Monthly Archives: January 2012


Hope is fledgling,
a sparse feathered thing.
It trembles
in the chill of an early morning breeze,
hungers for earthy morsels.
Not yet ready to leave the nest
it cries out for sustenance,
tiny beak open in anticipation of
it knows not what.


a small grey bird has begun to visit
he pokes his little beak
over the white timber frame
at the bottom of my sitting room door
most days he stops by
just for a moment
pecks on the glass to get my attention
then waddles across the deck
his delicate birdie feet
clicking softly on the weathered timber         
birds bring me comfort – consolation
a few days after the death of my son
I crumpled keening in the garage
I could not find a sketch he had drawn
a small black bird with an orange beak
stood in the doorway watching me
unafraid of my shrieking
as I foraged manically
through the remnants of a life that ended too soon
each year on the anniversary of our son’s death
my husband and I would take a bottle of French champagne
to Squeaky Beach on Wilsons Prom
where we had scattered his ashes
we laughed – cried
shared stories of our boy
as we sipped his favourite bubbly
and each year on the almost deserted winter beach
a little black bird with an orange beak
would leave little birdie footprints in the sand
as he wandered between us and the ocean
on the morning after my husband’s death
unable to sleep
I stumbled through the sand at Half Moon Bay
searching for solace in the coming of dawn
as black turned to grey I heard birdsong
I looked toward the sound
and saw two black birds
soaring together
dipping and diving as day began
the new bird in my life
brings with him peace
a sense that soon
it will be my turn to soar
Tricia 04/2011


The Power of Poetry

The Power of Poetry
Wordsworth wrote of many things
Yet Daffodils is the verse that rings
The bells of kindred spirit-ship
Stiches the wound bereavement ripped
I know this man I’ve never met
Centuries apart and yet
His words “the bliss of solitude;”
Touch my deepest darkest mood
Lost lives live – hope is formed
I still have those whose deaths I’ve mourned
His “inward eye” sets sorrow free
Reverie brings them back to me
Two daffodils bloomed in the meadow of life
Mother to one to the other wife
Tricia 19/1/2012

A Prose Poem

For the last year she had been scrabbling around in the book of her life trying to find her place. It wasn’t until the day after the first anniversary of his death that she realized she has lost her bookmark. As bookmarks go he was one of a kind, soft Venetian leather, hand tooled with an artisan’s skill, engraved with gold leaf that sparkled in the bright light of day and the softer glow of evening. He nestled in the pages of her life. Sometimes in her impatience, she would want to skip pages, or read them quickly without full comprehension, but when she picked the bookmark up to mark her new place she would feel a resistance, a gentle yet firm insistence that she go back and reread. Impetuous, in a hurry to understand everything, she would ask multiple questions without realizing that answers could be a long time coming, and that for some questions there would be no answers. When a chapter was sad, so sad that it was painful to read, she would clasp the gently aged, subtly weathered bookmark, and feel a warmth and strength penetrate her hands, rise up her arms, then descend into her aching centre. As the years passed she placed the bookmark between pages he was not comfortable with, pages full of passion and deep inner truths, she would read aloud as the bookmark rested on her lap. Over time she noticed the leather developed a delicate density, and she came to know that each brought their own dimension to a vibrant, well written story.
Tricia 7/2010

Suicide and Euthanasia

Suicide sits on my shoulder
His voice grows louder and more insistent
Yet it is soft and seductive
Come to me
I will bring you the peace you crave
You can rest in my arms
Surrender to the sleep of sunset
Sink below the horizon
Where the waves will wash away your pain
Your tired broken body will be supported
In the oceans womb
As you float to the land beyond knowing.
Tricia 02/2010
Suicide no longer sits on my shoulder
He lives in a small shed
At the bottom of my garden
I seldom see him
Yet knowing he is there
Brings strength and peace
I no longer call him suicide 
These days I refer to him as
Plan B
He is acquaintance not friend
The intimacy has gone
From our relationship
He is now a tenant
On my property
The peppercorn rent
His silence
I may never again
Invite him into my home
But If I do it will be
The right choice for me
Tricia 01/2012

Life’s Ocean

Life’s Ocean
Ocean relentless ebb and flow
Constantly changing the surface of the sand
Life’s joys and sorrows come and go
Reach out to meet them with outstretched hand
Gently soothing or raging destructively
Ever an awe inspiring sight
Peace and fury alternating
Touching us all a constant fight
White water mounting or crystal clear
A thing of beauty to behold
Our feelings change with circumstance
Altering as our lives unfold
Water lapping gently to shore
Leaving its debris on the beach
Thus we humans leave something behind
Affecting those we strive to reach
Life’s ocean relentless ebb and flow
Ever changing the depth of our being
Feel freely its varied elements
So empty a life never seeing
Tricia 4/93

Journey Beyond Wishing

An exhausting experience
Tossed in a churning ocean of why and what if
We grieve for so many things
Life is full of little losses
Then there are the monumental losses
The ones that can never be fully comprehended
These we move through hour by hour
Moment by moment
We travel these uncharted seas
In whatever direction our being leads us
No markers to guide us
At times our inner voice the only means of navigation
Death is a journey beyond wishing
The agony of possibility
Combined with impossibility
The never knowing
How to accept the never knowing
And the sense of loss
The ache within the ache
The ache that defies description
How to survive the not wanting to survive
Those angry steps that tempt fate
“Come and get me you bastard fate”
At times beyond caring
Seeking only oblivion
Reaching for anything to ease this pain
Wanting darkness
Not light
With light we see what is behind us and before us
Often not ready for the seeing yet somehow understanding
Open eyes and an open heart necessary if we are to move forward
With seeing can come new waves of pain
Facing the truth of what was and what is
Through a fragmented filter
This viewing of things in segments can help one survive
Feeling the pain of what is known
And then the unknown
Those precipitous cliffs of impossibility
The acceptance of questions without answer
One of life’s hardest lessons
Often wanting just five more minutes
So the journey continues                                      
Tricia 01/06