Daddy never did understand.
That violence doesnt bring comfort.
A lost soul seeking acceptance from a unwelcome hand.
She was silent no one ever knew.
The secrets behind her bruised eyes.
A shocking victem none but all had a clue.
She cried to empty walls never speaking aloud from fear.
A confession of pain and shattred trust.
this is only what angles hear.
Scars selfinflicted are better than that
As she lays a broken shell gazing at the celling.
She questions if others know what will they say.
Doing whatever it takes to stay numb.
Innocence lost a parent should never betray.
The guilt was placed apon the wrong head.
Void of all emotion.
No child should yern to be dead.
At times it gets to uncomfortable so in
another direction we steer.
For at times it's just to painful to stomach.
What only angles hear.
They slipped their chains and spread their brains
On walls of bricks and mortar,
Bared their teeth in their belief,
Prepared themselves for slaughter.
Howled aloud in the smoke and cloud
That prowled the streets and alleys,
The sounds they made in their parade
Echoed down the valleys.
They shed their blood in crimson flood,
It stained the roads and gutters,
And people hid and crossed themselves
Behind their doors and shutters.
The gunfire cracked and bodies stacked
As one fell on the other,
When it was done and lived there none,
Each sister mourned each brother.
The sun it rose, diseased and froze
Out on a wracked horizon,
The jackboot bastards drank their fill
And cried out: “What’s our poison!”
Black as soot on a winter night,
Thin with eyes red to the core,
The tourists armed with skulls and guns
Beheld the Dogs of Warsaw.
Torn like rags in a threshing mill,
Shapeless sprawl on a killing floor
Yet history will not forget
The butchered Dogs of Warsaw.
No longer at desk the typewriter has been given
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.
The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.
Vist's from thoose who once knew the man
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.
Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.
To be the man they never knew and the one he
could admire and both despise.
The page sits in typewriter like a willing
eager lover in bed.
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.
He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.
He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without
a chance of ever capturing this moment.
The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.
There are times we are left to cope
With situations that drain our hope
Leaving us full of despair
At how some people just don't care
About the evil that they do
To good people like all of you
We are left to somehow face
That in mankind there is disgrace
And those of us left alive
Must find away to survive
As you pick up the pieces of your life
Without your mother, father, husband or wife
And some of you God forbid
Without the love of your kids
We must band together with a brotherhood
Show that in this world there is some good
Because we are together in this deal
We try to help each other heal
We seek in each other good advice
And offer each other sacrifice
We hold each other in prayer and song
As we continue to re-build the wrong
Because what else in the world can we do
Except let the light of good shine through
The evil darkness and despair
Of a catastrophic lack of care
We want you to know you are not alone
Think of America as a giant cone
And all of us are funneling through
Our prayers and hopes to all of you
Posted for Nathan's 9-11 contest
When I am Colder,Older and then alone...
I will collect the sky on my own...
When the art has faded and the days then fade-
when everyone has gone away...
I may finally see what never was saw
.....ahhhhhhhhhhhhh............... the quiet sky
The unlit room which bares my end...shows the flashes of my pains my joys and sins.
This life has been a strange one since the curtains were drawn
These paper and plastic figures have clouded the dawn
I was once younger,foolish,and obsessed with truth
Now I am bitter,sour,dour faced with my heart under shoe
The children were all searching or lost in a crowd
All weeds in a garden...growing vile and foul
Though beauty was sold it never came true
Obsessions and vanity have traveled safe through
Materials and poison and everything lost
have been burned in the fires or lost in the frost
I stand face to mirror tearing my being apart
Winding thoughts of love,pain,god,and art
As the sun sets and the darkness grows
I too shall follow this pattern in tow
Death has a friendly hand and a pretty face
She has given me comfort as I leave this place
The wars have occurred,humanity's lost
Souls have been burnt in the fire or lost in the frost
Day was Life,Night is Death
And the latter has given counsel on my final steps
Who am I and what am I to say?,
All I've got to do is play,
Along in a game I don't understand,
Make people come to my land,
A deal that you don't think about,
Something thats going to start out,
A trend that will last for years,
Making people come to tears,
Arguing points that don't get across,
Having to deal with a great loss,
This is my life and these are my words,
Circling around like I'm in herds,
Playing games with my head,
Maybe I would be better off dead.
