Long Hospice Poems
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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
My sister had a clean bill of health
on her return from Egypt
took a turn for the worse,in three months
from a cheerleading choreogragher
To a bed ridden, gaunt cancer patient
she fought and fought without a murmer
until her fight did succomb
my mother,best friend and pillow of strength
We recieved a call from the hospice
a drastic change from the night before
family called from miles around
in my view,poor lass held on
For us all to gather around her bedside
as she took her final straw like breath
slipped away,out of pain
each leaning forward, our kisses goodbye.
Diagnosed July Called to rest, October. 2008
My last hour . Rest peacefully Shirley
SPONSOR .Robb A. Kopp
Title . " MY LAST HOUR " Paul Beadnall 20/7/11
There's a hospice for sick children, in the woods by where I live
and many times I wonder, just what I wouldn't give
to hear those small kids laugh, and play again.
It was just two Christmases ago, I woke up in the cold
to see my dog had died, he was very very old.
But that year, Christmas didn't come at all.
We put his ashes in the woods, 'neath the big old Maple Tree,
told my boy, his dog was chasing rabbits, wild and free,
and deep inside, I knew that it was true.
Last Christmas Eve I saw the funeral hearse, drive to the home
to collect some poor mother's child, and put them the loam.
Then I heard the leaves rustle in the woods.
And, in that quietest of nights, as I lay there in the dark,
I heard the children's laughter, and a low happy bark.
My old dog is in the wood; playing catch.
Was professor of astronomy, ah those heady days
Studied fields in cosmology, including solar rays
Observed galaxies all my life, seeking exotic events
Ironically happens now, as my death’s dispensed
By dour hospice window, seeds a suffusion of light
Not dazzling, quite fuzzy, discernibly white
Shallow luminosity, enters my departing room
‘Twas pitch black this night, no forecast moon’
Growing in intensity, colours turn purple green
Must be an invasion, of extraterrestrial aliens
Hope they finish me fast, this final stage is slow
Then the fireworks start, whole world’s set aglow
Heaven’s have ruptured, no raindrops seen
Cataclysmic silent eruption, yet everywhere serene
It’s not possible, unconscionable, too far south
Only a gamma ray burst, could bring this about
A possible hypernova, just light years away
Hits Earth’s magnetic field, in a mega-aurora display
Iridescent photons, avalanche over me
My teardrops fluoresce, through the apertures of agony
Hypnotic warmth, released from cold light
My woes are assuaged, God this feels so nice
Semiconscious state, accruing spiritual bliss
“So this is how life ends, amid ethereal fine mist.”
Nurses are praying, down on their knees
Speaking foreign languages, at wonderment they see
Some fear the apocalypse, whilst others run about
I hum Cohen’s Hallelujah, but these words spill out
#O come purge my mind, cover woes
Give back the life, that I forgo
Help me bear this weight, won’t ya
Blind darkness, annihilate fate
Finish suffering, show your face
Unleash the love, they call Gods grace!
#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#
Pyrotechnics are over, now quiescently asleep
Drowning no longer, in pillow soaked weep
Greeting my parents, bereaving my family
As I enter a tunnel, leaving the apertures of agony.
Originally written 02/18/21
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
11/06/22
I will build an art center for those who like to play
Hope to have it finished by next April or May
Will invite youth and others who are merry and gay.
Will throw out contenders who are bullies like Ray.
Will give hospice nurses ten thousand dollars each
letting them redesign the hospital rooms in fuchsia or peach
also handing them five thousand just to have in their hand
will give six thousand dollars to the high school band.
Will give teachers who follow the golden rule twenty thou.
And purchase 4-H youth a pig, chicken, horse, mule or cow.
yes, I mean each one in the state, why not?
this money was gravy, not honestly sought.
My children will be whining, so I will toss them a bone.
Twenty-thousand each year, if they stay in their home.
And share the wealth with others, less fortunate than them.
Then I will buy a comfy chair for my Uncle Jim.
