In the beautiful morning sunlight of May
A sacrificed lamb lays on his death bed
His life and limbs are in utter decay
In a few hours or days he’ll be dead
Outside the pink blossoms of the crabapple
Are softly blowing in the springtime breeze
They frame an outline of a small white chapel
Where his soon to be widow drops to her knees
There is a peaceful feeling in the air
The lovely scent of flowers brings serenity
A tranquil quiet fit for a lonely prayer
Because for him there is no remedy
When he awakens from his soothing slumber
His gaze wanders outside to see a lady in white
He muses that he has met his number
And this angel will take him through the light
She’s posing beneath the pastel trees
Her tripod is poised to capture the scene
A moment of beauty obtained to please
In a landscape curated for calm and serene
She is not an angel but she fits the vision
She seeks this image against the clear blue sky
The time has come for him to leave this prison
For it’s such a beautiful day to die
He blinks in and out in a wingchair,
overhears what visitors say
when patients
can be talked about
as if not there.
People speak well of the dying,
even of dying strangers,
to him their words
prematurely shovel earth.
The terminally sick
must be accommodated,
penciled into time slots,
eased gently into oblivion.
He listens as he slips downstream
on a raft of morphine.
These last trips are scenes taken
from childhood books.
His own life story has become
absurd, it is almost as if
he is a character in someone else's life,
a Huckleberry Finn
whistling through Dantes Inferno.
What he really wants
is a rocking horse and ice-cream.
A nurse brings him ice-cream,
but it's the wrong flavor.
He wonders if anyone can see
the horse he rides upon,
his ten-gallon hat is as white
as a flying nun's Cornette.
The occasional visitors
watch the dying in dreadful relief.
Hypnotic minds drone like trapped bee's.
Frank Sinatra jets in from wonderland,
hands him a coloring book.
If only he had crayons
to fill in the blanks.
Sad plight in hospice
Fed smorgasmord of drugs
Left the great beyond.
We find ourselves with you in time,
Thoughts of you are roaming our minds
Angels playing music at the Gate
Heaven will be Home; let's call it fate.
Do not be weary or troubled, my friend,
With words I write but not to offend
They are written down to help us, too
It's become part of our plight with you.
You'll always be this ray of light,
In our hearts, you're one of a kind
But when that day comes around
It will break the hearts of the abound.
We'll always celebrate the life we shared,
So, please, Mary, do not be despaired
We're closing now with this in mind
You're almost Home: The Angels are flying.
The Gate is open, a reception has started,
Music's playing for your departing
God's arms are open, ready to embrace
Your presence here was not disgraced.
*Special credits and thanks:
Co-Author & Sister, Deb Kellison
Mom With Prayer Shawl
*
In this time of sorrow
We are reminded, that none of us get out alive
Yet, I treasure the belief
With remembering we all survive.
*
On my last visit to Mom
She wore a shawl
Draped over her thin shoulders.
“The shawl is so beautiful, Mom.”
“Yes, Son, I love the soft blue.”
*
“The other day a young woman
Came to my room, opened a box,
And there was the shawl.
She said members of the church,
Crochet prayer shawls.
The young woman asked
If I would accept this Shawl of Hope
With their love and prayers.
Now, Son, I didn't
Mean to make you cry.”
“I know, Mom, but you always said
I was a sensitive guy.
I wrote it in my diary.”
“You and that diary...
One can't get away with anything.”
“Nope, I got it all on paper
And treasure it.”
Mom looked at me with tears
And asked me to come closer.
She whispered,
“I am being warmed
By loving hands
Responsible for each
Entwined strand of wool.
The shawl is blessed with hope
And its warmth
Keeps fear out in the cold.”
“I will sit by you, Mom,
And feel its warmth.”
*
And there it goes
never thought it to you but it goes
the breath out of your body
the warmth it turns to cold
and there it goes.
my hand holding yours as you float
in and out of consciousness
the ebb and flow
your eyes are teary and in repose
and there it goes.
your laughter has gone silent.
nothing they can do is what im told
how do i let you go?
in a second you are no more
and there it goes.
the medics take your vitals
there's no panic in them and
it shows.
the put a sheet on you like the close the
curtains to a show....
and there she goes.
I walk down this street
Away from the hospital;
Last place where we meet.
