Comments (Page 107)
in the garden. A sister
died. Our friends’ wounded
marriage. A sick child.
Another sister died
and they wrapped her
in cloth and we laid her
in the ground.
Rest we hoped for.
For the comfort
of a surface soft as paint
mixed with beeswax.
We hoped at least the animals
would remain, but
all the little dogs in the street
ran away from home – an airedale
terrier called Lucy ending up
in a café in town.
Helpless in the face
of sick animals, we wept
over a hedgehog,
held the hunched
body of our sleeping child
Solace came in small
ways – dealing kindly
with bees in the kitchen,
of a moth across
a night window.....
The child said here
I’ll put my
arms around you
so you don’t get lost.
After time a vase
entered our lives
as a body of light
its white flowers a kind of
peace we craved and
entered as the gate
to another garden
on a hillside, tended by
women who looked up
from roses to mountains
and saw snow
so soft in my garden.
It pleads with the twilight,
for Spring’s swift return.
The branches are shaking
with tears of Summer’s death
while leaves blush and quiver
at Autumn’s attention.
The bird begs with song
for Autumn to wait,
and Spring to bring back
sweet promised sunlight.
“My eggs did not quicken,
under night’s stab of frost,
so cruel was Summer’s slumber,
neglecting his smile.”
A small bird sings softly
for Spring’s swift return.
The answer is sunset,
and the first flake of snow.
Since: Jul 12
Withering away he loses more of his weight
The doctors have come and told him his fate
The weird disease that courses through his veins
Will take his life leaving shattered remains
Words like inoperable, malignant are scary words
Ones that he wished he had never heard
“What will happen to my girls” he worried
There is no stopping this disease, it’s in a hurry
Also concerned for all his friends, what to say
“How can I tell them all” he must find a way
Thoughts and regrets of things not done
Thoughts of a girl he might have won
All just dreams that he will never get to see
His life has ended, it was not meant to be
Since: Jul 12
Life is funny
It brings friends into your lives that are very special
You’ll never know
On line friends just disappear and you have no idea why
She will never know
The reason I quit writing will be the day that I die
She will be spared tears
Little did she know just how much she meant to me
But I will be there
Watching over her as her guardian angel
Keeping her safe
Ensuring her time here is made to last a long time
I hope she smiles
When she thinks of what I had written to her
She’ll always remain
The one that I loved but never held in my arms
She will always be
The woman I Love but had the courage to tell her
Since: Jul 12
The woman I Love but never had the courage to tell her
Since: Jul 12
Sitting alone wondering how it all came to this
A wife, a mother, a community supporter
A home, her writing. She had everything
Then one day her world was shattered
Shattered by a man she adored and loved
Confusion and hurt came so quickly
Like a punch in the gut she fell to her knees
A woman of faith tested. But the question is why
She turned to god for answers but she could not see
She had friends she could lean on but how could she
How could she ever trust another man again?
Surprisingly one friend would not go away
She tried pushing him away not wanting any man
Yet he remained in the background waiting for her
Waiting on the day she could start to trust again
And she did, she bounced back and accepted his friendship
She realized that not all men are like the one who let her down
This man also realized allot about himself during this time
He realized that friendship meant more than anything
No, he would never be her lover, but he would be her friend
A friendship that would last their life time and flourish
Then it happened. She understood god was still there
And the greatest gift that gave her was a lifelong friend!
“Mid winter days”
Since: Dec 06
Very meaningful take on death.
DEATH is a difficult one to write about -
When a close, young and wonderful friend of mine was struck down by a rapid
cancer, when she passed -
I wrote the following saturated at the time, with deep emotion:
yes there's so many to claim
but sometimes frienships end
'we' always wonder who's to blame
after 'there's problems' do 'we' send
a card or message to find out just when
they might want to be our friend again?
Some say, forget it I don't need them
others cry, sob, freat, fuss, and whim
thinking I really do need to have a mend
for this friendship it's good to spend
a 'few'cents' to try and make amends
you never know how that might end.
To finalize my poem on friends
I've never really had a close one
kinda always thought it was just a trend
now don't get me wrong I've a ton
of friends and I guess there is one special-
that would be Jo Anne my wife and best friend!
bend, blend, blende, end, fend, lend, mend, rend, scend, send, shend, spend, tend, trend, vend, wend, Wend
“Mid winter days”
Since: Dec 06
'Winds outside her window .. gather...
a song of lamentation 'she hasn't long to go'..
and every breeze is sighing
while ... inside, my friend lies dying
Candle teardrops dripping
form a pool of yellow light
yet the candle keeps its vigil
thru this endless night
while she is slowly dying
all the winds are sighing..
Silent round a clock face
the hands creep .. one: two: three:
each stark tick-tock
and her hear beat make
a soulful harmony
While all the time she's dying.
The thread which bound her closely
to the womb of life..
as .. she hovers ..
betwixt life and death
between Heaven and Earth-
The moon and stars are crying...
because they know .. she's dying..
