I often write about life after loss. Here’s a poem I wrote today during a meeting with poet friends. Our theme was ‘Absence’. I’ve got a lot to say about that. Playing in the dark And at night, I do forget that you’re gone. How could I not? Years don’t matter in letters or dreams.Continue reading “Playing in the dark, by Britta Benson”
I’m working on a few projects simultaneously right now. In all likelihood, none of them will work, but I don’t mind. I enjoy experimenting. No pressure. Here’s a poem that has been in my notebook for a while. Today, I finally found an ending for it. Remember past the dream Remember past the dream, pastContinue reading “Remember past the dream, by Britta Benson”
This poem is my response to Brian Vos’s Weekly Poetry Prompt on http://www.brianvos.com. This week’s theme: Two sides of loss. Here’s the link to his page: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/107936767/posts/3910516669 It got me thinking about the time, two and a half years ago, when my mum died. A few months after her death, I helped my dad clearingContinue reading “The other side of loss, by Britta Benson”
Another poem about grief. Doesn’t really need an introduction. Like most people, I live with grief. I have my own take on it. Here goes. Loss is not a lack, a gap, with fixed dimensions. Absence comes and goes, grows into a tidal beast, famished crashing waves, eating hearts, licking wounds, seeking, always finding. Then,Continue reading “Loss, by Britta Benson”
A haiku it is, today, to mark Remembrance Sunday. Some occasions don’t require lots of words. Remembrance Sunday Death awakens souls. Lost voices speak forever. We’re the threads of life.
I have only recently started to write haiku and you probably know what if feels like, when you discover something rather late in the game. I am now writing haiku with a vengeance and I’m thoroughly enjoying the experience. The three haiku below can stand alone, but are also related and meant to be readContinue reading “Haiku Triptych, by Britta Benson”
Closer It’s always about distance. We’re bonding over fears of loss. Hope strikes joyful, like a lottery ticket in a back pocket, washed, wishing for thunder, lightning, and a bag of sherbet lemons to share. We hold hands across the time zones of life and death. It’s always about distance. Ask commuters on a rushContinue reading “Closer, by Britta Benson”