Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: mother loss

  • No November Will Ever Be the Same, A Birthday Touched by Grief and Memory

    No November Will Ever Be the Same, A Birthday Touched by Grief and Memory

    November has its own temperature in my life now. A private weather pattern that settles into the days leading up to my birthday. Sometimes even the days after my birthday too. When grief meets a date that is supposed to feel bright, something shifts, something lingers, and something refuses to fade. This poem moves through that space, the place where candles and memories coexist. The place where a mother’s absence still shapes the month and every breath inside it. I wrote this to honor that truth…

    to let November speak the way it insists on speaking.

    “No November Will Ever Be the Same”

    November holds its own weather,
    a sky that remembers
    even when I try to forget.

    My birthday rises,
    a candle in a tiny room that
    never carries your scent
    four years later…
    I have grown to miss it.

    Four years without you,
    the month keeps its imprint,
    a bruise under the skin of another year,
    tender when I press it,
    tender when I don’t.
    I press it just to feel
    alive sometimes…

    November keeps the ledger open,
    ink still wet, pages turning
    with your scent hidden somewhere
    between the cold mornings
    and the early nights.

    People say time softens,
    but November disagrees.
    I walk through this month
    as if I am carrying two fires,
    one that celebrates my breathing
    one that flickers for the woman
    who taught me how to breathe at all.

    What does November mean now?
    A point between what was given,
    what was taken?
    A place where joy and loss sit
    at the same table…
    neither greeting the other?

    No November will ever be the same.

    I keep moving through it anyway,
    candle in one hand,
    memory in the other,
    hoping the light I carry
    is enough to keep them both lit.

    Poet’s Note

    This one carries the weight of four years. The very echo of that week and a day before my birthday that will forever lead me back to her. Writing it felt like holding two flames at once. The one that marks my birth and the one that marks her leaving. The poem flows with the tension, the ache, and the pull. They meet at the quiet acceptance that no November will ever return to what it used to be. If you are someone who walks through a month that changed you, I hope this piece sits with you in a way that feels steady.

    We all know grief never asks for permission to reshape a month, a date, or a ritual. It moves in and alters the light around everything that follows. Sharing this poem is part of learning how to keep moving. With my candle in one hand, and her memory in the other. I will continue trusting that honoring both is enough. November will never be the same, but it still holds space for growth, reflection and the kind of love that keeps shaping us long after loss has taken its form.

    Links

  • Colors in the Sky: A Poem of Memory, Loss & My Mother’s Sunset Light

    Colors in the Sky: A Poem of Memory, Loss & My Mother’s Sunset Light

    I was inspired by the sky Monday evening… blue, pink, and purple. In that moment I realised how my mother learned to paint. Four years after she died, every sunrise and every slow‑burn sunset feels like her newly found brush‑stroke across the horizon. This poem invites you into the space where loss becomes colour and presence becomes visible light.

    The view that inspired this poem.

    “Four Years Later, She Paints”

    The sky’s been a little more beautiful since she left.

    Four years now,

    and she still finds her way back,

    not just in dreams,

    but also in color.

    Pink, blue, purple,

    the hue of the view she painted

    this evening

    the kind that makes you stop mid‑sentence,

    just to take another look.

    Never painted a day in her life,

    she paints now.

    Every sunrise, every slow‑burn sunset,

    she’s learned a language that allows her to share even when she’s no longer there

    Somehow I know she mixes those shades

    just to show she misses us too.

    And sometimes,

    I think it’s her way of saying

    I love you,

    now that her words

    don’t

    reach

    our

    ears.

    Poets Notes

    This poem came from noticing the sky and realising it carried messages from the one meant the most… My mother wasn’t the painter she is now, in her absence she became an artist in the sky. Seeing those colours reminded me she’s still at work… even when I can’t hear her voice. Writing this piece helped me feel her presence not as a memory trapped in time, but as light moving, transforming, still reaching out.