All precious moments ..
like shining grains of sand ..
that drift through
yet going no where ..
leaving an empty trail
while deeper she is dying ..
and all her friends are sighing ..
Come, O, Come
O,comforter of night -
wrap her in your velvet cloak
Let her heal ..
in your streams of peace and dreams ..
and promised life anew ..
while she is slowly dying.
OH!... Let me go to bed ..
tonight with eyes less sad..
knowing you will be there with her..
Now only YOU can care for
while she is in
the act ..
the final act of dying..
... Atho' In life I was her friend..
HERE'S the irony >
at the end,
there's NOTHING.. I can do
for her -
Devastated, I feel
feel like a fool.
NO better now than some useless tool..
Sighing - only - Sighing.
my heart and soul are crying ..
for my friend .. so close to dying. "
Since: Aug 09
I need to laugh
I need to cry
I need not to hide
What I bury inside
A powerful spirit
A sorry heart
A body that feels
It's falling apart
Only to be held up
By the force within
Guide me inner voice
Let me hear what I need to hear
Guide me inner heart ,
to hear my heart
Give my emotions a place to flow
So I can be strong for my girl
She needs me here
Written 2-11-2001 during the cancer battle for Tara (my daughter)
Since: Aug 09
While the rush of the wind is spinning around
Touching the earth , touching the ground
With all the sighs of it's mysterious sounds
Moving the river moving the sea
Moving our souls as though we were free
I'm taken in by an open door
Where their is warmth and walls to sustain the breeze
And than it gets calm with nothing to bare
Showing no sound can't feel it's around
Will it be the same as yesterday or even tomarrow ?
No tomarrow is different and difference makes for a change
Pater, dimitte illis, quia nesciunt, quid faciunt.
They hadn’t seen the wire, threading the grim
eyelet of the dead soldier’s left boot, so
when he shouted, it was too late, the pin
had pulled, and the incendiary blew.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?
But not before he was able to throw
himself onto the I.E.D., sparing
his troop the shrapnel flash, the inferno
that tore his chest like a lover’s raging.
Mulier, ecce filius tuus.
And in the middle of his agony,
he heard his mother’s voice: and there he was,
five again, tumbled tricycle, skinned knee
being wrapped up in tenderness and gauze.
Pulled back, he felt the drought in his mouth salved
by the salt of his own blood, where his jaw
had ruptured, ripped. He felt himself hauled, shoved
across pavement, into the transport’s maw.
Hodie mecum eris in Paradiso.
His brother, lost to another army,
to another war, sat across the way,
squeezed his hand. Real enough, it seemed; quietly
saying, It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.
And it was. Around him he saw them – crushed,
pounding his chest, weeping, wiping his face –
but all there, saved by his instinctive rush
into the abyss, taking their place.
In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.
And his breathing slowed into an even
skate, his eyes closed, and his spirit rose high,
wings like a dreamed Chagall, through the open
window, past rooftops,
into a violet sky.........
When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a hospital in England, it appeared she had left nothing of value.
The nurse, packing up her possessions, found this poem. The quality so impressed the staff that copies were distributed to all the nurses in the hospital.
This poem then later appeared in the Christmas edition of "Beacon House News," a magazine of the Northern Ireland Mental Health Association. This was the Lady's bequest for posterity.......
What do you see nurse,
What do you see?
What are you thinking
When you look at me?
A crabby old woman,
Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit
With far away eyes.
Who dribbles her food
And makes no reply;
Then you say in a loud voice,
"I do wish you'd try."
Who seems not to notice
The things that you do,
And forever is losing
A stocking or shoe.
Unresisting or not,
Lets you do as you will;
With bathing or feeding,
The long day to fill.
Is that what you're thinking,
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes nurse,
You're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am,
As I sit here so still,
As I move at your bidding,
As I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten ...
With a father and mother,
And brothers and sisters
Who love one another.
A girl of sixteen,
With wings on her feet;
Dreaming that soon,
A lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at twenty ...
My heart gives a leap;
Remembering the vows
That I promised to keep.
I have young of my own,
Who need me to build
A secure and happy home.
A woman of thirty,
My young now grow fast,
Bound together with ties
That forever should last.
At forty, my young ones
Have grown up and gone;
But my man is beside me
To see I don't mourn.
At fifty, once more ...
Babies play 'round my knees;
Again we know children,
My loved ones and me.
Dark days are upon me,
My husband is dead ...
I look at the future,
I shudder with dread;
For my young are all rearing,
Young of their own,
And I think of the years
And the love I have known.
I am an old woman now,
Nature is cruel,
'Tis her jest to make old age
Look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles,
Grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone
Where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass,
A young girl still dwells,
And now and again
My battered heart swells.
I remember the joys,
I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living
Life over again.
I think of the years ...
All too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact
That nothing can last.
So open your eyes nurses,
Open and see ...
Not a "Crabbit Old Woman,"
Look closer ... see "Me."