Stumbling Through a Bewildering Maze,
Of Thoughts and Dreams, He Finds Emptiness.
The Over-exhuming Haze of a Comfortable
Life Exhausts Him, And He Sinks into Himself.
Words From His Brief Interactions Are Destroyed
By Him, Not Absorbed. It's Killing Him.
Water From His Dusty Satchel, Glints as
He Spills it onto His Lap.
-You're Losing it -
He Feels The Stares From Countless Eyes,
And Shrugs it off with Solitude as his Shield.
You've Become The Guy Your Parents Used
To Tell You To Avoid in The Street.
- You Wanna Hurt People -
He watches the Cliques of People Enjoy his
Insecurity. No-one Takes him Seriously.
He Picks The biggest Guy, His Shank, more
Powerful Than His Fist, He walks towards Him.
- It's About To Go Sour -
His Feet Crunches Aeons Beneath Him, And
Stamps Out His Future Genetics.
The Shank, Concealed in his Sleeve. Here it
Comes, This Was his final mark of Respect.
- His Veins Pump Hard -
The Adrenaline Sends Tears to his Eyes,
And Weakens His Legs, he'll Fight or Cry.
The Shank Slides Like Threading Silk Into
His Victims Stomach, Eyes Locked.
- Control it, Stay Calm -
There Was To be No Assistance, Retaliation
Was To be Swift, and Effortless.
He Smiled as They Withdrew Their Weapons
From His Chest.
- Fall To Your Knees -
Choking on Muffled Screams, behind The
Blood and Mucus Filling his Mouth.
- Close your Eyes -
The Light Seemed To Bend in and out of The
Dark patches, It hit his eyes, and blinded him.
- This Makes Sense -
His Face hits Sand...
If in time
you should divine
that bees are fat
and owls are brown
then you will know
as do I
time will go
so .... slow.
And if in time
you should find
that veins are thin
and blood is brown
Then, a time
came crashing ...
and I'm certain
..... so am I
He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died,
he has not been the same.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it,
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain,
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best,
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows
what happens next.
All results of
I do not know?
The time that I've wasted is my biggest regret,
Spent in this place i will never forget,
Just sitting and thinking about the things that I've done,
the crying,the laughing, the hurt and the fun.
Now it's just me and my hard-driven guilt.
Behind a wall of empty ness I allowed to be built.
I'm trapped in my body, just wanting to run
back to my youth with it's laughter and fun.
But the chase is over and there's no place to hide.
Ever thing is gone, including my pride.
with reality suddenly right in my face
I'm scared, alone and stuck in this place.
Now memories of the past flash threw my head
and the pain is obvious by the tears that I shed.
i ask myself why and where I went wrong
I guess i was weak when i should have been strong.
Living for the drugs and the wings I had grown.
My feelings were lost, afraid to be show en.
as I look at my past it's easy to see
The fear that I had, Afraid to be me.
I'd pretended to be rugged, So fast and so cool.
when actually lost like a blind old fool.
I'm getting too old for this tiresome game
of acting real hard with no sense of shame.
It's time that i change and get on with my life,
fulfilling my dreams for a family and wife.
What my future will hold I don't really know,
but the years that I've wasted are starting to show.
I just live for the when I get a new start
and the dreams I still hold deep in my heart.
I hope I can make it, I at least have to try
Because I'm heading towards death, and I don't want to DIE!
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Our moorland flowers sleep deep in the peat,
tamped into loam, sad strays without homes,
secrets silent as your taciturn, inscrutable soul.
We listen for whispers in the gorse-sharp wind:
the voices that plead are feeble - we pay no heed.
Imagine me Hitler's whore, a leather-clad death camp doll.
Twine your tormentor's hands in the Aryan hair
you adore, bleached white as bones.
Coldly hard, insert yourself like a knife,
cervix-deep, your body churning inside me
as if ploughing this wild furrow where we lie,
a tangle of sighs, deaf to the cries of the ones who died.
Pulp me into stinking soil, pulverized cotton-grass.
