the alternative.
No means to cork the shuddering
grief at graveside.

Dehydration’s the danger.
If I can just plunge the nutrients
and some water into her
throat every 2 – 3 hours
there’s cause to be hopeful. Life doesn’t
feel like an illusion
when I’m wiping the shit
from her ass again.

Random stars twinkle
coyly at me while I wait for
some sympathetic or sagacious
presence to shout back from
the blackness that’s
swallowing me.


Magic Number

The threshold of sunsets looms at
17,782.
Against my will, I circle toward it.
When I cross over, how can she be
my mother any longer? Her death
will be renewed. Her existence growing
cobweb thin. In perpetuity younger than me.
To be a child older than your mother must
violate some rule.

I was driving yellow trucks across
the carpet when I heard her hymn
coming from the ironing room
and for a moment I was frightened,
believing an angel was singing.
Drawn by the sound I stood and scuffed
my feet across the carpet toward it.
Fear of silencing her song held me
peering in at the threshold.

I wasn’t listening whenever it was
that I crossed the verge into adulthood.
I missed the moment. I vaguely believed
some secret knowledge would have been
instantly imparted. An understanding
greater than a child’s. A defining equation,
maybe
16 – 48.7 > 17,782

When they cart away my coffin
will all things be equal?


Poet:

Mike L. Nichols is a graduate of Idaho State University and a recipient of the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. He lives and writes in Eastern Idaho. Look for his poetry in Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Ink&Nebula, Plainsongs Magazine, and elsewhere.

Follow: Find more at deadgirldancing.net

Marble Rolling & Other Poetry by Patricia Walsh

To What We Lost – Patricia Walsh

December is upon us! We have Patricia Walsh carrying us through the beginning of this month with rich poetry to savor. Look below to sink your teeth into it!


Marble Rolling

Marble rolling along the floor, perfected
Punctured preferences following suit,
Walking in a heightened show, laid on thick
Crying on bilateral shoulders an obvious trait,
Called-upon to dusk the husk of a tired unison.

The creeping expense, poisoning the back pocket
The high moral ground awaits its garden
Showed with wanton recollection rebelled
Cutting the alcohol with some sensical traits
Toxic association swollen in a hard-won smile.

Raging against closing time, manners forthcoming
Never holding a flashbulb to the ready-made,
Caught on high, too fall to sunder,
Access some arias till the recidivist squeaks
Tinctured through inclusion of another’s aside.

Scarred as needed, read from the bottom
This technological product behoves it’s gait.
Not permitting this mistake, willed as a wanted
Penny dropping into the well of softened need,
The necessary blood siphoned through suffering.

Coffee dropped down to you, courteous, satisfying
Wishing for the other side of the bar, clothed
In the cloths of heaven, this easier time,
Gone into pursuit of rarefied blood
The darkened whistle unheard, as if wanted.


Trapped Nerve

Needing a seat like any other, price already paid.
The acrostic beginnings burgeon on well
The rancid oasis beats to the sound of the converse
People wanting less to do with whole numbers.

Wanting more food, expenditure allowing
Watered-down prizegiving strip-lighted away
A turnover of friends meet and greet over snacks
Burnt and activated a fad contrived.

Watching over rainfall, the height of fear,
Aware of what is done, guilty in paperback,
Mourning simple losses as if life depended
Intercepted through sunlight, stranglehold overdone.

Ripped clothing over wealth, perennial fashion
What is not understood is recycled by the book,
Popularity in mid-road crushed in bed
More useless the better, impressing the singular,

The criminal proceeding, high-wire jewellery
Watched through competition, fingers in pies,
Aggravated eyelashes a pulchritudinous mess,
Fed rubbish through the gills a slotted burn,

Scruffy out of love, criminal affection aside,
Fed every sort of theory at the going rate
Persecution laughably easy, turned into affability
Not seen or sought for, ever again,


Detransition

No mannerly dichotomy can save us now
Karmafied baby dykes renege on form,
The mangy dog stands guard, for free,
Suited and booted, surveying the detectives
This luxury goes forth to asuage the few,

Ample brains being cooked, fed upon,
The unrequited feast dangles to oblivion,
Selecting broken hearts to disintegrate
The disinnocent going fast and easy with the times,

Streamlined blood, eating with another purpose
Reflexive sorrow bends back all supreme
Asked-for littering too glorious for some,
Sized against airstrikes on another country
Remaining in the news, God-feared like that,

Arrested improvement, go home and go to bed,
Intrusive conversation relaxed and enjoyed
Layered with accusations on how it was done,
Rattled into invalidity into seats being taken,

The overly serious disposition, dispatched home.
Finding massacres where the room does lie
Novelty dye jobs erupt the binary position
The better to offend, audition to high heaven
Seeing to burn-out the disciplinary station


Corrugated Walls

Glorified sweetness comes home to squawk,
The proper exits go through over written joy,
Exhuming sadness that goes through publication
Heard through corrugated walls, watching the money.

Giving glances a break, glossing over guidelines
The blighted handwriting matched for its colour
The ascertained corners run through your hair
The holy vocals singing hallelujah gone through.

The foreigners speaking native tongues
Gone home to suburbia, spectating where needed,
Writing at a loss to weaken the fingers,
No longer a typecast that determines the weight.

These defunct riches, faltered beyond recognition,
Advertising the divorce on a solemn counter
Clockwise, working perfume on tenterhooks
Elusive maturity stands its own guard.

This disgusting currency, spent out of glory,
Going through motions to fall once again,
Priced out of the market by the entertainment
The tin being needed again to be returned.

Needed to cry, whatever reason should suffice
The dismantled lover stalls the merry dance,
Hibernating from the scars of useless fashion
Relating to, hardening the thin walls of guidance.


Poet:

Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International;  Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.