i wish for you
i wish for you
that every day could be
sunshine and lollipops
balloons and fun rides
i wish for you
that all the hurts
would be booboos
healed with kisses and bandaids
i wish for you
the sun and moon and stars
and if you want
i'll wish you rainbows too
i wish for you
that everyone you meet
will love you
as i do
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
some days
somedays i just want to stay in the warm, warm bed
the sheets smelling like my husband
the comfort of the blankets embracing me
long after he has left for work
somedays i just want to leave the dishes sitting
crusted with the remains of the meal
silent testimonial that i did cook dinner tonight
long after the food has been consumed
somedays i just want to leave the laundry sitting
piled on the floor or draped over the chair
quiet proof that i did get out of bed today
long after the alarm started buzzing
the sheets smelling like my husband
the comfort of the blankets embracing me
long after he has left for work
somedays i just want to leave the dishes sitting
crusted with the remains of the meal
silent testimonial that i did cook dinner tonight
long after the food has been consumed
somedays i just want to leave the laundry sitting
piled on the floor or draped over the chair
quiet proof that i did get out of bed today
long after the alarm started buzzing
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Manic Monday/ Poetry Train
my father had altzheimer's for many years before his death. this is a short poem describing the experience from my point of view.
The Killing Frost
It crept across the mind
Freezing the synapses,
Killing the memory
Like frost on the open field
Ruining the plants
Leaving a wasteland behind.
And so, what made the man,
The interests, the intelligence,
Was gone, as if it never were,
The body an empty shell
After the mind was stripped clean
Leaving a wasteland behind.
The Killing Frost
It crept across the mind
Freezing the synapses,
Killing the memory
Like frost on the open field
Ruining the plants
Leaving a wasteland behind.
And so, what made the man,
The interests, the intelligence,
Was gone, as if it never were,
The body an empty shell
After the mind was stripped clean
Leaving a wasteland behind.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
What book are you?
so i took this quiz lol
You're Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're
actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their
assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they
build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd
be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Sigh.......
I got a phone call yesterday, the kind you hate to get, full of bad news and leaving you pretty much wanting to curl in a ball and cry.
I know a wonderful young man, BJ, who is eight years old, and blind as a result of a cancerous brain tumor present at birth. It's an extremely rare condition, as you can imagine. Several months ago, during his regular exam, they discovered that the brain tumor, which had been dormant for five years, had begun to grow. The decision was made to leave it alone for the time being, and monitor it closely. This was in part because the diagnosis came the same week of BJ's father's death from pancreatic cancer.
Now, however, it seems that the cancer has returned. The phone call I received yesterday was from my friend Karen, who is BJ's braillist at school. She says that he will be receiving two rounds of chemo, and has already begun the first round. They are apparently going to be very aggressive in treatment.
BJ is a bright, energetic nine year old boy who charms everyone he meets. He is one of the most loving, friendly, adorable kids I've ever known. I know that his prognosis is not a foregone conclusion, but I can't help imagining the possibilities.
I can only hope that his family have the strength left, after everything else they've gone through recently, to handle everything that will be coming their way.
I know a wonderful young man, BJ, who is eight years old, and blind as a result of a cancerous brain tumor present at birth. It's an extremely rare condition, as you can imagine. Several months ago, during his regular exam, they discovered that the brain tumor, which had been dormant for five years, had begun to grow. The decision was made to leave it alone for the time being, and monitor it closely. This was in part because the diagnosis came the same week of BJ's father's death from pancreatic cancer.
Now, however, it seems that the cancer has returned. The phone call I received yesterday was from my friend Karen, who is BJ's braillist at school. She says that he will be receiving two rounds of chemo, and has already begun the first round. They are apparently going to be very aggressive in treatment.
BJ is a bright, energetic nine year old boy who charms everyone he meets. He is one of the most loving, friendly, adorable kids I've ever known. I know that his prognosis is not a foregone conclusion, but I can't help imagining the possibilities.
I can only hope that his family have the strength left, after everything else they've gone through recently, to handle everything that will be coming their way.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Poetry Train
Fear
Insidious, it beats against me,
Drawing me into its darkness.
Against all rational thought-
The realities cannot survive the imagination.
It crawls through my consciousness
Pulsing through my bloodstream
A tingling in my hands and feet
Centering in my chest, a weight against my heart
Even as I know it is nothing but fear;
The worst I can imagine,
Not really happening,
Just swirling like the thickest fog
Sucking me in
Making me doubt myself and that I know to be truth.
Insidious, it beats against me,
Drawing me into its darkness.
Against all rational thought-
The realities cannot survive the imagination.
It crawls through my consciousness
Pulsing through my bloodstream
A tingling in my hands and feet
Centering in my chest, a weight against my heart
Even as I know it is nothing but fear;
The worst I can imagine,
Not really happening,
Just swirling like the thickest fog
Sucking me in
Making me doubt myself and that I know to be truth.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Poetry Train
i'm sort of wussing out, and instead of making my brain work on a new poem, i'm posting a portion of a WIP.