Your eyes reflect sinister storm-stained skies,
heather-shaded hills in misted light.
I cannot explain why you excite.
The thudding axe whacks you coolly delivered
throb through me. I grasp sinewy fingers
that have wrung out last gasps, strangled, slit throats,
taped a sonata of screams for our secret pleasure.
Do you feel me shiver, or hear a thin sliver
of a cry? The steel-silver light is a killer -
I close my eyes to the too-bright.
And after, picnicking. Sandwiches on a shallow grave,
stream-chilled Rhine wine. Trophy photographs.
We loom larger than this lofty landscape
while far below us the oblivious city flickers.
Yes, the sky is darkening like a stain,
and what occurs, what falls, will not be rain
but reactive fallout from our dark deeds.
Myra Hindley and Ian Brady committed the infamous 'Moors Murders' in the UK in the 1960s
When last they kissed, and summer’s lease
fell brief and sweet, and winter's chill would steal the heart away...
Sweet coral days, turned blight to rust,
and Shakespeare's words,
will wring despair from what will never be.
Behold, your eyes that weep,
and empty arms will flail, for
young lovers swept away on wings so frail...
No other love could ever grieve so well.
Shall hence, will come a cry, to shatter starry skies
with tragedy to tell
O’ she of flaxen hair, fair cheeks so pale,
His love was as a fever, longing still.
His sorrow greater than the darkest night
Too cruel to bear, delusion played unfair
Despair, beyond all words could shout
Disquiet of the heart cries out
To death, that calls, from 'yond the distant stars.
Sweet love so rare, a thing beyond compare.
Where whence their love, once like the lilac full
The blossom fragrant, so sweet as whippoorwill
Ere' slumber's chain has bound them now.
Thy song has waned, the garland dead
upon the blade, upon the sword, asleep
The swollen heart with anguish weeps…forever is a love to keep.
RISING FROM THE ASHES
The eyes of the dragon seen through the trees
Mesmerize minds and cause bodies to freeze.
Which way to go, which way to turn;
No time for questions when the trees burn.
Just jump in the cars and flee towards town
But the road is cut off as the wind swings around.
No way to go, no way to turn;
An acceptance of fate, as the trees burn.
The fence of the paddock does not impede
The scorched car that flattens it, picking up speed
Away from the flames, away they must turn
Desperate with fear, as the trees burn.
The breath of this beast lights fires with no flame
The heat of its breath burn all just the same.
It’s tail flames on, it’s head, see it turn
Back towards town, there are more things to burn.
With fire, smoke and tears these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
A call for assistance, now the schools turn
To grey squares of ashes; and more townships burn.
The calls went out across this wide country
And the offers came from all and sundry.
What do you need? What can we bring you?
They were told, so they went; what else would they do?
Hand towels, toothbrushes, soap and shampoo
To clean away ashes; the soot, and tears too
Through fire and smoke, these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
The towns’ people will labor as long as there’s need,
They’ll listen and learn and plant as they weed,
While their houses and schools, fire stations too,
Rise from the ashes, and stand good as new.
The February Dragon has left for a time,
But hope that heals the scars in the minds
Of the people there, is strong and alive,
They have rebuilt their towns, their dreams and their lives.
We will never forget exactly where we were,
We will never forget exactly what we were doing,
We could never forget the loss we felt – 9/11/01.
We saw the birth of amazing heroes,
We mourned with the grief of thousands,
We marveled at the strength of the human spirit.
It was the day we held our children more closely,
It was the day the American Family was reborn,
And the day we became “One Nation, Under God.”
We heard those resounding words, “A plane hit the tower”,
We watched in disbelief as the second tower fell to earth,
And we heard the most heroic of words, “Let’s Roll!”
There were so many lessons that we learned,
There are so many memories to be held dear,
There was “Old Glory” – still standing to give us hope.
Firemen, Policemen, Clergy and Civilians-
Were taken from us in a few fleeting moments,
We saw a flight of angels, and an Eagle cry.
We became the strongest and most formidable of enemies,
The most united in spirit and purpose in decades,
We were filled with renewed honor and pride.
Yes, we lost the very innocence of our being,
We lost the complacency of everyday routine,
But yet we gained so much more.
