By February 21, 2012 9 Comments Read More →

Muth Labben

Photo: Paul Cole (2006)

 

Today is for counting my wasted yesterdays

Each one neatly lined up, row on dusty row

Every year the same…

Today is for remembering your unborn tomorrows
And the time I sit, because walking is too slow

There is no blame…

Today is for pretending to make sense of the past
From a life ended, with nothing to show

When I speak your name…

Today is for thinking that memories last
But all they do is fade, until they go…

Like every unfinished song to be sung…

 

About the death of a son.

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Rating: 10.0/10 (5 votes cast)
Muth Labben, 10.0 out of 10 based on 5 ratings
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About the Author:

Blogger, screenwriter, bloody awful poet. A writer of too many beginnings, and not enough endings. View My Profile

  • Cher Duncombe

    What can one do but cry with the pain and the beauty of the writing.

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
    • http://itsalwaysfriday.blogspot.com/ Bill Friday

      Cher,

      Most of the tears have moved on with the years… as for any beauty, that was all wrapped up in the one, about whom, this one was written.

      Thank you.

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      Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • sam

    I yanked this up on my phone and it made me realize that this over priced coffee shop is defining me more than my writing … which of course inspired me to get a refill.

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    • http://itsalwaysfriday.blogspot.com/ Bill Friday

      Joey,

      It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a cup of coffee to get me to buy a refill on this one.

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      Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • http://sipsofjenandtonic.com Jen and Tonic

    A beautiful way to honor a tragedy.

    Matthew 5:4

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    • http://itsalwaysfriday.blogspot.com/ Bill Friday

      Jenny,

      The comfort comes in more than just the mourning… it comes in the sharing. Thank you, loved one.

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      Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • http://www.momsarefrommars.com Janene

    Bill, what a beautifully touching poem. I really love this one.

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    • http://itsalwaysfriday.blogspot.com/ Bill Friday

      Janene,

      Your words always make me glad that I even wrote in the first place. Thank you once again.

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  • Anya Pham

    I’m sorry, Bill. It’s a beautiful expression of tenderness.

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