Moments

Moments

By: Lora Bayh

During the time I took care of my father, just before he died, I sat and wrote the following song as he slept. He was fragile, and depended on me, after years and years of being the rock of my entire life. For that time our roles had been reversed. I thought of how…in spite of how things seemed, not even that painful circumstance, or the passing of time, nor my increasing age, would ever change the fact that I would always be daddy‘s little girl. At forty-two, I still am to this day. Ask me when I’m ninety, and I will surely tell you, “Yes, I’m still daddy’s little girl.”. His Birthday is coming a week from this Saturday, the 26th. This will be the 11th Birthday he has missed. He would be 83. His last birthday before he passed, his illness was far too advanced, and he did not possess the strength to join in the celebration, we, his children and grandchildren had laid out for him, and that, to me, finally signaled how close to the end we had come. Rather than cake he opted for med’s and rest. Daddy, had he one ounce of strength left to afford, would have gone along to make us feel better. That night, while sitting alone with him, he finally woke to find me sitting in the chair with this song in my hand, crying. I had been trying so hard to come to terms with it all, and he knew this without my explanation. It was that night, though only for the briefest time, that daddy would assume the role of daddy for the very last time. He spoke with me about the end, how much he loved me, his hopes and dreams for my life which were so simple…true contentment and happiness, and then some more about his love for me. Up to that point, I had sidestepped talking about the “end”, somehow fearing that to speak of it would somehow invite it to creep closer. The song spoke so much of it that I wished to avoid sharing it, but then he asked me to sing it to him, as he patted the empty space in the safe hollow of his arm, inviting me to cuddle next to him. I thought that if there was an acceptable stage the crook of him arm was definitely it. I then gave him a great big kiss and squeeze, and snuggled up in bed with him, laying in his still seemingly strong arms for the last time he was able to tolerate me there, comfortably. I closed my eyes and sang him these simple words. Not the best I had, or have, ever composed, but words springing from the deepest, and purest crevices of my most tender, and frightened heart, which at that moment, beat only FOR that “moment”…for it contained my whole world, a world that was slipping too quickly away from me.

I was daddy’s little girl. He meant everything to me.

The most precious times I know were spent upon his knee.

But those yesterday’s had wings, And they have brought us to this place.

Where the strength of youth once stood I now see daddy’s aging face.

Years thrown to the wind. Where did all those years go?

Now we’ve come to the end, but I still need daddy so.

I know he must leave and he’ll take part of my world, but his love will always live in daddy’s little girl.

As I look upon him now I have never loved him more.

I want to crawl upon his knee like I did so long before.

And if I have one regret It’s that I thought he’d never go.

I took for granted so much time…. Now I want that time back so!

Years thrown to the wind. Where did all those years go?

Now we’ve come to the end, but I still need daddy so.

I know he must leave and he’ll take part of my world,

but his love will always live In daddy’s little girl.

Your love will always live…. here in daddy’s little girl.

There was a span of comfortable silence, and I felt his tears on my forehead which was pressed close to his cheek. As I was wiping away my own he said, “I don’t believe anyone’s ever written a song for me before. Thanks for such a wonderful present, it was beautiful. This has been the best birthday. Now let‘s have some of that cake and get you off to bed.” He pretended to want some birthday cake, and only attempted a couple of bites, then became very tired. Those were our last moments where he was the daddy, and I was his little girl. I love that memory. It’s probably my favorite from a list spanning a lifetime of favorites. For all of these 11 years I have sang that song to myself. A song that no one knows. Our song. It is the anthem to a moment that I will treasure until my own last breath is drawn. It’s melody will serenade me to the light, when I will see him again, whole and strong. I know he will lead me to our Father, he and mother had been doing that since the day I was born. I have often wondered what happened to that copy of the song that I left on his bedside table. After all was said and done, and his possessions were divided amongst the four of us, no one had seen it. I’ve been a little blue for a few days. Having just made it through August with mom’s birth and subsequent death anniversaries. Equally difficult for me are the months of September and October. Dad died exactly one month and one day from that night, October 27, 1998. Today, the random thought occurred to me that it might be fun to read one of dad’s Grisham novels. Over the ten months of his illness I had bought him in-numerable paperback novels to read, sometimes two per week, and he was a huge John Grisham fan. So, Grisham seemed appropriate. I pulled out the worn copy of “The Runaway Jury”, and flipped through it’s pages in some strange hope of getting a whiff of him. Instead, a sheet of paper dropped to the floor. It was oddly familiar. I opened it up, and there was our song. You can imagine, I lost it! I read through the words, already imprinted on my brain long ago, and noticed there was more there then my hand had penned. The writing was not as beautiful and precise as my dad’s writing had always been, but it was still recognizable all the same. It simply said, “My dearest little girl, you have grown into a warm and loving young woman, and I’m so proud of you. Be happy, and live abundantly with my blessing. May the Lord keep you safe, and well cared for in my absence. Be as wonderful a mother as you have always been a daughter. You have given me the greatest gift of your love. I will love you always and you will always be daddy‘s little girl.”