Nightingales (working title)
Patrick had spent the afternoon wandering the small town of Wayne’s Trace. He’d found a decent motel and a quaint little diner to eat his dinner. To kill some more time, he’d nursed a last cup of coffee until the sun was near to setting. Perhaps he should’ve passed on the caffeine, as his nerves were pulled taught. He was pretty sure that if he looked, he’d find a fine tremor in his hands. Instead, he concentrated on the winding road that led him back to Nightingale Farms.
As he pulled into the lane, he admired the farm. The fences were obviously well mended, and the buildings he saw were also well-maintained. There were several horses in various paddocks as he made his way toward the house. Patrick once again was struck by the oddity of this innocent looking white clapboard house being the home of a vampire. The well-maintained grounds and well-kept landscaping seemed to belie the nature of its occupant. Of course, having never met a vampire before, who was he to judge?
He pulled the truck into the spot he’d occupied earlier. The place seemed deserted. Even the barn, which had been bustling with activity earlier, was quiet now. Patrick got out of the truck, unsure of where he should go. Then he saw the woman he’s spoken with standing on the wide porch surrounding the house. He moved toward her.
As he came up the steps, she smiled. “I wasn’t sure if you’d return. I didn’t even introduce myself when you were here. I’m Mia Moore.” She held out one small, seemingly delicate hand. As he grasped it, he realized how much strength she had hidden in her small, trim body.
“I’m Patrick Finnerty. It’s a pleasure.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Finnerty.”
“Please, call me Patrick.” How ordinary this all was.
Mia gestured toward the furniture grouped in front of the large picture window. “So, Patrick, would you care to tell me why you’re here?”
Patrick settled in a rocking chair. He took a deep breath, listening for a moment to the sounds of the farm settling for the coming night.
“I met a woman in Florida, Jeannette. She’s a voodoo priestess. I was consulting her on a cure for my wife.” Mia’s eyes seemed to draw the truth from him. It sounded so silly, searching a cure from a voodoo priestess. Surely no rational being would do that?
Mia watched him quietly, waiting for him to continue.
“Barbara, my wife, has Alzheimer’s. I’ve taken her to the best doctors I could find. And…there’s really nothing that can be done. Well, we’ve done everything that’s available, but none of it really works. It doesn’t stop the damn disease.” He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. He stared at them for a moment, wondering when they’d become the hands of an old man. He was….how old? Oh, God…was his memory going too? Sixty-two…you’re sixty two you old fool. God only knew, he felt much older. This endless quest had taken its toll on him.
Nightingales (working title)
Patrick had spent the afternoon wandering the small town of Wayne’s Trace. He’d found a decent motel and a quaint little diner to eat his dinner. To kill some more time, he’d nursed a last cup of coffee until the sun was near to setting. Perhaps he should’ve passed on the caffeine, as his nerves were pulled taught. He was pretty sure that if he looked, he’d find a fine tremor in his hands. Instead, he concentrated on the winding road that led him back to Nightingale Farms.
As he pulled into the lane, he admired the farm. The fences were obviously well mended, and the buildings he saw were also well-maintained. There were several horses in various paddocks as he made his way toward the house. Patrick once again was struck by the oddity of this innocent looking white clapboard house being the home of a vampire. The well-maintained grounds and well-kept landscaping seemed to belie the nature of its occupant. Of course, having never met a vampire before, who was he to judge?
He pulled the truck into the spot he’d occupied earlier. The place seemed deserted. Even the barn, which had been bustling with activity earlier, was quiet now. Patrick got out of the truck, unsure of where he should go. Then he saw the woman he’s spoken with standing on the wide porch surrounding the house. He moved toward her.
As he came up the steps, she smiled. “I wasn’t sure if you’d return. I didn’t even introduce myself when you were here. I’m Mia Moore.” She held out one small, seemingly delicate hand. As he grasped it, he realized how much strength she had hidden in her small, trim body.
“I’m Patrick Finnerty. It’s a pleasure.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Finnerty.”
“Please, call me Patrick.” How ordinary this all was.
Mia gestured toward the furniture grouped in front of the large picture window. “So, Patrick, would you care to tell me why you’re here?”
Patrick settled in a rocking chair. He took a deep breath, listening for a moment to the sounds of the farm settling for the coming night.
“I met a woman in Florida, Jeannette. She’s a voodoo priestess. I was consulting her on a cure for my wife.” Mia’s eyes seemed to draw the truth from him. It sounded so silly, searching a cure from a voodoo priestess. Surely no rational being would do that?
Mia watched him quietly, waiting for him to continue.
“Barbara, my wife, has Alzheimer’s. I’ve taken her to the best doctors I could find. And…there’s really nothing that can be done. Well, we’ve done everything that’s available, but none of it really works. It doesn’t stop the damn disease.” He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. He stared at them for a moment, wondering when they’d become the hands of an old man. He was….how old? Oh, God…was his memory going too? Sixty-two…you’re sixty two you old fool. God only knew, he felt much older. This endless quest had taken its toll on him.
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