Poem for Patricia

Patricia’s Perfection

“Real as they seem, speak out your pains,
I’ll carry them straight to God’s ear.”
The wind whispered.

Eyes weary, parts swollen,
with lungs that loathe lonesome air,
she began

“Like her and like him, I had dreams.
Fragmented, imperfect.
They mattered. They did!

“Just that my body didn’t work well enough.
I could never do enough, try hard enough.
I lost a few things along the way.

“But there were times.
Times I lived fearlessly, Loved tirelessly.
Times I laughed heartily.
Times I knew myself as God’s own."


Sweeping up care and concerns,
pain and regrets,
Wind carried her words to His lap.
* * *

The Sun shone brilliantly,
beaming warmth along with reply.
“You perfect creation, my perfect expression.
Your love was enough, your body sufficient,
You planted the seeds as I asked.
My Love.
You were perfect for the tasks I assigned.
It’s I, not you
who grows seeds sown,
and blooms beauty from beneath dirt and dust.”

She sighed. Redefined
Free, clear, light.
Perfect.

Jammin with Aunt Pat

Editing the poem.

My eyes were drawn to a Cameo CD. I remembered the times we'd dance
and sing and jam together.

I've never been loved by a ghost like this.

I've been communing with her all evening. She walked w/ me and
Chocolate. Insisted on a movie and them used it to show me that I
gotta be 100% me--still the message of perfection.

Then the editing, the music.

Then laying on the floor arms outstretched experiencing what no one
ever talks about. The experience of love being poured onto, over and
through you by a deceased love one like sitting under a waterfall.

You are never given a wish without also being given the power to make
it true.
You may have to work for it, however. --Richard Bach, Illusions

Patricia Ingram

My aunt Pat passed away a few days ago.
Phenomenal. Death is such a magical experience for those of us left behind. An opportunity to reflect, to grow, to appreciate and to connect in ways we previously lacked incentive to try.

I volunteered to write a poem for the final service. I've written a few here and there, published a couple here on this blog in the past. They mean a lot to me. However, I am no poet laureate. I hesitate even to say poet. Though I am that. I write a poem or two every year. Enough, right?

I won't publish it here till after the funeral. Partly because it seems appropriate. Partly because I don't want to share my mediocrity. My ego prefers not to look too bad.

And yet, the best part of writing and publishing and reading this poem I wrote for Pat is how it affirms the great blessing she was in my life. She was unconditional support. If I said I was going to do something, go somewhere, be somebody she'd listen and encourage. If a suggestion came from her lips it was a way to do it bigger, shoot higher.

She had three children. Don't know if they'd say she was the same for them. Maybe yes, maybe no. For me, though, she was unwavering support.

As I got a little nervous about reading the poem that for sake of printing deadlines is unfinished but necessarily "completed", I imagined what she'd say if she were here. She'd say, "Well, I like it. You could probably do more with it with more time. Just do it. Get it in there." And then she'd smile, laugh or make some joke. Then she'd tell me about poetry she used to write or books she dreamed (literally, she dreamed epic novels).

We might say little else to each other for a long while. But I'd know she thought what I wrote was just fine. Perfect. Good enough!!!

God bless your soul Aunt Pat.
Truly I failed to appreciate how much you were my Champion!!