~ Phyllis McCormack ~
Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?
Lauren you are in my thoughts & my prayers
Did you notice
how quickly the open sky
folded in upon itself
the flaking burnt pages
like torn moth wings
flying up the fetid smoke
the broken teacups
and coffee stained saucers
the splintered chairs
did you hear the
euphony of the street
as men wrangled
swore and cajoled
if not solved
if not created
and the promise
of their country’s
did you even know
of the dreams imploded
inside the molten iron
across the narrow
book lined street
as debate turned
to barbed screeches
into choked smoke
and a thousand
years of history
was buried in the rubble
or was there
except an inexorable
The kids’ mother died
the kid’s mother had
the kid’s mother was just
a kid herself
what can you say at a young woman’s
that she was so alive once
she loved to dance
latin samba rumba
that you can’t like crack smack
its something bout living
some people feel it too
as in do not touch
or please touch
like when you dance you whirl
so much on your own
and every once in a beat
your partner catches your hands
that living is like being
an acrobat and
maybe some people can’t hang with
maybe I don’t really know
but the kids mother died last night.
Soot black robes drag the red clay through narrow catacombs.
No attendant’s light to guide the flitter glance from the walls
where the bodies of men are split and chained apart, veins forever
seeking wholeness across sharp-edged rocks.
No, she sees
these sinners with frozen mouths and hears their whisper-screams,
yet walks on with blue-flame candle.
The terrain of sin is tough and steep.
She has judged with horrors and does not falter.
Closer to the mouth of hell writhe those who committed
the smallest of errors: a stolen glance at a goddess bathing,
a kiss between the chinks in a wall.
Most pitiable, the head
without a body that sings of lost love.
for the man and girl she knew: the man, brave and humble,
begged his young wife back and the girl, smitten on her wedding
day by a serpent’s venom-hiss.
She offered Hades a further assurance
that she would never leave for their freedom: a child of spring and flame.
Her gift betrayed by true love, no hope of praise on the tongues
of generations from this human marriage, she ascends and takes a seed.
With slender hand, she lifts the musician to lull the dog that blocks the gate,
and rises far beyond the red-eyed beast, the twisted sinners, the touch
of hell each night, but at the mouth, a pitch black cave, she stops,
to consider the season before her:
a wash of spring green and poppy flower red,
sunflowers, and dahlias, cleansing rivers and nearby a bird in mid song.
No need for the candle to see that she has changed, been sullied by this affair.
No need for Odysseus’s voice to goad her to misery at the brink of joy.
Purest Persephone with child weeps again for her plight, the damnable
naiveté, that first pomegranate promise, and she turns.
my grandmother told my mother
anyone can marry
anyone can have children
my mother defied, married
had the most children of her siblings
i return to the purple mouth
beneath the scalpel
i split open
a pomegranate seed-filled
bloody juice slips
to stain blue surgical tarps
i offer all those children
cellular halves waiting
minute orbs with dark futures
they fire within the light
unborn and yet exposed
within my slumber i hear
their lullabies silence
the only waking song
wind between thin shades
Let the knowing speak
Let the oppressed tell of their sorrows,
Of their salt and boundless grief.
Since even the wise and the brave
Must wonder, and the creeping mists
Of doubt, creep along the trough
Of pursuing woe…...
To curl among the crevices
Of the ost cannily armored brain.
Let those who can endure their doubts
Speak for the comfort of the weary
Who weep to know.
No one can communicate to you
The face of poverty—
Can tell you neither the shape,
Nor the depth,
Nor the breadth
Until you have lived with her intimately.
No one can guide your fingers
Over the rims of her eye sockets,
Over her hollow cheeks—
Until one day perhaps
In your wife’s once pretty face
You see the lines of poverty:
Until you feel
In her now skinny body,
The protruding bones,
The barely covered ribs,
The shrunken breasts of poverty.
Poverty can be a stranger
In a far off land:
An alien face
Briefly glimpsed in a newsreel,
An empty rice bowl
In a skinny brown hand,
Until one bleak day
You look out the window—
and poverty is the squatter
In your own backyard.
Poverty wils in the night for milk,
Not knowing the price of milk a quart.
It is the stark desperation in your teen-ager’s face,
Wanting a new evening gown for the junior prom,
After going through school in rummage store clothes.
It is the glass of forgetfulness sold over the bar.
And poverty’s voice is a jeer in the night—
“You may bring another child
Into the rat race that is your life;
You may cut down on food
To buy contraceptives;
You make see your wife walk alone down some back alley route
To a reluctant appointment with an unsterile knife—
Or you may sleep alone.”
And one morning shaving
You look in the mirror—
And never again will poverty be alien,
For the face of poverty is not over your shoulder,
The face of poverty is your own.
And hearing the break in your wife’s voice
At the end of a bedtime story,
You realize that somewhere along the way
The stock ending in your own story went wrong.
And now you no longer ask
That you and your wife
Will live happily ever after—
But simply that you
And your wife
And your children
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