For now we know the true meaning of so many, many words –
“Indivisible”, “In God We Trust”, “United We Stand”
and the most important of all -
“Greater Love Hath No Man Than This”…
Looking dead at me in this smeared mirror...
a lost man
the longer I stare
this stress abuses
my conscience with a glare
a guilty reflection warns
my mind is the prison I fear
as I long to escape
from the hell I dwell in
who have I become?
what have I done right?
crossroads appear suddenly
as fog fills the mirror tonight
darkness owning the room,
prefers I suffer slow
so I proceed with speed
because it’s the only way I know
flood my life’s hard bound chapters
while this smeared mirror reflects tears
dripping from a face
which was once filled with laughter.
High on the Normandy cliffs
Looking out over Pointe du Hoc
As cold Atlantic winds whisper out
The names of the brothers I left behind
Now only fine marble monument shadows
Dot the trenches and empty emplacements
As the final testimony of the fallen
Still ringing frightened with those desperate voices
Proclaiming both their lives and death
That they were ever here…
In the emerald hills of Collville Sur Mur
I can still hear the phantom naval shells screaming
Underneath the crying of men
Pulverized and dying in their comrades arms
All for the belief of the land from which they hail
While the roaring waves wash the still bloody sands
In and endless and rending cycle
That silent cacophony of brother and foe
Call out to me still for comfort and aid
Asking only to be remembered…
Have you ever thought about the Death of Christ?
Why did they crucify him?
If you read the story then you know
But what I ask is why didn't God stop them?
It's natural to protect our own
How could he let him be sacrificed?
For the good of all man I've been told
God sacrificed his only son for us
But what does he ask in return? What does he want?
Are we supposed to try and emulate him?
I wish to know
I don't understand his decision
To not help his only son, I couldn't do that
But I do know that is why we are not gods
Do people who give their lives for others emulate God?
When a solider dies for our country is he dying for us?
Or freedom? or both?
Are the parents godlike in their sacrifice of their children?
Like Christ when he sacrificed his only son
Or is it more than that?
Is patriotism just a mindset to get people to fight?
When one country is mad at another
It's the leaders who argue not the countries
Why can't the leaders fight and leave us alone?
Do leaders send their own children to fight and die?
Why should I send my children to fight and die for you?
Are you a God? Do you have my interests at heart? Or yours?
You say it is in the name of freedom, but whose freedom?
We have never been free
You send me to fight, kill, and die
And yet you say I am free, free to do what?
Free to murder those you want dead?
Free to send my children to their death for you?
Who are you again? Are you a God?
I fight for God not you
My children are not targets or murderers
And now you demand my children to be your shield
Who are you again? Never mind
I know who you are it's very plain to see
You are not a god you are a coward
You are evil and you are trying to destroy us
You are lying to all of us just as you always have
You speak of freedom
As you try to blind us with patriotism
And silence us with duty and honor, Meaningless!
From one who knows nothing of their meaning
I wonder what God would say to you
Knowing who and what you are
Would he forgive you?
Would he understand your deception? Would he?
I could not forgive you, this is why I am not a god
I can't forgive, I am vengeful, I would punish you
For allowing this deception of youth to continue
Maybe you believe your right but I can't believe that
You know what your doing is wrong yet you continue
One day you will pay, as we all will
We are all guilty to some degree
But most of all we are guilty of sacrificing our children to you
Who are you again? never mind
I just remembered, your the devil
Saint Blackheart walks the Autumn streets and smiles with diamond eyes;
She's well-aware of what you think, but listens to your lies.
Confess your deepest fantasies or never look her way --
She's free with random kindness, though she won't have much to say.
Saint Blackheart seeks the shadows for the secrets they impart.
Her life's a patchwork puzzle made with jagged shards of art --
Impressionistic paintings on a canvas dipped in red;
She dances like a demon for the angels in her head.
Saint Blackheart loves the twilight and the elemental rain;
She'll stand and watch you suffer, yet she senses all your pain.
A soft, Franciscan echo making up a primal scream
Can hurtle from her crimson lips and dart from dream to dream.
Saint Blackheart lives in solitude among the ancient trees --
You'll find her there within the mist, but never on her knees.
