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Literature Text
Wind is the safest of keepers
For every gust is a secret
That no one can hear
For every gust is a secret
That no one can hear
Literature
Do Not Ask Me To Remember An Alzheimers Poem
"Do not ask me to remember, Don't try to make me understand, Let me rest and know you're with me, Kiss my cheek and hold my hand. I'm confused beyond your concept, lm sad and sick and lost. All I know is that I need you, To be with me at all cost. Do not lose your patience with me, Do not scold or curse or cry. I can't help the way l'm acting, Can't be different though I try. Just remember that I need you, That the best of me is gone, Please don't fail to stand beside me, Love me 'til my life is done." Owen Darnell, a man whose wife died from Alzheimer's.
Literature
Meeting Again
I remember you. but I also hope that you will remember me too. You’re out there somewhere smiling, crying, having the time of your life. Please don’t forget me. That’s all I ask of you. I don’t want every kind word to be meaningless, to not matter in the end. I love you. Family doesn’t break. No matter what. You are blood to me, the blood of the covenant transcends all bonds. No matter where you go, my heart will be with you and I hope you will carry my spirit whenever you struggle and toil in this life. May we meet again. Note: This was inspired by my niece and nephew (one of them) getting adopted. It's one of those "good for them, bad for me" type of situations. I don't know exactly what will happen and that scares me. I don't know if I and the rest of the family will be able to contact them before 18. It's frustrating and to be honest, a little demoralizing. Due to my grief, I'm writing this book a little out of order. It's a way for me to cope with my situation. For me to move
Literature
working
I wake
in mourning
working
on the end.
each blade of body
greys like cedar
brittles
in their
marrow
the eyes
become
dimensionless
never weep
from their sleep
years
digress
between
sun salutations
the gut
grows
tempestuous
with a cruel child’s
shame
yet god, buddha,
or the last aching
deity
offers up a salve
at our Mass of the Unnamed:
deadnettle
for regret
in the early grave
of March.
You know when you hear the wind whispering, it really is.
You know when a storm rages, and you hear a roar.
It really is there, storms of love, hate and rage, secrets untold, told by the wind.
(lol, my comment in itself almost is a poem...)
You know when a storm rages, and you hear a roar.
It really is there, storms of love, hate and rage, secrets untold, told by the wind.
(lol, my comment in itself almost is a poem...)
© 2008 - 2024 Aborro
Comments11
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This is very interesting. It completely contrasts with the image of wind I have as being very flighty and prone to random tangents, and I love that contrast. 