Life at its core

I tried to process my grief in poetry. It was easier at first with haikus. I couldn’t focus on anything. All I saw was my baby crumbling because his baby, his precious son was dead. There’s no greater anguish in life as a Mom than not being able to protect your child from unbearable pain. I tucked my own pain away until I could process it as I do best in poetry.


Magnitudes beyond

Dismantled ruminations

Tickled pink sorrow


Corpulent spirals

Reverberated silent

Rapturous horrors


Quietus be damned

Soporific prophecy

Accolades revoked



A blooming life

It is not a sweet budding rose

Or blooms oozing blood

It is not petals of withered love

Or stifled blooms gasping

It is not a mere passage

Or cracks of blooming suspense

It is not a promised bouquet

Or a requiem symbolizing regrowth

It is not a forever perennial

Or a blooming happy ever after fairy tale

But it is our budding rosy story

Filled with daily anguished decay.


October 15, 2005-July 1, 2019

We love you ❤️


Rapturous visions

Suspended revelations

Accolades denied


Love, Gramma and Grandpa



A Stranger Spoke©Lyn Crain

Your Mother asked me

to spread her ashes in a garden.

Remember how happy she was

puttering amongst the roses?

 The wind sweeps

her beloved blooms before

 what ifs and might haves

begin again.

Silence echoes, and awkward shifts

as the ashes float away.

A gentle flutter to

tease the blooms and

a  smudge of gray

are left behind.