I like my car, and my husband likes his.
So changing vehicles is not part of this biz.
We love dogs so much, I might go back to the pound.
And bring home a poodle, Pekinese, collie, Rottweiler and hound.
We will end up with an orphanage for dogs and wayward moms.
There will be restraining orders for nasty Freds, Dicks and Toms.
A lot of the money will go to my bodyguard crew.
Who will guard us all nightly, and they will benefit too.
III
Once a pilgrim bound for a distant land
Was standing at the parting of three ways,
He asked a crone which, the right hand,
The left or middle way led before day’s
End to the hospice lying in the vale.
“The middle path,” said she,” yon poplar tree
Marks its entrance.” Along that trail
He walked with haste, while yet was time to see.
Scarce a brook was crossed than darkness fell
And blotted out the red dusk’s ember glow.
He heard aghast a tolling distant bell,
Moved not by hand, but as the wind did blow.
O'er dry sticks his wandering feet did tread
And he did feel dead leaves caress his head.
II
At forty a man is like a pyramid.
His four decades have lent him some solidity.
Both east and west he faces with facility,
Being neither young nor old. Married,
With children, a house and the ability
To be squarely based on terra firma
And convinced his life is – despite that murmur
About taxes, the crime rate, and the mess
Government or unions have us in – not pointless.
He’s proud for seeing things from every side,
By summer's heat, by winter's cold, well-tried.
He builds in blocks of hard square stone,
And moon by moon pays back his mortgage loan,
Freeholding Pharaoh, immobile with lands tied.
I
Babe new-born, aspersed in blood and water,
Eyes dazzled by the first light ever seen.
From one a half, and from a half a quarter,
Division cuts with scalpel fine and keen.
One breath, the hour-glass is upended,
The first pure grains pass through its orifice.
Time, you Saturn! What art e'er mended
Ills sown within the bed of life? A kiss,
A mother’s joy escapes the roll-scribe’s glare.
His eyes peer through his glasses crystal-clear,
Who takes each entry down and makes his figures square.
Who renders tribute in the coin of fear?
Or shall the hand that once has turned the glass
Not turn again when sands have ceased to pass?
No, it isn't what you think
when I say I was enraptured
by the look in her eyes--
the eyes were those of a woman
who was dying and knew she
was dying....
I did not know her well--
she was the wife of someone
my wife worked with in the
prosaic world, the world of time
and schedules and appointments,
the world of taxes and getting
and spending and eating and
sleeping and making love (for
the lucky ones), a world filled
with the nightly news and TV
and a relentless social media,
a world that both commands
and ignores--but not the world
this woman was soon to leave
for, an unique voyage she must
take all alone: somehow she knew
this as she lay small and quiet
in her hospice bed--
past speaking any more,
not even to her old husband.
But though quiet as a mouse
or a saint, yet she smiled, at
all in the room it seemed,
though when I went in turn
to say my good-bye to this
near-stranger, I thought,
'She's smiling at me!' and
then I thought--
'She looks happy!'--
but how can that be
I wondered...until her eyes
gleamed with a light I have
never seen before in human
eyes--it was her soul I knew
that knew, and her soul had
no fear, death being less than
air, less than nothing to it--
her soul was ready.
[posted 4/29/21]
Mom in teardrop
Memories on cheek
A moment in movie
Moving emotion
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
I need those tearjerkers
I need to feel the past
Not merely leave it
All behind
My mom’s not in the ashes
She’s in my heart’s cache
Dreams and reality mix
A cross upon my mother’s chest
Have I left that room
I have room left for joy and sorrow
An elixir I drink during the holidays
f
o
r
w
a
r
d
Dad’s legs move him
Once again in someone else’s car
He goes where he doesn’t want to
But he’s still glad to be with family
Is he still back in hospice
Waiting for Mom
To die
To kiss her one last time
To collect her rings
Which he pleasured to give her
When he proposed and married her
Did I tell you, he proposed on the railroad tracks?
