PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT HEARING A PERSON TAKING HER LAST BREATHS AND GASPING, ASKING FOR GOD TO HELP HER. THE BREATHS GOT RASPIER AND QUICKER, THEN THE MOANING STARTED.. FEAR HAD SETTLED IN THE WOMENS VOICE. THEN JUST HEARING SILENCE. THAT EXCHANGE IS DISTURBING AND YET RELIEVING IN VERY AN ODD WAY.

My friend Brenda’s dad walked on the other day…

he turned 100 years old in June…

Why is it even when someone lives a long and happy life…

they seem to die too soon?

He was a war veteran and a farmer 

who lived in the land where sheep and dairy cows grazed…

I never had the privilege of knowing him….

but I know the woman whom he raised.

He was a kind and loving person…

who enjoyed sitting in a glider under his favorite tree.

He loved his church, loved to laugh, loved music…

loved his friend and family.

He loved restoring tractors…he could, at times, be demure…

Since I never had the chance to meet him…

all these things I learned from her

You see, every now and then Brenda would toss a stone 

into the lake that was her father’s life…

And as the ripples spread out concentrically..…

Some of them I’m happy to say…found their way to me.

Over the years to my delight as she tossed more stones

and more and more ripples spread…

a portrait of the man he was formed inside my head.

I learned a lot about him through those ripples…

a lot about Brenda too…

and thanks to her I came to know and now will miss…

a man I never knew.

When I look back on all I learned about him…

I am joyful but not amazed…

After all…I had the perfect teacher…

the woman whom he raised.

This goes out to all us who’ve lost someone we love…(and isn’t that all of us?)

For those moments when we find it difficult to welcome joy back into our lives:

They spent their life together…finding joy, laughing, loving…and then

one day she died and he was left to wonder if he would ever find joy or laughter again.

He wondered how long it would take…how many months…how many years

before a memory…a thought of her…wouldn’t fill his eyes with tears.

He loved the life they built…and did not want her to infer…

If he laughed…if he found joy…that meant he was forgetting her.

Then in a misty fog of sadness one day…suddenly…out of the blue

arose a memory of her laughing…and he found himself laughing too.

And as more memories of her laughter flooded in

he realized there was a part of him his sorrow did not destroy…

that in spite of a constant shadow of sadness…

there was still room in his heart for joy.

He discovered so much about himself while she was alive 

and now with her death he learned…

the best way to live with his sadness….

was to allow his joy and laughter to return.

Oh, he still has moments when sadness envelopes him…

and he knows for the rest of his life for sorrow he will not lack…

but since that day, with her encouragement, he’s welcomed his joy and laughter back…

Now whenever he smiles or laughs he looks up…

and thanks her for helping change his point of view…

knowing whenever he finds himself laughing…

somewhere…

she will be laughing too.

I once had this idyllic picture of children…in school…learning with their mates

or outside playing together…running, jumping, laughing…riding on roller skates.

But that idyllic picture has changed…it’s not so idyllic anymore….

as we’re faced with another school shooting…and parts of the world at war.

In the midst of war…death comes quickly…lives are lost…hearts are broken

In the instant death arrives…there’s no time to think…no words are spoken.

I wonder in the moment the bomb explodes…dropped from high above

If the last thought of those who died…were of those in life they love.

In the midst of a school shooting…living out their most horrible fears

students of all ages take out their phones…and fighting back their tears

they call their parents and loved ones…”Dad, Mom…there’s something I want to say. 

I just want you to know I love you…if I happen to die today”.

In Israel, in Gaza, in Ukraine, on our streets…wherever the fires of hatred flame

when it comes to the last words on our lips…all our messages are the same.

We want those we love to know we love them…one more time before we die…

so we repeat to them the words they said to us…

the moment we opened our eyes.

If we fear we’re going to die…and those we love and who love us can’t be near…

we want the words ‘I love you”…to be the last words from us…they hear.

Leaving us to mourn a world that callously drops bullets and bombs on us from above.

A world that allows the ruthless killing of the children we claim to love.

And to pray for the day love will prevail…and no more children will suffer the fate

of dying beneath their school desk…or while outside…wearing roller skates.

Her grandpa’s funeral was over…but she still hurt inside

so she ran into her bedroom…closed the door…and cried.

On her bed…her face lost in her pillow…is where her Grandma found her

and with the gentleness of an angel…put her arms around her.

“I miss him so much,” she said…”and I know all this crying might upset him

but Grandma…I am so afraid…I’m going to forget him”.

“Forget your grandpa!…Oh, sweetie…that is something we will never see.”

“Come,” she said taking her granddaughter’s hand, ”take a walk with me”.

Grandma smiled at her granddaughter as they walked into the sun

and as they sat down on the shore where two rivers become one.

“What you and Grandpa had was special…and he wouldn’t be upset to see you cry…

but don’t worry…you will never forget him…and before you is the reason why.”

“We are sitting at the point where two rivers come together and a brand new river starts.”

“Can you see how, once they’ve been combined, you can no longer tell them apart?”

