Grandma

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

Moments mapped on skin

Wrinkled, sun-kissed, thin

Years of hopes and dreams

Bursting at the seams

Wisdom in her eyes

Wistful tired sighs

As I reminisce

How can I say this

Silent, I sit here

Choking back a tear

So much is unsaid

Swirling in my head

Looking at her face

My heart trapped in place

Her arms were my nest

When I was distressed

She was always there

Strong and full of care

Is this our last hug

Quiet, safe, and snug

Not ready to grieve

I don’t want to leave

Maybe if I hide

Very deep inside

Time will stop and wait

Before it’s too late

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Memory Closet by Toni L.A. Cross

A simple closet door

So it appears to be

But if you peer inside

Filled hangers you will see

With memories intact

All lined up in a row

Hidden in the fabric

The scent of tears, you know

Youthful smells of wishes

Of dearest heartfelt pain

Closet of true beauty

Where love has left its stain

Wooed by Memory, Stealing From Time: A Pantoum Poem

I am pulled; I am drawn, into the past
Frozen in elation and joy’s perfect thrill
Enchanted by how this antique moment could last
One breath of life where my heart stood still

Frozen in elation and joy’s perfect thrill
I steal from the sentinel clock

One breath of life where my heart stood still
Cupping this memory as second’s newborn tick and watching it turn into a tock

I steal from the sentinel clock
Enchanted by how this antique moment could last
Cupping this memory as second’s newborn tick and watching it turn into a tock
I am pulled; I am drawn, into the past

Surrounded by Tombstones… by Toni L.A. Cross

Surrounded by tombstones

I’m claustrophobic

Within the walls

Of this confining minute

Tomorrow dies

While I breathe

The stale air of Today

Yesterday seems so dear

With its familiar expanse

Wooing me backward

Into the graveyard

Of my mind’s idyllic perfection

And the clock

Pounds out seconds

With slow precision

Melting into a lullaby

As I slip inward

And farther from

The Now

Christmas Memories… by Toni Cross

the sharp scent

of pine and dust

mixed with

spicy bits of memories

bitterly sweet like

myrrh and peppermint

they spill out

of this old cardboard box

taken down from

the aging attic

released on a seasonally

annual parole

filling this room

and trimming it

with more than

merely tinseled glitz