It’s Christmas Eve
Time stops us in our tracks
A baby born, a Son executed, our hope
Our
h
o
p
e
My mom’s middle name
THINKING OF YOU MARILYN PELLEGREN OUR PATHS CROSSED AND I CAN'T HELP BUT FEEL SO BLESSED WE MET THE MANY TALKS ABOUT RAISING FAMILIES CHILDREN MARRIAGE FORD MOTOR COMPANIES AND THE GARMENT DISTRICT WOW THE BALANCE OF YOUR LOSS LOSING TWO CHILDREN TO THIS DREADFUL DISEASE SO MANY ON WAITING LIST FOR DONORS OTHERS GOING THROUGH END OF LIFE STAGES IN HOSPICE I AM STILL TOUCHED BY THE CONTRIBUTION IN LIEU SO MANY FLOWERS WONDERFUL CONTRIBUTIONS FROM FORT MYERS THAT CONTINUE TO POUR IN SENT TO THE CHILDRENS LEUKEMIA FOUNDATION IN MICHIGAN IN MEMORY OF YOU SUCH A WONDERFUL BLESSING REST IN PARADISE SWEETIE NO MORE PAIN AND SUFFERING REALIZING JUST CAN'T SAY THE SAME FOR DONALD DANGLING ONTO THE MIDST OF MY PERFUME REEKING HAVOC TOTALLY OBSSESSED WITH MY AMERICAN POETRY IS COMPLETELY STRESSFUL BUT GOD IS GOOD WE MUST BELIEVE THAT SOME DAY HE WILL JOIN YOU AND THE BOYS SUCH A PAINFUL LIFE SUFFERING AN ILLNESS YET FILLED WITH GREED AND MALICE SHOCKING TO FIND HIM HERE IN SOME TWISTED VENDETTA RIGHT AMAZING CAUSE I ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE DIED BEFORE YOU AND THEN I LEARN HE'S STILL AMONG US REEKING HAVOC MUST BE THE ILLNESS BRAIN MATTER CANCER STRICKENED HOW HE'S ABLE TO SEND THREATS IS TRULY IN A LEAGUE OF ITS OWN MY PRAYERS ARE WITH HIM WALKING THIS EARTH SENDING THREATS TARGETING MY AMERICAN POETRY WITH MY IDENTITY THIEVES IMPERSONATING ME ACTUALLY CASHING ANNUITY PAYMENTS ON MY BEHALF DEEP SADNESS I TRULY THOUGHT HE WAS A KIND PERSON OUTSIDE OF BEING A RETIRED HITMAN FROM DETROIT HE SEEMED KIND INTERESTED IN MY GRANDFATHER IN ROME DESPERATE USUNG ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS FROM JAMAICA MEXICO TO MAKE FRAUDULENT IDENTIFICATION CARDS YES DONALD REALLY LOST ALL OF HIS MORAL COMPUS THE THING IS HE CAN NEVER EVER EXTORT MY LIFE MY AMERICAN POETRY SO HE HIDES BEHIND TERRORIST SENDING THREATS SLAMMING ON BREAKS FLIPPING FORD TRUCKS IN FLORIDA I CRING ALMOST AS HE BOAST ON PAST WHY WHY WHY REALLY WHY NOT HE LOST EVERYTHING FAKING HIS DEATH LIVE AMONG VENEZUALAN IMMIGRANTS FUNDING THE WOMANS PRISON WISEGUYS SHOPPING FOR MAIDSTHIS SADDENS ME MOST SIMPLY BECAUSE I AM AN FBI CONFIDENTIAL SOURCE A DOMESTIC VIOLENCE VICTIM BEING EXPOSED BY THIS TERROR WISEGUYS FAKING THEIR DEATHS THREATENING DISABLED POETS IN AMERICA AN YET I FEEL SORRY FOR SUCH AN EMPTY SOUL TRULY ONE THING FOR SURE YOU WERE ABSOLUTLY RIGHT ABOUT HIM GOD BLESS YOU
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