Puzzle Pieces: A Collection of Poems

Born into the unknown, we emerge,

amidst pain and jubilation, flesh tears,

and blood flows. Primal cries echo,

raw beginning of life. In this crucible,

we emerge, cries of battle, bathed in blood.

Embraced in the love of another.

In uncertainty of life, we begin to weave

our tapestry, the journey that we will tread.

Each breath, a step toward journey’s end.

From chaos, comes beauty, from pain and blood,

life. In this moment, we are harmony,

personified. Sharing in a moment,

on a journey all our own. Yet, we do not

journey alone, for we are all here. Humanity,

a shared experience.

When I was six, or maybe seven?

My father led me to my parents’ bathroom.

We sat down together on the cold

light blue tiled floor.

“Did you know,

you can find shapes everywhere?” dad asked.

“No, you can’t,” I giggled,

thinking he was silly.

The fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead

as he scanned the tile, searching.

Suddenly, his large brown hand shot out,

a pen ready, and to my surprise,

he drew on the floor! I gasped,

we weren’t supposed to do that!

My dad was such a stickler for the rules,

but not today! With concentration,

he traced out a shape, his hand curving

this way and that. My eyes widened,

a dog appeared, seemingly from nothing!

How did he see that? I looked up,

his face was smiling, brown eyes

bright with triumph.

“See?” He said, his voice proud.

“I want to try!” I exclaimed,

searching already for the next shape.

It was like magic, suddenly,

they were everywhere!

Pen marks all over the floor.

We spent the whole afternoon

tracing out shapes. A cat, a fat man,

just to name a few.

A magical gift, given that day.

The day my dad and I drew on the floor,

a memory cherished.

I still search for shapes everywhere,

a bit of wonder left from my childhood.

I walked a shadow world, following a dirt road,

unfamiliar. Figures ran past, nearly formless.

Feelings of despair and fear. Gun shots rang out,

the air was heavy, choked with smoke and ash.

Picking up the pace, a shape suddenly emerged.

I never saw her face, just a bundle of fabric, crumpled

on the ground. Feelings of despair and fear. I knelt.

From her chest, she pulled a child, small and mewling.

A heavy burden, to take the hope of a mother. As if

a tether was broken, her arms fell limp. I held the child,

responsibility, like an anvil, heavy on my shoulders. Then,

a flutter, the child convulsed against me. I couldn’t look,

holding tightly as the child, the mother’s, hope died.

Until, soundless, it was gone. Feelings of despair and fear.

Bed is meant to be safety, comfortable and warm. Until,

that night it sent me to war. Who was she? I will never

know her, and yet…I know her, feelings of despair and fear.

In the presence of love, one finds strength, not the skittish fluttering of a hummingbird wing, but mighty beats that lift you skyward. Through confidence born not of bravado, there is assurance that together not even a mighty tempest can reach you; for you are ramparts made of stone. When weakness falls upon you, more than a shoulder is offered, instead swept into arms, they whisper, “I will be your legs, until you can stand again.” Scars and imperfections laid naked and bare. Seeing beyond this frame, you are art in their eyes. Do not sell yourself for mere pennies, for you are gilded, precious. Give yourself only to one who can appreciate your hues, for this is deserved.

Look at you,

my wonderful man,

my husband.

You are perfection.

I find you beautiful,

skin of rich hues,

warm browns-

dark blacks.

Together we are art,

colors mixed on a palette,

creating beauty—

an intimate experience.

I didn’t know fear until I loved you. First, it was anxiety and excitement, the stuff of new love. Fluttering nerves of a new bride, promising forever. Then, apprehension of what life has in store. But boldly I faced it because your hand, I had to hold. Then, the world changed, seeming so vast, determined to be cruel, or- has it always been this way? Hurtful words, hateful slurs, fear of others, invading the doors of our happiness. I held tighter to you, willing the fear away, knowing that I must be brave. But I can’t truly keep you safe, I can’t shield you from this world. You are not my prisoner, not a bird in a cage. Keeping you tucked away, I’d stifle you, kill the flame. “Be brave,” I say, a reminder to myself. Fear still lives now, within me, a constant companion that refuses to leave. Is this bad? Maybe not. I fear for you because I love you, terrible poetry, but there it is. The truth no one told, that with love comes a toll. A price I will gladly pay because I’d rather fear for you, than to never love you

When I looked upon you I met strange unfamiliarity, 

the father I knew, cold and still, offering no embrace.

Damn the fragility of life! How dare it take you away?

I yearn to hear your voice, offering a comforting word.

Please, give me something! How can you go in silence?

I ventured to take your hand, tainted with a hideous hue.

Your pallor, once warm like cinnamon, turned subtle blue, 

the color you adored, called beautiful, looks so wrong.

You loved the hue that painted skies, but could you still- 

if you knew it’s the last thing I’ll see, looking at you now?

Your large hand, that I held as a child, is cold to my touch.

I am surprised, though why? I know not; this is expected.

Yet still, I hold tighter, searching, willing your eyes to open.

Eyes of brown and amber, that watched me grow, and yet— 

forever they are closed, for on your face is the shadow of death.

Music filled the house, a melodious sound,

your songs felt like a warm embrace.

Now you are gone, a void left, silent.

Who will play music now?

Your songs felt like a warm embrace,

a voice, beautiful and booming.

Who will play music now?

Only echoes are left, our hearts ache.

A voice, beautiful and booming,

that talent of yours, now silent and still.

Only echoes are left, our hearts ache,

searching for a remedy, finding none.

That talent of yours, now silent and still,

I find myself singing songs that you sang.

Searching for a remedy, finding none,

to ease the pain of losing you.

I find myself singing songs that you sang,

In them, I begin to find solace.

To ease the pain of losing you,

I need only remember my father.

We are the stuff of stars,

dust and memories, this is us.

Yet, when I gaze upon your box,

nestled on my shelf, I can’t fathom

that this is you.

How strange, to see a life reduced –

fitting neatly in a cube.

We are meant to shine, and you,

so bright, bathed us in your glow.

You were an impermanent light,

a candle, snuffed out too soon.

We can’t let go, for memories

reside, echoes of laughter, tears,

the stuff of a rich life.

Now confined to this small space,

the spirit within cannot be erased.

One day, we’ll place you under the sun.

For now, be our star; though you

are dust in a box, we still see you.

A light not yet quite receded.

I feel my life is a puzzle. Every day

a new piece given, adding to a picture

I don’t yet know. Some pieces are bright,

like the taste of citrus on the tongue.

A bride on her wedding day, marrying

her love. Others dark, like bitter medicine,

hard to swallow and unavoidable.

The death of a father, taken too soon.

Some pieces I place, reverently,

committing the feel and shape, to memory.

Others, I wish I could toss, forgetting.

But I want to see the puzzle complete so,

I will continue to place each piece.