“This same thing happened with you and Grandpa as it does with family and friends”

“Once your two lives joined together it’s hard to know where you begin…

and where your grandpa ends.

“Whenever two people share love,” she said, “in their own time and space

a harmony…a symmetry…a confluence takes place.” 

“A confluence is like a miracle…one river born from two…

Which means you will always be a part of him…and he a part of you.”

“It’s a simple fact of life…that nature has created…

once two rivers come together…they cannot be separated.”

The little girl placed her head on her grandma’s shoulder,

she held her hand…she wouldn’t let go…

and they sat in silence on the riverbank watching the river flow…

Watching two rivers come together

watching as a new river starts…

and sharing one of nature’s miracles…

the confluence of two hearts.

The hour of dread, with soft paws and long whiskers,
Nears its cruel crescendo, as the twilight bleeds
Into darkened silence. Green eyes, orbs of emerald,
Hold galaxies of grief, as if understanding
The inevitable decision, kind but unbearable.

Mr Kitty, you’ve stalked shadows and sunbeams,
In this house of loving dreams. Now,
The shadow looms larger and devours the light.
Your purrs, once symphonies in the quiet night,
Diminish, a tremor in the cold winter air.

Cancer gnaws at you, a voracious ghost,
A dark star in the velvet sky of your mouth,
While I, the unwilling god, hold the power
To halt your descent into the abyss,
Yet tremble at the gravity of our goodbye.

How does one render mercy, when mercy
Is a sharpened blade? The decision, a bitter promise,
Etched in the ledger of love and loss.
I choke on the syllables of farewell,
My heart a shattered vessel.

You, in your tuxedo coat, an elegant spectre,
Press against my hand, unaware of time's cruelty.
I search for solace in your calm as if
You’ve found peace in the acceptance,
Of a fate that I cannot fathom.

This difficult choice, a merciful surrender,
To spare you immeasurable pain,
The indignity of losing autonomy,
A kindness carved from sorrow,
To preserve the dignity that you deserve.

Forgive me, Mr Kitty, for playing god
In this charade of mercy and despair.
Know that love has carved this path,
And in the twilight of our shared existence,
Your memory will burn, unquenchable, real and eternal.

As the final hour approaches, know I’ll hold you close,
A lifeline in the storm of sorrow.
Your green eyes, lanterns of ancient wisdom,
Guide me through the darkness, whispering
That release is not an end, but a gentle beginning.

This blessing is a question

Just a thought I'm throwing out….

It is actually less a blessing

than something to think about…

Although it is inevitable…

for death we cannot defy…

If we remain in the hearts of those we leave behind

do we ever really die?

When a friend of ours dies…who in our life has played a part

it is with the deepest sorrow we add thier tombstone to the cemetery in our heart.

Why her? Why him? Why now? We asked ourselves as we desperately try to cope

for a while we are thrown off balance…our life is out of focus…we lose our hope.

There is no right or wrong way to confront death…despite what the experts say

we’ll struggle through our sorrow…our grief…and all the while we will pray

for strength and courage and guidance as we solemnly whisper their name 

knowing the life we knew up to this point…will never be the same.

It’s as if death has infected our bodies in an instant…overnight…

and our world…once awash in color…has turned to black and white.

At first their memories are fresh…and our sorrow may paralyze…

but then while cloaked in sadness…we begin to realize

they would not want us to remain sad forevermore…

and we try to go on living…the way we lived before.

Slowly with the help of our family and our friends…the healing process begins

and over time, with their help, the color seeps back in.

And we find a place for those we lost in our memories 

next to the memories of others who in our life played a part 

where we can visit them as often as we like…in the cemetery in our heart.

It’s a quiet, solemn place that has no complement…no parallel

the final resting place where our memories go to dwell.

Where we can walk among them any hour…any minute of any day.

Where the ones we’ve lost forever…are never far away.

We never know when our grief will end and when the healing process will start

But we can take some solace knowing their memories 

will always have a quiet place to rest

in the cemetery in our heart.

A favorite memory of her grandma began before she could even say a word…

In her Grandma’s backyard, sitting on her lap…tossing seeds out for the birds.

It’s where her love for her grandma and birds began…where her imagination first stirred.

It’s where (I imagine you can guess what it was) she uttered her first word.

She remembers Grandma saying, “We only feed them seeds…we never feed birds bread.”

It’s where she learned her colors…blue, black, yellow, green and red.

It’s where she learned to count…it’s a memory that lingers….

how some days there were more birds in Grandma’s yard…than she had toes and fingers.

She remembers Grandma saying, “I live in this big house on my own…

and when you’re not here…with all these birds…I never feel alone.”

Her mom was worried about her on the day of her grandma’s funeral… 

she hadn’t said two words.

Until, at the cemetery, she pulled a bag of seeds out of her pocket saying,

“This is for the birds.”

“What do you mean?” Her mother asked as handfuls of seeds were thrown.

“It’s to remind the birds that Grandma’s here…so she’ll never be alone.”

Now, whenever she visits her grandma’s grave…she kneels down…

she whispers a few words…

then she plants some flowers for her grandma…

and spreads some seeds out for the birds.