A vigil by the bed of one near death. . .
A visitor,
I sit by night and day
unmoved to pen a loving word
no more the Muse its lightning thrusts
of inspiration cast my woeful way
while waiting, watching,
nothing left
of hope, of comfort –
nothing right to say
to ease the anguish,
relieve the constant pain
of dying – not a chance to start again
armed with the choice
to choose another way.
A visitor,
I sit by sunny day by dismal night,
while Mother lies upon her bed
the only one left living still
all brothers, sisters, long since dead
though living still inside her head
confused –
where right is left and left is right,
where here is there
and never is today – until
just yesterday refused
to disappear
into another year.
For ninety years, she sowed her seeds –
no dreams fulfilled but hopeful still
that someday soon – one day they will
reward her for her loving words and deeds.
They didn't.
Here lies her battered bones, her quaking frame,
held loosely by the folds of wrinkled shell,
the purple skin, protruding joints,
the hairless spots as well
where once flowed glowing locks,
where rounded nails
have grown grey jagged points,
this agony on earth,
these waning moments left on earth
not heaven but her hell.
My pen lies dormant
nothing left to say –
just sit,
and watch
night turn to day
and back again,
tranquil, placid vigil
over weeping eyes
with empty stare
tears trickling, tumbling
through chasms of each bony cheek
once flushed with vibrance
now crushed with aged erosion,
lips cracked thin lines of grey,
her heaving chest slow moving
as clear plastic tubes feed air
and saline fluids – morphine flow
to make her passing easier to go.
She turned her head
her reddened eyes unwiped
by crumbling claws
and spoke with broken word-like sounds
that rumbled to my ears
"You know –
I love you, Son –
and always – will –
no matter –
if I live – or die?
Come closer – dear. . ."
(forgetting it was she who couldn't hear)
then stopped, exhaling just a sigh.
I watched her many moments more
awaiting long her words of love,
as Mothers always know;
but, she was silent,
still, asleep –
as sightless as before,
and I had hope her soul would keep
her longer here
to share the smile that she wore.
For now, her weeping eyes are dry –
and mine? Still watchful, wet,
but calm, serene, her sentry, here,
to watch, to wait, and wonder why
we all fear what our fate has set
for now, tomorrow, or another year.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 1186 times
Written on 2007-01-13 at 19:36
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By the Bedside, Weeping
A visitor,
I sit by night and day
unmoved to pen a loving word
no more the Muse its lightning thrusts
of inspiration cast my woeful way
while waiting, watching,
nothing left
of hope, of comfort –
nothing right to say
to ease the anguish,
relieve the constant pain
of dying – not a chance to start again
armed with the choice
to choose another way.
A visitor,
I sit by sunny day by dismal night,
while Mother lies upon her bed
the only one left living still
all brothers, sisters, long since dead
though living still inside her head
confused –
where right is left and left is right,
where here is there
and never is today – until
just yesterday refused
to disappear
into another year.
For ninety years, she sowed her seeds –
no dreams fulfilled but hopeful still
that someday soon – one day they will
reward her for her loving words and deeds.
They didn't.
Here lies her battered bones, her quaking frame,
held loosely by the folds of wrinkled shell,
the purple skin, protruding joints,
the hairless spots as well
where once flowed glowing locks,
where rounded nails
have grown grey jagged points,
this agony on earth,
these waning moments left on earth
not heaven but her hell.
My pen lies dormant
nothing left to say –
just sit,
and watch
night turn to day
and back again,
tranquil, placid vigil
over weeping eyes
with empty stare
tears trickling, tumbling
through chasms of each bony cheek
once flushed with vibrance
now crushed with aged erosion,
lips cracked thin lines of grey,
her heaving chest slow moving
as clear plastic tubes feed air
and saline fluids – morphine flow
to make her passing easier to go.
She turned her head
her reddened eyes unwiped
by crumbling claws
and spoke with broken word-like sounds
that rumbled to my ears
"You know –
I love you, Son –
and always – will –
no matter –
if I live – or die?
Come closer – dear. . ."
(forgetting it was she who couldn't hear)
then stopped, exhaling just a sigh.
I watched her many moments more
awaiting long her words of love,
as Mothers always know;
but, she was silent,
still, asleep –
as sightless as before,
and I had hope her soul would keep
her longer here
to share the smile that she wore.
For now, her weeping eyes are dry –
and mine? Still watchful, wet,
but calm, serene, her sentry, here,
to watch, to wait, and wonder why
we all fear what our fate has set
for now, tomorrow, or another year.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 1186 times
Written on 2007-01-13 at 19:36
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Zoya Zaidi |