    Even when words fail us, love remains visible. This piece is a reminder to look up, to notice colour, and to feel the presence of those we’ve lost in the world around us. Let this poem and photo stand together as proof: what’s lost isn’t gone, it’s just changed form.

  • You Missed the Call: A Reflection on Grief and Gratitude

    You Missed the Call: A Reflection on Grief and Gratitude

    In the journey of grief, certain moments hit harder than others. Today, I opened my Storia journal and found myself confronting one of those moments: a simple, yet devastating wish to hear my mother’s voice one more time.

    Pick Up the Phone, It’s Mom:

    Everyday I see people take their mothers for granted. They reject the call. They brush her off. “Oh no, next time.” But one day there won’t be a next time. I know they don’t get it yet, and so is life. Oh I fondly remember that, there was a time I didn’t get it either. 

    But now I’m on the side where I wish I could have one more call, one more “next time,” but it won’t ever come.

    And the grass isn’t greener at all; in fact, it’s dead over here incase you’re wondering. Yea, it’s dead.. I checked… just like my mom.

    And no, I’m not talking to those of you who have gone no contact. I’m looking at those with loving, caring, try-their-hardest (even if it’s their first go at life too) moms who put it off til next time. And I get it I had the superstar, that’s your number one fan type moms. And I’m sitting here telling you oh I regret and remember every single call I let go to voicemail or dog video I ignored.

    You’ll regret this one day too, maybe not tomorrow or even the next 100 tomorrows but one of them you will. And after that you’ll regret it for every tomorrow that you will live to see. Shit maybe more.

    And if you don’t, that means you’re one of the ones whose moms had to bury them.

    And that’s maybe even worse. Because now your mom had to bury you and you made her live life with one less conversation with her child. Yea that’s tough man. You’d do that to your mom? Ouch. But seriously call your mom… just to even tell her that I said hi and talk to her a bit. You know since I don’t have one to call.

    Just answer the phone or text next time it’s her. Maybe even act like you care… if not for her or you, do it for me, remember I’m gonna used the dead mom card again and say since I no longer can.

    Finding Space for Grief with Storia

    Processing these complex emotions becomes a little easier with tools that create space for reflection. The Storia journal app has become my digital sanctuary for these otherwise pent-up feelings and moments of grief or remembrance.

    What makes Storia stand out is how it takes journaling to a level that is nurturing yet practical . Each entry you make contributes to your digital garden. This means you begin maintaining a streak to grow virtual plants. These then flourish with your consistent reflections or journal entries. The app offers thoughtful prompts like “What area of your life you want to grow?”, “What brought you joy today?” , and “what are you grateful for today?” that gently guide you toward healing.

    I appreciate how Storia lets you create multiple journals with custom titles and covers. Therefore, my grief journal sits alongside my transition journal and my hiking log, each with its own purpose and tone. The “talk to journal” recording feature has been particularly helpful on days when typing feels too demanding but the words need to come out. Or I’m simply too busy to stop and type out my journals.

    For a free app, Storia offers remarkable customization options. You can choose different themes, colors, and even journal covers that match your mood or personality. Even allowing you to choose your own photos as covers as I did with my hiking journal. You can add photos to journal entries though I haven’t played wi this much so I am unaware of any specific limits. This is really cool because it doesn’t feel like a clinical tool but rather a companion on the journey.

    The Call We Can’t Return

    Grief teaches us about the finality of missed opportunities. While apps like Storia help us process these feelings, they can’t bring back the calls we didn’t answer or the conversations we’ll never have. Though they can help us feel closure and peace by getting the words out or processing the feelings we wouldn’t have known we needed to.

    If you still have the chance to pick up when your mom calls, consider it a gift. Definitely one that many of us would give anything to have again. Remember that sometimes the most profound act of self-care is caring for the relationships we still have, while we still have them.

    The next time your phone rings and her name appears on the screen, remember: some of us would trade anything for that moment you might be taking for granted.

