Stones

Before my Father died,

he combed beaches for stones.

Picked for surface smoothness,

colour or shape.

I picture him in my mind's eye

at Anstey's Cove,

pockets half-filled with finds.

Why he decided to apply

clear varnish, allow time to dry,

glue a few chosen ones together,

graded by size, escapes me.

I haven't a clue.

Perhaps he knew his days were numbered

and already encumbered with

that disease which killed him,

on a whim he instructed his creative side

to shout out.

Years have passed, 

I sigh as I look at

unstuck remains.

In my hands I hold

the relics of my Father's

last days.

I 

Author's Note

Critique welcome please.

Reviews

[Neville]

these words have once again touched upon that nerve that refuses to die and would I want it to .. no of course not .. since its correct full name is treasured memory .. and now my mucky face is stained because of my involuntarily leaking eyes ... stones eh' who would credit that :) x

[Chris Shaw]

Aw, you know mucky faces are quite endearing. Thank you Neville for choosing this one.

Chris

[Art Sun]

Memories embed themselves as we live and when one is gone....Memories remain...

An enjoyable view and reading of yours.

[RomaJ]

Chris, this poem is quietly powerful. I love how ordinary actions..picking stones, varnishing, assembling..become sacred traces of memory. The “unstuck remains” echo loss and the weight of absence, yet there’s tenderness in the way you hold these relics of your father’s life. A beautiful meditation on memory, love, and what endures.

[Titilayo Sarah Eguridu]

His creativity still shouts out from his art.
Those memories remain fresh because his art was and still is a part of him.
People die, but beautiful memories they creat become generational.
Now his art has inspired you to creat another memory with a fragrance that will linger on…
This piece is heart warming.
Thank you for sharing a piece of yourself Chris

[Jansy]

Chris,

Your father’s stones feel like tiny acts of defiance against time itself. Smooth, varnished, glued- little relics shouting, “I existed.” And you, holding the unstuck remains, cradle memory, loss, and love all at once. Fragile, luminous, unforgettable.

-James☆

[Chris Shaw]

He was and is unforgettable James. I reglue the stones once in a while. He stays forever close and I still hold those stones in my hands and think of him combing the beaches for finds. Thank you for your valued thoughts.

Chris

[Michael Sun Bear]

You made me think of Inuksuk, the rock towers the Inuit made in the Arctic as navigation aids, markers of their paths even in the worst of winter. If indeed your father did feel his end fast approaching, maybe in some undefined, conscious or unconscious way, the work with the stones was helping him map his final days. This is a touching poem, you vividly brought your father to life for me, and I can feel you holding those stones in your hands, imagine your thoughts and feelings.

[Chris Shaw]

Thank you Michael. I feel sure that my Father knew his time was up. He never discussed it, but in my bones I know it. I appreciate your thoughts here. He left the stones behind, and I still have them and hold them.

Chris

[Thomas W Case]

Powerful beyond words, Chris.

[Chris Shaw]

Many thanks Thomas for stopping by.

Chris

[redd Brick Keshner]

Chris, this is such a wonderful reminder of how small creative acts can become symbolic with Time's passing, of creating an emotional reliquary that connects us to our memories and loved ones that we cherish, making what is ordinary extraordinary. The middle part of the poem could be tightened probably by letting it unfold (showing) rather than "telling" it outright. Like the part about varnishing and gluing. Just a little thought. 🕊️🙏
Freds

[Chris Shaw]

Thank you Freds, particularly with your suggestion for improvement. This was one of the very first poems I posted here, nearly eight years ago. One of my earliest writes when I was coming to terms with the sudden death of my Dad. Those stones, I still have. Have a lovely day.

Chris

[redd Brick Keshner]

Perhaps we have shared a conversation on this very poem all those years ago in its previous posting. It does strike me as familiar in some way.
Freds.

[Soren]

Chris I take the liberty to personalize this piece of your reality into a metaphor that serves my life. As I walk the beach of time I gather words, examining them for their smoothness and select a few varnishing them and gluing them together into pieces often incomprehensible to others to leave behind when I go. These lumps of words called poem may well be looked upon by my children with wonder and lack of understanding but they remain.

[Stella Armour]

How sad but beautiful Chris, his creative spirit urged him to seek out something in nature that he could preserve and build on for you .... :)

[Chris Shaw]

Thank you dear Stella. Yes, his creative side came out. I still have those stones.

Chris

[Sami Khalil]

I felt your love for him holding in your hands any relics pertaining to him; a treasured man with treasured sea stones that became art.
You have a big heart and a mighty pen.

[Chris Shaw]

Your review warns me Sami. Thank you so much. Happy Wednesday to you.

Chris

[Sami Khalil]

You are welcome Chris