Her hands will offer nothing which is not her own to give;
And though you wish to die in peace, she may just let you live.
Saint Blackheart will not weep with you or wipe away your tears,
Yet she may catch their crystal hue and treasure it for years.
She'll lay a little flower on a long-forgotten grave --
A tribute to the tortured soul she never tried to save.
Glenn Turner and Randall "Randy" Thompson were the best police officer and volunteer firefighter in all of Cobb County, Georgia, until March 1995 (WWF Monday Night Raw and WWF Wrestle-Mania XI) and January 2001 (Raw Is War, WWF SmackDown!, and the WWF Royal Rumble) when their lives were taken away from their loving families by Julia Lynn Womack: aka the "Black Poisoning Widow." It seems that it was these two guys in uniform who married the same woman, especially when she was after their money, totaling hundreds and thousands of dollars, even in life insurance. Glenn and Randy have been killed by a deadly liquid by the form of Etheline Glycol rich antifreeze; Lynn Turner used it to spike that of lime-flavored gelatin (green Jell-O), sweet iced tea, and chicken noodle soup. Now, how cold-blooded was that? But to be honest, Maurice G. Turner and Randy Thompson, God rest their souls, really never should've met this gold digging assassin named Julia Lynn Womack (who's now dead) to begin with. Their families, their colleagues, and the citizens of Cobb County, Georgia, they still don't understand why the lives of these two men have to end in a tragic manner. They've got a bunch of whole lives ahead of them. But now that Lynn Turner, who killed both her police officer husband and her firefighter boyfriend, is dead, she can't hurt anyone else ever again. Randall and Glenn are no longer with their friends and families (including their moms), but their spirits will live on forever and they'll see their loved ones in heaven one day. And as for Julia Lynn Womack-Turner, she got what was coming to her and may she burn in the giant pit of inferno for all eternity.
The evening star glowing in a dust choked sky.
A girl stands by a window, with a tear in her eye.
She stares at the scene, hardly visible through the grime.
She whispers in the wind, “Bring my Dad home this time”
She opens the window, and climbs outside,
Having a flashlight, in her hand, as her guide.
Its glow shows the sides of the street.
She’s afraid for what the light will meet
Bodies piled everywhere she turns,
She wants to go home, and never return.
What brought this fate upon her town?
All her emotions are stripped and torn down.
A frightening sound explodes in her ear.
Shadows in the road now appear.
She run and hides behind a broken wall
Praying to god the rest doesn’t fall.
Footsteps coming closer to her
She can’t tell who because it’s all a blur
She backs away further so not to be seen in light,
Quieting her heart pounding from fright.
Gun shots and screams fill the air,
All these sounds, her ears couldn’t bear.
A slight whimper slips from her lips,
And over the broken stone she trips.
The shadows run closer, showering her heart with fear,
She wishes they would just disappear.
They pass by her; she fills with delight,
She just wants to see her dad tonight.
She shines the light, to show her place,
And to the shine comes a familiar face.
She doesn’t understand who’s to blame
Because on the tag shows her father’s name.
She holds in her tears and refrains from crying.
She falls to the ground where her dad was lying.
She lifts his arm and buries her face in his chest.
She closes her eyes wanting to forget the rest.
The shadows emerge yet she doesn’t see,
How close the end for her would be.
They look down at her, aim, shoot, and fire.
Being with her dad is her only desire.
The night had ended causing a little girl harm
But she took her last breath, in her father’s arms.
