Tag: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

We choose Indian Break
where the mountains
cup a stream-fed valley
to say a belated farewell.
Evocative of an ancient rite
we try to cauterize
long-seeping spirit-wounds.
We stand in waterfall spray,
let our tears rain
before walking
on separate paths.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

The family goes on its regular date,
this time to a thrift shop
out of the neighborhood.
Dad gives each child a dollar bill,
says spend wisely. Mom heads toward
the shelves of household items,
fingers the waffle iron, sees the frayed cord,
moves on. She laughs over lava lamp memories,
chooses an intact game of Monopoly.
Dad and son gravitate to guy things.
The dollar bill goes at once to a samurai sword
with enough left over for the lone boxing glove –
he might luck onto its mate. Dad hefts
the bowling ball, decides it might do. Little sister
falls in love with a rubber ducky in hockey clothes.
At the register she solemnly hands
her change back to Daddy. Each happy
with the results of the spree they top off
the celebration with ice cream cones.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

I grieve the loss
of the riverine forest,
the alders Nature bestowed
after the great flood.

Yesterday they were cut down,
turned into firewood,
victims of the canker disease
sweeping the globe’s northern tier.

This morning I mourn their passing,
slowly survey my changed domain
and discover that in this loss
I have cause to rejoice.

Now I see the creek stretch
from above the bridge
to more than a mile downstream,
trimmed by young sycamores left standing.

On a snag high on the far bank
a bald eagle overlooks his kingdom
and air swishes freely through the new space
to cool my flushed face.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

She wandered past the perimeter
of midlife, replaced blond curls
with natural iron-ore gray.
At this new stage of life
she wondered
at all those efforts
over all those years
to be the aunt with gifts
she thought her sister’s kids
would love. To be the person
expected.
Tired of trying
to satisfy others
she sighed and slid with relief
into her next decade.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.