The Journals

The Journals
A mother sat reading her son’s journals
It was not something she would normally do
But this was not a normal situation
None the less she felt uncomfortable
Invading his most private thoughts
An interloper
Devouring his words
In her search for understanding
All the many words she read
Formed a reverberating mantra
He is dead – he is dead
Tricia 2011

About triciabertram

I have written all my life. Writing helps me to make sense of a world I often don’t understand. Poetry is my supreme solace, closely followed by literature and music. When my son ended his life in 1999 I embarked on the most difficult journey of my life, my grief journey. To survive in this unknown, harsh landscape I had to write. It was for me, the only way I could even begin to move forward. Then in 2009 my darling husband died suddenly and so my journey continues. I write about other issues but because of my life experience, grief and death are continuing themes in my writing life. In our culture I believe there is a fear of death, an inability to accept the inevitability of our mortality, and this creates enormous difficulties for the bereaved and those around them. I have begun this blog in the hope I will create a small ripple in the pond of fear that is currently drowning the reality of death and grief. I will continue to skim the stones of my truth, watch them bounce, and see how many ripples I can make.

Posted on December 5, 2011, in Poems. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. People like to quote “Nothing is certain but death and taxes” (oh, hahaha!) but your poem says different. It speaks to me of the certainty of love and respect, and how one demands the other, and the conflict that can occur between them, I like this poem – it says a lot in just a few lines.

  2. Jo my son used to tell me that I could never know what an author, poet or songwriter meant by their words, I could only know what the words meant to me. He was a wise young man in many ways.
    It has often been my experience that people get something totally different out of one of my poems than the message the poem has for me, and that’s fine with me. Poetry for me, is all about striking some inner cord.

    Joe you have succinctly touched the heart of what this poems means for me. Thank you.

  3. His words strike a chord in me. I recall coming to ‘verbal blows’ with one of my college lecturers who would invariably include in his critique of a famous painter’s picture the words “what he was trying to say …”. He didn’t appreciate my contribution that perhaps the artist wasn’t trying to ‘say’ anything at all – perhaps he was just painting a picture.

    Some of us paint pictures in words 🙂

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