The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to see her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
I see your name there written in stone
Beside so many others to me faces unknown
Do you see me or am I alone
In this place where last respects are shown
Are you walking here among the flowers
Where we laid your earthly body to rest
Where souls are set free to join higher powers
Is this, the final journey of our life-quest?
I see the dates there written in stone
Your day of birth and of your last breath
Are we merely made of flesh and bone
Or does time continue for us after death
I see the words of endearment there written in stone
Do you Beloved Husband my voice hear
Are my words like dust in the four winds forever blown
Or can the words chiseled here comfort you my dear
When my name is there beside yours written in stone
All these answers to me will be finally known
I pray you and I walk here among the flowers
Our souls joined forever among higher powers
They tried to make you go to Rehab...
Shoulda' packed your bags ta' Rehab...
A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".
Well my husband said "How old was she.""
A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..
While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?
My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".
The cousin proceeded to tale this story.
"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what
was going on ...."
The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or
any other funeral home director that he knew."
The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."
She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called
The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the
Let the Deicide commence.
You're a voyeur at best!
Your vampiric heart is beating out of your chest!
And you have slayed the ones whom would love you for anything less
Ready to consume the final fragments of innocence,
And for you there is no forgiveness,
On your knees pleading, screaming to a tyrant in the skies;
The father of lies.
I will never be enslaved in your superiority
The people agree: jaded of your false dichotomies.
Know: I will be whomever nature intends to be
Apollo and I will share our dreams,
and you will be forced to see
I know who you are...
Readily the first to present your scars
Chained by some despot or mental czar
An emotional homunculus in your mind, behind bars
Reluctant to escape - even when proven fake
Your demented mind - depths no one will penetrate!
...And you see me suffering
Not caring of any casualties
Just as long you recieve your safeguard of sympathy
So very wary of the masses and their Anarchy; Liberious ways
Solipsist - Is there no one you can see?
Even if she was presented burning?
Solipsist - Is there no one you can believe?
Even if Sophia was screaming?
Solipsist - Know you have killed and abused me
Imprisoned in your own personal reality
Oh, how I miss the dead…
... the softness in their voices
That I cannot recreate,
the warmth of their silence
Where now only cold remains;
And I know, oh how I know
That they are long gone
And I have been long removed
From those fuller times
But still, when I feel around my heart
I find that it is missing things
Parts long lost and dearly missed,
And I sit here feeling fatally incomplete
And I know- that I can never be whole again.
But I still miss the dead,
And I miss the times
When I never knew
That I would live on
Missing the days when I was whole…
-So I still miss the dead
And the times when I was not hollowed by loss
Living every day with a lighter heart
So far from the times
when I would never be whole again.
And now, so far removed
from fuller times,
These few missing holes
they let in a chill wind
And somehow, these missing holes
they leave my heart heavy
And I know that it will grow heavier yet,
But I dread
That when I am lost
I die not just incomplete
Empty of all I could yet lose.
The Day My Uncle Died...
I was thinking about the smile on my uncle’s face….
This was a before he would “leave this place."
I'll never forget the words shortly before he died.
The more I thought about it, the more I cried.
He said, "you know Jimmy I wish I got to know you better."
I never received another phone
call or even a letter.
A few days later he was ready to go to a funeral.
But it was also him who received a burial.
I was shocked and amazed as to what happened.
The events took place. There was no way
I could "stop them."
Memories I had were from many years ago.
I often think about him. And I do miss him so!
I suppose many don't take the time to realize...
How quickly life passes...
Then someone dies.
Perhaps there's someone in your
life you can think of…
There's been a situation that you're
embarrassed to "speak of/"
A harsh word said, and angry thought was spoken.
And soon your relationship has been "broken."
This may be a good time with this person to spend.
Irregardless if they're what you'd call a "friend."
Everyone is important to God who reigns above.
We need to be filled with his mercy and love.
The person you haven't seen shall one day disappear...
The days are short... Our journey's end is so near!
May God speak to our heart and help us to see...
Where will you and I be spending our eternity???
By Jim Pemberton
Lived amongst the dead
Then decided to join them
You Drive me into this Malice, into this Maze
I can only see the last of days
Your Creation Failed With Me
Burn with malice as you bridge to the plains of ennui
I do not know?
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)