Long Steady as she goes Poems
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Floating in vacuum,
morphine intravenous supplied,
pain deadened,
she lies dormant, oblivious to all,
thoughts suppressed,
unfeeling and benumbed
in the emergency cubicle.
Her husband holds her hand,
icy, like winter at its worst.
She moans, eyes flutter,
only to fall asleep again.
Anesthetized she finds rest.
Monitors bleep to rhythm,
steady as she goes just like
a sailing boat on rough seas.
She will survive.
Husband bewildered.
A human vegetable?
Oh no the expert says.
She will be fine.
The husband dials a number,
talks softly not to disturb.
There will be no divorce,
it's best that they give up
and do not meet again.
The woman on the bed groans.
Is that a smile on her lips?
The path of life is criss-crossed
with many intersections:
A fork in the road forces you
to choose a diversion:
Ahead Left or
Ahead right.
A T-junction has a Stop Sign.
Look Right, Look Left,
No way forward,
Choose one or the other.
The U turn offers a way back
to unwind and retrace.
The Detour is a diversion,
a time-out for reflection.
The Slip Road offers a way
into, or out of, the rat race.
At a Cross Road there are three choices:
Left, Right, or then again:
Straight Ahead,
Steady as she goes.
The Overpass is a cop out,
dodging the Cross Road decision.
I love an empty page, pristine and fresh,
Creating life, from its sanitized death,
Gently depress the pen, unto its silky sheet,
Hand rests comfortable, on the surface beneath.
Ink tentatively starts to flow, filling in blank space,
Blood pressure rises slightly, stepping up the pace,
Steady as she goes, the first line appears,
Pausing for a second, sensing evolution here.
Moving along, poem’s nicely taking shape,
Writing looks well, just one little mistake,
Don’t get annoyed, easily fixed, right as rain,
Concentration’s intact, no need to complain.
Getting good vibes, though only halfway down,
Paper’s responding, as my scribe resounds,
Talking back at me, synchronized together,
Losing track of time, moments seem forever.
Engrossed with my work, mind starts to roam,
Must stay focused, for fear I’ll bemoan,
All appears fine, fluency pours from within,
Stanza’s won’t stop coming, hope this ones a win.
Hard to believe, already on the final verse,
Just enough room, to bring it home, I observe,
Finishing with a flourish, hitting the punchline,
Page seems happy, it’s new home is my rhyme.
By
David Kavanagh