A very wise person once said, “Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” By that measure I am blessed beyond even my own ability to completely comprehend, and I will never stop being grateful. Losing someone you love is hard, but they are never gone entirely. I know, beyond all else I know, daddy knew that I needed that today. Thank you, Happy Birthday, and I love you daddy. I can't wait to wake up tomorrow, and get busy creating more moments.

To those who vote on PoetryBlogRankings.com...

The poetry that I write is a very personal endeavor to express the things that I hold inside.
I make no claims to be talented, or worthy of adulation or praise. The only reasons that I write
are simply to unload, to cope, to gain a better more positive perspective personally. The only reason that I share these pieces of myself, is the knowledge that we all face very similar things in life, and I have gleaned so much from reading others who have expressed themselves that I felt, perhaps, there might be something another might glean from me. I joined a site called PoetryBlogRankings.com, in order to further the whole sharing experience, and to have to opportunity to read others, in order that I may learn and moreover, enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated in it’s most honest form. I long for constructive critiques and suggestions so that I may successfully improve, as I am in much need of this kind of assistance, having never had a formal education in literature of any kind. (my greatest regret)
I have run into a strange, and very disconcerting, occurrence. I have fully expected, in the spirit of “putting myself out there”, that there would be some who might like my work, as well as those who would not. It has become apparent, however, that someone is voting in a less constructive manner than this ideal. I am receiving what I will call “bundles of votes“, every so often, in which someone is voting, negatively, sometimes four, six, even eight times…consecutively, within a time frame of moments. This plagues me, for it cannot be viewed in any other light other than malicious voting, and I can’t imagine why someone would work so hard, personally, to cast me down. The site is not some kind of contest, there is no prize or special recognition as far as I understand. I do not care, sincerely, whether I am ranked first or last, as long as I am getting fair and honest feedback I so need. I would have to suspect that the one doing this is a fellow poet on the site. Please regard me as no threat, and in the spirit of expression we share, cease to mar my already slight confidence, as I would never seek to hurt another the same. As you know, it is, of itself, a very difficult task to share such private pieces of ourselves. I love poetry, in all it’s forms, each so unique, but in it‘s complexity an art savored by individual tastes. Whoever you are, I wish you no ill will, and hope you realize we cannot build ourselves up by means of tearing down others without losing the most good and sincere parts of ourselves, whether we sense it or not. It’s a great big poetic world, and there is much room for all of us to create and share. Thank you for your time.

To Hold the Rose.

To Hold the Rose.
By: Lora Bayh


If I desire the rose, above all other things,
to possess and hold forever...
there’s consequence possession brings.
For if I desire the rose, to, it’s thorns I must embrace.
To weigh desire by the cost seems to eliminate the haste.
But when I smell the rose,
I cease to see the sharpness of it’s guards.
Till I look down at fingertips bleeding from the shards.
My eyes still filled with beauty from the tender petals soft,
conclude enduring injury is such a tiny cost.
My mind does brace to feel the pain,
but it’s diluted by the bliss,
the allure of satin splendor, the dew upon it’s kiss.
I’ll gladly bleed to hold the rose forever just as this.

Amazing Notion

Amazing Notion.

By Lora Bayh

At peace to know it’s out there. That it considers me.

That it found me worthy. At peace that it just be.

To fill my cup sincere and make me feel in deed,

that I am cared for deeply, that it considers me.

A heart that smiles warmly upon each fond recall.

Such an amazing notion that it considers me at all.

Such careful consideration. It weighed all that I am,

by all that it can see...but even more by what it can’t.

In the end came to determine I’ve value hidden still from me,

that it did deem me suitable...at that, considerably.

It’s so amazing still, that it considers me,

for I have always believed in love…now it believes in me.