    “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot. ”

    Poeaxtry’s 🔗

  • Are You Holding a Grudge? When Grief Becomes Sacred Anger

    Are You Holding a Grudge? When Grief Becomes Sacred Anger

    Are you holding a grudge? About?

    Yeah, I’m holding a grudge. A big fucking one.

    I’m holding a grudge against whatever deity, universe, or cosmic force decided it was okay for my mother to die when I was only 30. Actually, twenty-nine. It has been almost four damn years. I can’t believe it was eight days before my birthday and before my twin sister’s her youngest children were even 21. 

    And you know what? I will forever hold this grudge against whatever divine being made that choice. Because fuck them for taking the only thing I had to rely on, the only parent I ever really had.

    When Grief Becomes a Grudge:

    There’s something raw about admitting you’re angry at God, at fate, at the universe itself. Society tells us to “let go,” to “find peace,” to “accept what we cannot change.” But sometimes a grudge isn’t just anger…it’s love with nowhere to go.

    My grudge isn’t really about hatred. It’s about the unfairness of losing your anchor when you barely feel enough to understand what an anchor even is. It’s about growing old with a mother-shaped hole that no amount of hiking, poetry, self-help books, or well-meaning advice can fill.

    The Poetry of Anger

    In the witchy, spiritual communities I often steer clear of there’s a lot of pressure to be “love and light” all the time. But what about love and rage? What about the sacred anger that comes from being robbed of something precious?

    My grudge is a form of devotion. It says: “She mattered. Her absence matters. The injustice of her early death matters.” How the fuck is it fair she gets to die right after she experiences happiness? Right when she got clean? Like you have to be kidding me!

    Some grudges are worth holding and not because they serve us, but because they honor what we’ve lost.

    Questions for Your Own Journey:

    • What grudges are you carrying that might actually be love in disguise?
    • How do you honor your losses while still moving forward?
    • When has anger been a teacher rather than a burden?

    Sometimes the most honest spiritual practice isn’t forgiveness—it’s admitting that some wounds change us forever, and that’s okay too.

    Links

  • A Birthday Without Her: Remembering My Mom, 7.19.1971–11.8.2021

    A Birthday Without Her: Remembering My Mom, 7.19.1971–11.8.2021

    Today, my mom would’ve turned 54. (As in right now when I type this I’m not sure when I will schedule it to post but)

    She was born on July 19, 1971. She passed away on November 8, 2021. That was just eight days before I turned 30. I didn’t know how to prepare for the amount of grief this has churned up. I still don’t. And now here we are, in 2025, almost four years later. I still wake up on this day with that ache in my chest. It’s not just this day; it’s many of them. It’s a lot of them, if I’m being honest.

    Some years it hits louder than others. This year, it’s the silence that hurts most. The absence. The way I can’t call her. Knowing I can’t tell her anything new. I just spent the week with my sister exploring the towns around Asheville. I know mom would have loved to hear all about our trips. Time keeps moving. Somehow she’s further and further away. Yet, she’s still here with me in all the ways that matter.

    My sisters both turned 21 just a few months after she passed away. I don’t think one of us was really ready. Honestly, is anyone ever really ready. Still, she should’ve seen them grow. She should’ve seen me figure some of this out. She should’ve still been part of the story. My mom should be here!

    I carry her with me everywhere I go. In my writing. In the way I talk to strangers. How fiercely I protect the people I love. I think she’d be proud of what I’m doing now. Proud of how I keep going even when it’s hard. Proud of the things I’m building. I know she’d be proud of the love I still have to give. She’s here with me when I hike. I feel her with me when I write. She’s present when I don’t know what to do. I know she’s with me, here in all other moments. But it isn’t the same, and I’d trade my dad any day. I’ll never stop saying that.

    Today, I’m just letting myself feel it. The love. The grief. The weight. The memory. It’s really stupid I didn’t think about this date before I scheduled my vacation. I would do anything to still be off work!

