Memory of sitting by the river,
you taking my picture,
the leaves around us
already changing—
you were happy that day,
camera in hand,
no hint of sorrow,
no augury of grief.
Oh, that beautiful day.
I fold it in half,
run my finger down the crease,
unfold it, rotate it ninety degrees
and fold it in half again.
In six more steps,
I’ve folded it neatly into a boat.
Someday, perhaps,
I will float it down the river.
Today, I tuck it
into my mind’s back pocket.
When I need to, I touch it,
run my fingers along the folds.
It carries me along
the current.
Archive for October, 2022
That Beautiful Day
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged autumn, beauty, boat, grief, memory, mother, origami, river, son on October 12, 2022| 7 Comments »
Big Lesson
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged community, connection, kindness on October 11, 2022| 3 Comments »
Today it feels so simple:
we are here to take care of each other.
How could we ever forget?
As if soil could forget
it is here to feed the trees.
As if trees could forget
they are here to feed the soil.
How could anything
ever get in the way of generosity?
How could we ever greet each other
with any words besides,
How can I help you?
As if light could forget
it is here to help illuminate.
As if dark could forget
it is here to help us heal.
Embracing the Mess
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged clealiness, grief, memories, neatness, organization, son on October 10, 2022| 8 Comments »
for my son
I didn’t know you used to straighten
the shelves at the toy store in town
until tonight, when my friend told me
you used to go there to play after school
while hanging out with your friends, and then,
to her shock, you’d put everything away.
No other kids ever did that, she said.
But that was your nature—
you who kept rows of mechanical pencils
in perfect lines on your desk.
You who ate one thing at a time on your plate.
Sometimes I pull out memories of you
and scatter them all over the house—
memory of smelling all the spices in the spice drawer,
memory of building pirate ships out of couches,
memory of playing Legos on the floor.
Setting up the drum set in the doorway.
Playing chase to Krishna Das before bed.
They’re everywhere, these memories.
I don’t even try to stack them away
in the closet, color coded, neatly folded,
though that is in my nature, too.
I like it best when the memories are everywhere—
and I stumble over the ghosts of wooden train tracks,
trip on the spot where you used to do push-ups,
fall all over the memory of your ski gear, neatly laid out,
and there, on the piano, I remember it well,
your music spread out next to mine.
*
Nothing to Say
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged broken heart, compassion, friendship, grief, name, silence on October 9, 2022| 2 Comments »
So I light a candle
and though I am hundreds
of miles from you,
I say your name
into the flame—
your name
and the name
of your beloved
who is gone—
these the only
syllables worth saying.
Then I hold silence for you
the way the earth
holds the ocean,
the way a canyon
holds wind,
the way a broken heart
holds another
broken heart.
Poem in Silver Birch Press
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, father, memory, new york city on October 9, 2022| 4 Comments »
I am grateful to have a poem in Silver Birch Press’s ONE GOOD MEMORY series. When my friend Phyllis first told me about the series, I immediately thought of this memory of my father … place can be so powerful. Thanks to Silver Birch Press for publishing “Walking 5th Avenue”:
Walking 5th Avenue
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
I am again fifteen
with my father,
my first trip to New York,
and he is not yet
in life-changing pain,
and we stare
in store windows,
eat street pretzels
and look for sales racks.
I don’t know yet
how he will hurt
too much to walk,
how even standing
will become impossible.
No, in this memory
we are walking
and laughing
as if we will forever,
as if there won’t
be a morning
when I wake in New York
almost four decades later
and reach to call him
and thank him
for that long-ago trip,
only to remember
he can no longer
answer the phone.
All day, I hear his laughter
as I walk. All day,
I feel his hand
reaching for mine.
Remembering My Grandmother
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grandmother, gratefulness, singing on October 9, 2022| 4 Comments »
for Merry Stoll
I loved those Sundays
when I, a teenage girl,
would climb the stairs
to the church choir loft
where my grandmother and I
would sing hymns side by side.
God, I loved her voice,
rich with vibrato and conviction,
loved her wide warble—
not a pure note,
yet wholly in tune.
Of all the selves I have been,
I cherish that girl
who knew to the core
she was lucky
to sit beside such a woman.
She didn’t yet know
nothing lasts forever,
she only knew
how she loved those moments,
their voices weaving together,
their bodies leaning into each other
like two notes grateful to be sung.
One in October
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged flower, frost, garden, irony, loss on October 8, 2022| 5 Comments »
knowing frost comes soon,
every flower in the garden
suddenly more precious
Because Last Night I Dreamt of You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dream, drums, love, music on October 6, 2022| 6 Comments »
This morning I wake and my body
is a concert hall still echoing
the beauty of the night before—
like the morning after the symphony
when the theater walls and
the red velvet curtains still remember
the swell, the strings, the silence
before the applause. Oh,
how I love my body on these mornings.
I linger in the sheets, my eyes closed,
my arms flung over my head,
my belly soft as I open myself to memory.
It’s fleeting, it’s flirty, it’s there,
then it’s not. What was symphonic
is now a mere echo of what was—
as if everyone left, but the drummer
is still there alone on stage,
beating out a tempo, complex,
but true. Hello heart. Hello heart.
Was it really just a dream?
The melody escapes me,
but I swear I still hear the rhythm.
Meeting the Memories
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, memory on October 5, 2022| 2 Comments »
Sometimes a memory arrives
with its own soundtrack—
in this case a woman’s choir
repeating again and again the words
deep peace. Sometimes a memory
comes with instructions for locations,
for instance: Best remembered
while walking alone in autumn leaves.
Or perhaps: Don’t remember
while on the phone with an insurance agent.
Sometimes a memory asks you to feed it.
It asks for ice cream, for chai tea,
for black bean soup. It asks to feast
on hours of undivided time.
Sometimes a memory convinces you
it is more than a memory. Proves
it is a part of you. Like breath.
Like tears. Like skin. Like your heart.
Essential
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Art Goodtimes, bird, friend, love, mentor on October 4, 2022| 3 Comments »
—for Art Goodtimes
When I was clay,
was mud, was
slurry, was sludge,
he said, Fly,
beautiful bird,
high and low.
When I was
nothing, he said,
I am honored
to be your friend.
When there was
nothing to be said,
he sat with me.
We breathed in
deep sadness.
We breathed out love.
All around us,
the grass grew.
Inside, I felt it,
as if his words
were prophecy,
I knew it,
the possibility
of wings.
*
Hi friends,
I realized tonight that it was a year ago yesterday that I resumed writing poems after a 7-week break after my son’s death. That break was so important–to give myself utterly over to meeting each moment and living into whatever showed up. And returning to writing was also so important–to give in to the practice of showing up with language, being very curious about what is here, and then doing my very best to tell the truth of it.
Tonight’s poem was inspired by an email I just reread from that time in which my beautiful, soul-growing, long-time mentor, Art Goodtimes said to me, among other things, Fly beautiful bird, high and low. It meant the world to me.
And so, considering tonight’s poem, it feels appropriate to share with you tonight an article that came out today in Shoutout Colorado!, in which at the end I honor Art’s influence in my life (though there is, as you will see, a misplaced paragraph in the middle of the article that should go at the end?? you’ll figure it out, because it makes no sense otherwise).
https://shoutoutcolorado.com/meet-rosemerry-wahtola-trommer-poet-presenter/
The article also talks about collaboration, the importance of practice, of “giving it away,” learning when to not give it away, and the joys of taking the slow track.