Death – why is it so?

A short poem:

Death fascinates adults worldwide

Hollywood treats death as entertainment

While doctors dedicate their lives to treat sick and injured

Babes, young, middle-aged and old – despite geography – deaths snatches undiscriminating

Why is it so?

 

Unconsciousness replicates sleep.

If we don’t fear sleep or unconsciousness, why fear death?

Death comes in car accidents, cancer, heart disease, stroke and a myriad of ways

Sometimes we expect death, sometimes death smashes and grabs

Why is it so?

 

Do we fear death, unbeknownst to even ourselves?

Hospitals teem with patients, their message falling on deaf ears

Every day is a blessing – do we perceive truth behind the veil?

Humankind exudes intelligence but we cling to bad food

Why is it so?

 

The news portrays death so fleeting, so blasé

Wars, accidents, freak weather and disease

We are horrified … but are we truly affected?

Life must carry on

Why is it so?

 

Sky diving, bungy jumping, walking a tightrope or countless other dangers

Thrills to make life worthwhile

Smudging the line beside death

What is our morbid fascination?

Why is it so?

 

Work consumes and possesses us

A true vampire embracing our lives

We work on the cusp of sickness or death

Our loyalty resolute

Why is it so?

 

I fail to grasp why.

Memoir – An update

My memoir is shaping up nicely. It’s been edited and a friend has proof-read and provided further amendments. Now it’s ready for the eyes of an agent, for I need an agent and can’t self publish because I did years of legal work to appreciate specialists and navigating contracts, front covers, hopefully overseas rights etc is too hard with one finger on my left hand.

Only the agent recommended to me is closed presumably all January, so I’m concentrating on the fiction writing course I’ve enrolled in and my fantasy. I’m not thinking about my memoir for the time being.

A break from the bleakness of Stroke

A short poem I wrote today inspired by a friend:

My mind. Invisible chains encase me imprisoned and alone.
People converse but I croak the barest unintelligible response.
Years of one-sided conversations in my mind.
Desolation and loneliness despite the crowd surrounding me.

My life. Exploded to smithereens by a stroke.
People hug me but I cannot hug back.
Years unable to even kiss.
Unrequited basic human needs rip my heart to shreds.

My body. A lump – concrete in a wheelchair.
People cannot imagine the weight I carry.
Years sleeping on one side.
Crushed to the bed, unable move or share a marital bed.

Our government before. Dollars dictate everything.
I drink but I only drink if a carer is here.
Years of squeezing drinks in a tight budget.
Afternoons alone unable to drink a drop.

Our government now. The dollars unlocked.
People cannot understand the complete abandon I feel.
Years ahead – please let this freedom continue.
The cage opens and sets me free to drink as normal.

I do not know myself.
I love this feeling.

Happy New Year!

I came across a short story I wrote in 2009 and thought I’d share. It was second or something in a Library competition.

The story is inspired by this picture, The Lady of Shallot, J.W. Waterhouse, 1888:

waterhouse

Nino’s Glow

You do not see him the way I do.  You do not know how deeply noble he is.  You cannot see into his soul, not in the way I do.  You do not know him, not in the way I can.

We sit, comfortable and at ease.  My eyes cautiously caress the crisp white collar that peeps over his well-cut suit, drawing me to his clean exposed neck.  I imagine my fingers smoothing his full beard and cigar-thick moustache, my fingernails stroking the line of his strong jaw as I am drawn to his compelling eyes.  I secretly devour the creases between those dark, focused eyes.  There, I see a scabby raw edge, and a softness, that manifests a true path to his rent soul.

Watching him watch me, I can tell he is obsessed with every minute detail.  And yet, he is calm with the passing of time.  Occasionally, his head tilts as he contemplates me.  Always, he gazes at me and absorbs my aura.  Rarely, he meets my eyes.  I am terrified of the moment he will recognise my burning desire.  Sadly, he sees only what he needs to see.

I believe he is one of a kind.  He is the kind of man who is dignified and devout.  He is kind and private and quiet.  He is loved, adored.

He is the man with whom I want to spend the rest of my life.

I watch him and I want him.  I cannot have him.  He is unattainable.  I am not worthy of this timeless man.

I watch his delicate wife as she lightly steps through the garden where we sit.  I am not deceived.  I draw the same level of attention from him as the surrounding shrubbery.  He rarely acknowledges her presence, though I am acutely aware of the way his breathing changes whenever she draws near to him.  His breathing is normal for the duration of my presence.

Honestly, I am humbled to be invited into their lives.  I do not deserve this attention.  I flatter myself.  It is not I who receives attention from him.  It is my face, my figure, my genre.  I am the facilitator of his need.

Lately, I have seen too much of them and it breaks my heart.  The sitting has taken longer than usual.

When the sitting first began, his smile made my heart skip a beat.  Please understand that it was a smile between them.  Not for me.  It had a glow, a glow of anticipation.  Each smile was worth the sharp pain I felt.

There are dark, crushing moments in life that no person deserves.  I was there, the day his glow died.  The day their child died.

Nino, I say to myself, the world may believe you paint a poignant Lady of Shallot.  I know the truth.  I know my heart.  You paint my aching heart.  I ache for you.  I ache for your wife.  I ache for your lost family.