Sweet Anodyne

Sweet Anodyne

By: Lora Bayh

Living in a world, not allowed to feel, to express, to be….uninhibitedly….who I am at the deepest part of me. Walking through my days, fixed gaze, thoughts running wild….like a child…excitedly my imagination flares, in ways adults not dare. Love inside so strong, so deep, that runs so long….unendingly….the greatest part of me, yet alone I stay, hiding inner child away. Duality a whirl, a little girl, and grown-up, little girl won‘t shut up…fighting over me…and I’m rooting for the girl you see. Hold her hand tightly, beg her to behave politely, don’t make a fool of me, not how I’m supposed to be…almost parochially…but oh so secretly, wishing I could truly set her free. A din devil stole her wings, so she hides in pleasant things…capricious pondering….she’s the part I love the most and I’ll never let her go. She’s the secret, happy thought, she peeks through my eyes an awful lot….giggling wildly, never mildly, she lifts me up and sets my grown-up feet to dancing. Living in a world where I’m supposed to be climbing numbly through the years with a stoic pose…mature repose…shrouded in the black and white confinement of my age. But gleefully, wingless little sprite won’t let me be…sweet anodyne….leaving behind the traps that world I’m living in hides cleverly. It’s she, enticing me to skip when I should walk, to talk and talk and talk….voluminously…when my grown-up ears are more inclined for listening. My eyes glistening with her never-ending awe, seeing all the way she saw….venerable shell….but inside I’m playing house dressed up for wandering.

Locked Inside

Locked Inside
By: Lora Bayh

There are times when all that can’t be
Overshadows all that could be
Accentuated by all the need be’s
Making what could be out of grasp.
There are times when things we want
Lay out of reach, serve to taunt
Just a dream pushed back for ought
Making us sacrifice those secret things.
Then there are times inside we know
If we had the guts to go
And pursue what taunts us so
We’d find content.
But there are rules, that higher ground
That serves to force we lay dreams down
And find pleasure in what surrrounds
Making dreams a treasure locked inside.
And then the scope of all that could be
Interweaves itself in what’s uniquely
The DNA of personality
Making those dreams determine who we are.
For it’s the secret that we keep
It’s for the sacrifice we weep
That those who know us never see
What we give up to give ourselves to them.
That, for them, we lay down who we are
That we stop reaching for those secret stars
We place our lives behind surreptitious bars
And just be who we’re supposed to.
That’s the beauty of sacrifice
The laying down without thinking twice
For what’s right will itself suffice
If we let the dream light us up within
And illuminate the need be
By the surrender of the could be
Keeping us from drowning in the can’t be
Making us better in the end.

Happy, happy Mothers Day.

Happy, happy Mother’s Day.
By: Lora Bayh
May 9th, 2009


He brought me, what he explained was a turtle, painted partially green.
The cutest little abstract turtle my eyes have ever seen.
He brought me a little flower, in a tiny Dixie cup.
And a cookbook he’d designed himself,
With recipes “that will fill our tummies up.”
He brought me a masterpiece, he’d created for me in art.
A flower blooming, and written there, the contents of his heart.
It bestowed on me the honor of “Best Friend in the World.”,
Among it’s paper petals as if the words had just unfurled.
He brought me his excitement, that I should have a day,
When “Mommy” was a special word he loved so much to say.
He then ran off so quickly, and left me there to think,
With all those lovely treasures, he was gone before I blinked.
And as he flittered off, to adventures sure to be,
It occurred to me, how very much, he reminded me…of me.

And I thought….

A mother is a woman, who gives herself away
To the children God entrusts to her, as light to lead their way.
She’s a creature led by instinct, who acts by love alone.
She’s a once upon a time daughter with babies of her own.
She has questions, she has fears, she kisses boo-boo’s and smiles through tears.
She’s a anchor, she’s the hub, she tends to every need with love.
She had dreams, but can’t deny, her children’s victories quiet her sighs.
She gets so tired, at times confused, then she looks at them and can’t refuse.
She’s just a woman, yet in her hands, she holds the future by tiny hands
She’s nothing great, but nothing small, she’s the foundation, the wherewithal.
She is me, she’s is you, just women loving those we love with all we do.

And as I thought…

I saw through memories comforting view, my younger self with gifts that I’d made too.
And for a moment I was back, sitting so safely on her lap,
As together we discussed these gifts I brought, as if I were a gifted tot.
She smiled so lovely, my tears then grew, understanding exactly what she knew…
That a mother just needs a moment or two, when she knows that she has gotten through.
And the love she shares has been received, and is returned and valued endlessly.
The acknowledgement, the moment shared, the love that passes beyond compare
Undoubtedly enough to suffice, and so much greater than the sacrifice.
This Mother’s Day as twelve before, I’m a daughter who has a mother no more.
Yet with her love locked in my soul I’m a mother who is completely whole.
With a turtle, a flower, a cookbook and art, the best friend of the best boy with a great big heart.