Saturday, 26 January 2013

McNally's

like
a warm blanket
McNally's
envelopes
and
innoculates
from the iceberg
that is winterpeg

cup of tea
chair
bookshelves
procession of poets

everything
about her
is beautiful
close my eyes
her recitation
caresses
she is
more beautiful

serenity of
browsing books
lifted to a
peaceful rapture
lyrical chants of
celtic folk singer
as i lurk
in the shelves
just outside

tears
as this moment
is a salve
on the
festering sores
of  an
open mind

hug
from
my son's
former girlfriend's
mother
awkward
and yet not
she too
is soothed
mellowed
by the
warm blanket

thinking
about dad
thinking
about italian banker's
and
powers of attorney
he doesn't know me now
did he ever?

thinking
about letters
criticism
complaint
accusations
threats
withdrawal
where is
the warm blanket
that is the church?

why does
this communion
of bookstore strangers
feel more
accepting
calming
contented
than
my own people?

glancing around
at the
comforting
shelves of books
self-conscious
and
embarrassed

lifted
temporarily
from the
darkness
I reach for
"The Mindful Way through Depression"

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Elder Care

Dad got the letter
yesterday
a lifetime
of driving ends
his car has always been
his pride & joy
and there's ever less
pride & joy
in a journey
of dementia
now there's talk of
respite
and daycare
power of attorney
even the unthinkable
intolerable thought
of panelling
it's a bitter journey
robbing the golden years
of the affection
and tenderness
of a well aged
marriage
the joy of
great grandchildren
a sad
and muted
christmas

Monday, 19 November 2012

Who am I?

Who am I?
They often tell me I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I?
They often tell me I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?
Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once?
A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I?
They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine!

 D. Bonhoeffer March 4,1946