None of us held true avail
Over how God would greet you.
She’ll be leaving soon I see
The ambulance has arrived,
Waiting for another guest
To take a long, hard ride.
A malicious, microscopic serpent
Invaded blood and bones
Leaving this sweet young lady
Ravaged, scared and ominously alone.
Looking out her window now
At the roses she planted and pruned
Hospice is her final stop
Before sailing past the moon.
She takes one final, languid look
At her weeping bedroom walls
Before they load her listless life
She does her best to stall
Those made to come and carry her
From her house of torment and tears
She bows her head and genuflects
Fighting back the fear.
Knowing the end’s inevitable
Yet staving off all she can
Smelling the roses wafting scent
Of a magnificently more preeminent plan.
Postscript:
The young lady left this world today
Floating far beyond sky blue;
Now nothing more to do or say
Except God bless, “Adieu.”
I wonder where you are
I wonder how you are
I wonder if you are
still here still there
holding on to time
the last breath
the last smile
the last laugh
the final time when
I wonder are you
comfortable is someone
caring for you are you bitter
are you there are you still there
whole counting grudges
measuring hatred
I wonder have you seen him
has he entered your being
have you been shown heaven
have you excepted Jesus Christ
truly excepted Jesus Christ
have you completed God's purpose
I wonder how you are
do you remember me us you
are you happy with everything
you set out to with your life
or is there unfinished business
I wonder is it finished
Round Mudville Market, foul air was omnipresent
butchers rent fowls’ necks to make tenant's rent,
the scene that was seen was most unpleasant.
As sunset fell, we watched through evening light,
as Casey mighty Casey held his stout bat tight
while striving poet searches to right words write.
Seems a southpaw would tear up bravado's montage
Casey’s legend scorched by unknown pitcher’s flamage
and tears like diamonds sluice down his visage
As darkness gathers, a lone bat flits round diamond site
with Casey wiff, the bleacher rift, for sure a sorry sight
as we quaff stout, raise glasses high, E. Thayer's tale recite.
I performed a little entertainment at a teen age hospice.
This lovely 15 year old little girl just wanted from me her first passionate kiss.
I thought to myself, "What is the harm? This poor young girl is going to die,
certainly before she ever gets a chance to testify."
I know that sounds very bad of me,
but with only two words,
I can make it worse,
True Story.
KIDSTER DISCLAIMER
The above never happened obviously.
I was just experimenting with regards to writing dark comedy.
Life Support
The night is calm and shimmers
in its moonlight coat.
I sit and watch the ocean as I
wrest with dark demons.
The vision engulfs me;
I see her sweet innocence
etched on a pillow of death,
awash with cruel tubes and all
the paraphernalia of dying.
I feel detached as I observe
phosphorous ghosts surfing
like green bobbing lanterns
to a glistening alien beach
Black angels bow my head,
bend my back and hang
huge moral weights about me.
A lone gull keens my torment
Am I to be her executioner?
Must I play God?
Juggling with destinies and
barely conceived dreams.
Where are you my child?
My sweet innocent child.
My mind is a black hole full
of question marks and
dark destroying God hatred.
The ocean whispers to me
and gently caresses my soul
I know the right path…
I knew all along
I stand wearily, turn and
look at the brilliant silhouette
of the hospice. It calls to me.
She calls to me.
I stumble and cry out but
the ocean has made me resolute.
I make my way to the switch
that will end her torment
and begin mine.
Once the words are written down
—you’ll never die alone
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
In cooler time the sun still slept,
The clock stood still, an angel wept,
The covers stirred, then breath no more,
The man was gone, the silence roared,
Now calm the rain this summer's day,
Let hidden light break sodden gray,
Oh, why, we ask do some go, some stay?
Are human hearts built to break away?
Of this, be sure, he'd not have us weep,
Mourn a man who does not sleep,
He's passed the veil, in shining fields,
Smiling joy at mysteries revealed,
This story's beginning had to end,
Hello, before. Now, farewell friend,
Together, here, we loved, we cried,
But stand alone when laughter died,
But what we were will never fade,
What God creates cannot be unmade,
For love, triumphantly, you'll see,
Will be there when you next see me.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
life has left this sterile white garden
bent as a willow, I keen above blossomless beds
grieving those roses that once grew here
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
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