As I sit on a bench made of hard stone. My poet lies by my side. Underneath a tree is where I sit. Underneath a tree is where he lies. Silently, he never makes a sound. The birds, the wind in the trees, and the cicadas ruminate on the breeze. Cicadas bellow life’s questions loudly into the air, you can hear them everywhere. They seem to go unanswered. The cicadas seem angrier, louder, as the day moves on. The trees sway with unfazed dazes upon their faces. They go, to and fro, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and seem to unwind with ease, as pretty as you please.

Unbothered,

unscathed,

unaffected,

disconnected,

or just putting on a show as they bend and bow. No one would even know if I hadn’t seen it for myself, as I sit and write with my poet in the ground.

Written by Gina Adams

Sunday, May 26, 2024

I am struggling to lift my head, get outta bed, to get the day started, before the sun, finish, over and done. I choose to hit the snooze alarm a dozen times. The things I am willing to sacrifice just to sleep in. Food, do I really need it? I imagine the bargaining it will take to make me want to move among the “living”. I try to coax myself with a nice spin, two more weeks till the end, then you can sleep in. My snooze alarm is my best friend, but, I won’t need him then.

Written by Gina Adams

Monday, May 7, 2024

Words have eaten into my brain, as for me, I’ll never be the same, but you’ll

never hear me complain. They’ve

touched my lobes and set my lines free and brought out a poet hiding inside of me. A vex of my hoarding cerebral cortex, left me numb, less, an emotional mess. Hoarded processes, time, and infinite rhyme, a proverbial gear throw in a lost screw or two, nothing else to do.

My broca is broke. So, I talk with my hand, not always easy to understand. A new Theta Sunday Writing Ritual has possessed my mind along with my index finger and thumb. I’m one weird individual. My thoughts are free, now they won’t let me be.

Written by Gina Adams

Sunday, May 5th, 2024

I strike a match, click off a light, flick the bottom of a golden brass ring held firmly within my hand, close as I have to a big brass band, I love to hear her “ting”, how I love to hear her “sing” every “Sound” a melody, a “Voice”a luxury, more precious to me than my string of pearls and my diamond ring. Standing naked at the window sill, I know I gotta tell you how I feel, I reach out to you for a real connection, maybe I need some inter-spection, you shoot me down with no introspection, just trying to keep it real, no big deal. I forgot for a moment I’m not supposed to feel. Rejection is filling my days, harsh words, assumed thoughts, and ink blots, my muse. I took out all of my candlesticks, thin white candles atop tall clear tubes that you can see through as not to abstract my view. Brass bottomed candle holders that “ ting” when you flick them line the window sills. I lit ever candle I could find to illuminate the dark, the darkness subsides, but never leave’s completely. It now fills my empty spaces.

I called you on the telephone today. The sun has risen and set many times since you went away, I wanted to tell you my plans, my hands shook so hard as I held my breath and hoped you would answer one more time, but I got your answering machine. I listened to it over and over. I miss your voice telling me , “ I Love you!” I see you in every newly painted sky. There have been many that made me want to cry, especially when I think about how you never even said goodbye. Each sunrise and sunset a masterpiece, tell Bob Ross I appreciate his part in bringing me some peace and that it still brings a smile to my face to think about his “happy little trees”,somewhere something is happy.

I want to fly and spend some time with you, but someone is always obstructing my view. There is not a dry eye in your house tonight. I’m glad you can’t see me I must look a fright. I had everything, now I have nothing. Without you here there are so many empty spaces inside of me. When you died, I died too. No one reached out to comfort me so inside this emptiness grew. My reality is that I have to rediscover me and what makes me tick besides this slow, somber beating of my heart. I have to learn to live without you and you voice, I just want it stated in the record it was never my choice to leave you behind, most days, I can’t get you off of my mind or the thoughts of what you left behind.I found the last poem that I wrote to you, it was locked inside of your phone that I broke. Can’t hold back the tears, they’re making me choke. Looking at photographs where I captured a moment in time, a picture of you kissing the side of my cheek, me with a big smile upon my face, in front of a green, and white snow frocked tree. That was the me I used to be when I had everything, I have nothing without you. Now, I lay here with drops dripping from my eyes. I used to see my future in those sky blue eyes of yours, you were my port with peaceful shores, since they have closed all I see is darkness. Your light was extinguished and my world grew dark. It seems grim to put your name in marble like vinyl, it will seem so final. My poem to you etched in stone will seem so final, but know this, I never wanted to say goodbye, and I know you never meant to make me cry. I’ll always love you, until my dying breathe, and since I said “I do”. I know it is over and we are through. I know I gotta let you go and find me. Since your light went out, I am here lost in the dark, struggling to see a way out of this deafening darkness that has a grip on me, this nothingness won’t let me be. Will anyone raise up their candle and reach out to me?! Or shall I continue becoming nothing and wander around aimlessly in the dark?! You were my spark, now I am nothing, wandering around in the dark.

I’ve got to stop talking to you!

The not knowing if you like me that

way is bad for my heart. It’s making me feel some kind of weird. It’s breaking my body down in ways it’s hard to depart, suffice it to say, it’s killing my heart. Let’s just say it’s worse than I feared. Love’s not for the faint or the broken hearted.

Soon, I will be the dearly departed.

Seems everybody is doing it. Too trendy for my blood. This fate is inévitable, but I believe I will wait to draw that final curtain. All those people killed back in à flood with Noah. People dying in à pandémic has become an épidémic. Dying is for certain, of which you can be sure. Death is the disease to which there is no cure.

Written by Gina Adams

The leaves of the réd maple tree turn with radiant colors like à mâle bird trying to attract a mate with its flamboyant colors. Spring would not seem as miraculous without the falling of the leaves and the dormant season. The colors of fall become muted in winter and bring gloom.The arrival of à pastel pallette of spring flowers comes with à JOY like Bob Ross and " his happy little trees".

Written by Gina Adams