    Check out my links. Best of Poeaxtry 2025. Buy me a coffee?

    Happy birthday, Momma. I love you. I miss you. I always will nothing will change that. I still remember your smile and the way you smelled. The laugh I used to make fun of, and all the quirky expressions you used to make (now Jade makes).

    Please come see us soon! I hope your doggo baby made it to you. I know you saw we put jewels collar on the bridge in lake Lure.

    My last bday photo with mom
    My birthday 11:16:2020
  • “Anti-Depressants” Grief, My Mother, and the Limits of Healing

    “Anti-Depressants” Grief, My Mother, and the Limits of Healing

    Grief has a way of showing up right when the world is shouting about holiday cheer. Every neon display tells you to be merry. Every commercial insists that joy is mandatory. It hits harder when your heart is carrying loss. This poem confronts that tension directly. It’s the kind where love and pain sit in the same room. You find yourself trying to breathe through both. Readers who have carried a loss through the holiday season will recognize that raw pull. Those who have tried to balance healing with real life will also feel it. In a world that doesn’t slow down, this piece reminds you that grief doesn’t follow the calendar. It follows the heart, step by step, memory by memory.

    “Happy fucking holiday.”

    An original poem by: Axton N.O. Mitchell

    I’m depressed,

    and my life isn’t even a mess

    compared to what it used to be.

    Recently, I learned:

    grief isn’t something

    medication will ever ease.

    You
    have
    to
    let
    it

    drop you to your knees.


    The pills really do work

    for what they’re worth.

    But I still have to get used

    to the loss of you.

    And now your dog is gone too.

    She held so many memories
    of you:

    the way you put her in your purse,

    the way you two were attached.

    The way she looked
    at me
    like she knew
    she’d be with you.

    Letting
    go

    has never come easy to me.

    I don’t think

    I’ll ever fully heal

    the loss of
    you.

    Maybe I can’t…

    If it’s true

    medicine for depression

    can’t touch

    what grief has caused.

    Now what will

    carry me
    through

    the loss of
    you?

    This one came out of the type of day when everything felt too close. I kept thinking about how healing never looks like what people promise. Folks hand out easy lines. They say time heals everything, or that pills fix the hurt. However, they never sit with what grief really does. Losing someone shifts the ground under you, and sometimes the memories that stay behind hit just as hard. Even the dog carried pieces of that story. Writing this was my way to accept the truth. Medicine can soften the edges, but it can’t erase the shape of a loss. It felt important to say it out loud. If someone out there needs that same permission to feel what they feel, I hope this poem offers them comfort. This poem can give them space to breathe.

    Grief asks us to carry the weight of love long after someone is gone. It shows up in the soft places, the unexpected reminders, the empty corners where laughter used to live. This poem is part of a larger journey through healing and memory. It explores the fragile work of moving forward even when the heart refuses to forget. If this piece met you where you are today, stay with that feeling. Let it be a reminder that your grief is real, and your healing is real. You don’t have to rush toward some polished version of recovery. You’re allowed to take it slow. You’re allowed to remember. You’re allowed to feel all of it… especially on the days when the world tells you to smile.

    Poeaxtrys Links. Poetizer. A poem.


  • “The Place I Never Want to Be” A Poem on Emotional Distance and Longing

    “The Place I Never Want to Be” A Poem on Emotional Distance and Longing

    What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?

    “The Place I never Want to Be”

    The place where I am currently at.
    Not physically though,
    much too complicated for that.

    .

    I don’t mean to beg,
    I don’t want to plead.
    But

    .

    down here on my knees,
    Praying to a God I know
    Cannot hear me to heal me.
    An impossible task to ask.

    .

    I’m starting to fear me.
    What might I do to,
    get back to you?

    .

    I don’t want to belong,
    Where my mother no longer
    holds everything strong.
    Axton N.O. Mitchell
    @poeaxtry_

    🖤Tell me what holds and what slips away.

    Links