Creativity, Healing, poetry

A Plague of Memories-Poem


A Plague of
A Plague of


For the last six weeks, I’ve brought my cellphone to bed with me.
Sounds weird, but what I’m really bringing is meditation from Deepak Chopra and Susan Piver of the Open Heart Project.

Meditation has been a tremendous help in easing stress.

Last night, I stumbled upon a series, Healing with the Masters, that I really enjoyed.

The featured one, a free meditation, was quite new to me. The audio was from Raquel Spencer, who works on connecting with your higher self, body energy, and vibration.

I know, sounds so ‘new agey,’ but I can only tell you my experience.

It was awesome, I felt refreshed, slept very well and found it stimulated creativity.

I woke, in the middle of the night, reach for my cell and jotted down words in my notes section.

Although I don’t feel broken hearted or grief-stricken, these are the words that came to me last night:

A Plague of Memories


I kiss my grief

and long for you

undeserving as that may be


A plague of memories

chases me

until I stop

examine each


A waste of kisses

the grief mine

for trusting you

once again.


Have an adventurous week. 

3 thoughts on “A Plague of Memories-Poem”

  1. Hey, that was worthy to wake up in the middle of the night. I need to check the links for meditation. One of my daughters, overstressed by her studies and work tried meditation and has found such relief that she almost convinced me. Then you…
    Thank you for the poem from the middle of the night.


    1. I’m a believer. It’s so easy with the Pandora app on my phone, has a timer so it shuts off, which is great because I usually fall asleep in 10 minutes. And thank you for taking the time to read and comment.


  2. Hi Mona,

    I like your poem. It’s clean and understated. And as for the suggested meditation, I’m a believer. Here’s something I wrote in the middle of one night quite a few years ago, for my daughter. She recently tured 41.


    (For Sunday at age 2)

    You have climbed the couch
    in blue pajamas, to the window.

    Maple leaves, curled with the last
    of Autumn burn, are running on the lawn.

    The Pontiac is beaded, cleaned with rain.
    Up the block the willows puff like mating birds.

    It is doubtful there is sun, but
    I am not at home to say for sure.


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