Here in this room again
the fan on low…
and I’m not to be trusted
can’t be left alone here
with shot gun temples
and a soul full of fear
no worse place than now
I can’t yell it more clearly
I beg for your attention
but I can’t stand you near me
in the blood of my veins
I’d cut off my hands
to send toxins to drain
yet I’m too gutsy for action
say that in public
imagine the reaction
I sit in whirl pools
but I’ve always hated heat
and claim to take a stand
but I’m lazy at my seat
and I’m always on time
as I miss the bus again
I lie in your face
with a devilish grin
and swear I didn’t mean it
I talk about my conscience
still I’ve never seen it
in a world of swirling confusions
I’m stuck on the spin cycle
my game’s not over
I need a fresh start
I’m begging for new blood
cus’ I’ve got a good heart
Tick tick tick
Tainted not sick
Brick by brick
Look with your eyes
See for what will hide
As time ticks by
Clock strikes 1
Just want to have fun
A fatal sigh
As time ticks by
Seconds minutes and the hour
For time holds all power
Fate cannot be faced
So feel how lies inside time are laced
Hate love life and death are embraced
It’s the life we wish to copy and paste
The love that is to sweet to taste
Hate is to bear
And death is for some to fear
Where the secret does enlye
Time ticks by
Will it be the end
Or is it a gift after that time will send
For some it will not mend
Every drip of life will be drained
Sympathetic drips from the sky will rain
Life will die
As time ticks by
The clock hands lock
Ticks slowly stop
Tick tick tick
Drip drip drip
Times up that’s it
The greatest holiday gift I ever received
Goes back so many, many years
Before my life became turmoiled
And before my tears for fears
I was a child like many out there
Torn, strewn and split of kin
Mother and father in differences
Confused at seven, wearing their same skin
For I was one of the lucky ones
To a Highland Estate I would go
It's on the west coast of Scotland
Where my holidays desired me so
Secretly I internally smiled
For a whisper of where I was heading
To live with a movie star hero
No longer my life was in dreading
We were picked up by a man so fine
His manners were an absolute joy
Regimental he was in his approach
To me, just a seven year old boy
We travelled through the village of Plockton
Crystal clear waters edged to it's shore
I knew from this very moment
Being here ebbed previous family sores
On entering his house I was in awe
Movie pictures came to my view
They were images of James Bond
At seven I was totally through
A voice called to me
Hey James! sit down and I'll tell you me
Still in circles in walking awe
This is what he told thee
My name is Patrick Dalzel Job
In the Second World War I served
But this recognition I bestow
Humbles me to it's deserve
This honour that's been given
Was blessed by a colleague in war
What desired Ian Fleming to be so striven
Possibly, what we were fighting for
We served on the same destroyer
Fighting to make the future free
His tribute, in his novels I became
James Bond, it's incredibly me
Not many seven year olds have stayed with James Bond.
This seven year old Scot's boy has, maybe I learnt?
“Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed –
come to me when I too am on my death bed.”
“Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.”
Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force
this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
-- to be sucked back -- into it?
~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ~
The division should be acute, the before her, the with her, the after her,
Yet there is this constant rattling of doors, though they remain locked,
in theory. I think of her as gone until I turn a page and read a passage
of pompous dialogue and she returns, My Joie de Vivre, entertaining me
with that puckish wit, unabashed. She smiles in the dusk with crusading
colours that bend dark horizons, changing clouds unexpectedly. What was I
before Joy*? Content, pleasant and productive. But was I alive, aware of
Life, its blissful rhythms? Irony defined: the heart which awakened stone
no longer beats. Finally, I understand. Lessons are sharp things which
infect both fresh and aging amputations. What do I do with this knowledge?
It is like learning a language that is no longer spoken, a long monologue
unbearably forlorn, painful. Faith dismisses hauntings, yet she does so
in daily degrees, oh, the sweet ghosts that peer from those notes, my name
underscored in margins. Why is there only one glove in the sewing box?
Agony hunts me in the garden. Perfume almost, but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares. I dare not open a kitchen drawer. Pain waits there.
The specter of my former self, a staunch gent, so sure of Heaven's role,
that cold bloke follows me in the shadows, land of man’s rage and despair.
There is no pretty death, no words can comfort the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry in our departing; I only pray there is Godspeed in mine.
*Written Nov 4, 2012
Joy Gresham Davidman, American poet, and C.S. Lewis, English writer and Oxford scholar, were good friends and married solely for the purpose to keep Joy in England (contested). But love came, as it has a habit of doing, when least expected, after Joy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There love was true and deep, and her death shattered Lewis. His book, A Grief Observed explores his anguish and a Christian’s questions which arise during times of suffering. The film, Shawdowlands, is based on the biography, Through the Shadowlands: The Love Story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. Lewis died 3 years after Joy. The above poem is a conjecture on my part, as no one can truly know what lies in another's heart, alive or otherwise.