| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodie ne before us. |
| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodies and spirits. I have considered my own Death on many occasions, and have even made a few attempts at first-hand discovery. As might have been apparent in "Journeys of the Mind--A narrow path to tread," I have experienced periods of profound and unrelenting depression, during which thoughts of Death and dying were constant and tortuous. Ironically, many of what I now consider my best poetic works are a result of those times. The first work on this page, "Epitaph," is what I hope will appear on my memorial plaque some day. The second poem, "Mirrors," is about my grandfather and my feelings regarding the nursing home where he spent his final years. As it happened, I had worked in that same nursing home, and it had a lasting effect on me: it taught me the importance of respect and the inherent value of all people--even those who have been shut away and forgotten. "Peace and Permission" took quite a while to come together; while it is about an old woman's solitary Death, it has a message of hope and self-satisfaction. There is such tragedy in the fact that our society allows its elderly to become "ghosts" even before their Deaths. Finally, the poem "Rest In Peace" is further commentary on our "throw-away" society. It speaks of growing old, the passing of time, and the depreciation of Life and the memories and legacies of those who have gone before us. |
 |
 |
“Tell me about a memory—
even as her sheer-skinned hand rumples lightly around mine. A deeply creased forehead relaxes subtly, foggy gaze fixed on my own. “Close your eyes,” I gently order. “Now, take a slow breath…” We inspire together: me, watching for her cues she, breathing past the misery At last, her eyes close— a welcome drape over agonizing windows. “What’s the best feeling you’ve ever had?” In the somber shadowed room, her face is alit as child-sweet innocence
The sound scrapes over her arid throat. I shake my head: “No.” “Oh, it is…so…” “You remember holding your daughter?” Serenity unveiled. “Oh, yes.” Her wrinkled grasp tightens for a moment then eases. She draws a long breath, not of air, but of life. “You can feel the baby against your chest?” A wider smile. “Hear those little baby coos…sighs… Just breathe with her…” Slowing, deepening, relenting. “And you can smell the talcum powder— that sweet baby smell?” A nod. A grin. “There, then, let her sleep with you. Hold her…and rest.” Perhaps it will be enough; Still another hour before the next morphine. 10 Sept 2004 |
| "Peace and Permission" 2001 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| !!! ALL ORIGINAL WORK ON THIS SITE IS PROTECTED BY UNITED STATES COPYRIGHT LAW. THE AUTHOR/CREATOR RESERVES ALL RIGHTS, AND WORKS MAY NOT BE COPIED, SOLD OR OTHERWISE USED WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF LINDSEYE GREYE !!! |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| Journeys Without Destination |
| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodies and spirits. I have considered my own Death on many occasions, and have even made a few attempts at first-hand discovery. As might have been apparent in "Journeys of the Mind--A narrow path to tread," I have experienced periods of profound and unrelenting depression, during which thoughts of Death and dying were constant and tortuous. Ironically, many of what I now consider my best poetic works are a result of those times. The first work on this page, "Epitaph," is what I hope will appear on my memorial plaque some day. The second poem, "Mirrors," is about my grandfather and my feelings regarding the nursing home where he spent his final years. As it happened, I had worked in that same nursing home, and it had a lasting effect on me: it taught me the importance of respect and the inherent value of all people--even those who have been shut away and forgotten. "Peace and Permission" took quite a while to come together; while it is about an old woman's solitary Death, it has a message of hope and self-satisfaction. There is such tragedy in the fact that our society allows its elderly to become "ghosts" even before their Deaths. Finally, the poem "Rest In Peace" is further commentary on our "throw-away" society. It speaks of growing old, the passing of time, and the depreciation of Life and the memories and legacies of those who have gone before us. |
Peace And Permission
Sallow was the moon on the eve of her death;
skeletal trees spoke not of forebode.
Upon barren Earth, spect’ral leaves gasped and shuddered,
ne’er to betray their secrets untold.
In a shadowy room, grey curtains rustled
like apparitions inviting the wind,
And a door was propp’d open in hopes of a caller
for solace or heed to this end.
On a bed of coarse linens, her gaunt figure lay
with a simple quilt-cover atop.
Her time-weary breast sounded the drone of her heart,
and she prayed for its beating to stop.
Beside her sparse bed, a window half-open,
(threatening the dim lamp nearby)
Allowed in an issue from an ancient oak
that traveled on a winter’s sigh.
The silent intruder found rest on her hand,
and its dry feath’ry load brought a stir—
Sheer eyelids drew back to reveal agate eyes;
a moment passed as vision came to her.
Her once-dexterous hand now trembled and pained
but she held the leaf closer to see it:
She regarded its form, unchanged by demise
and bitter winds assaulting to free it.
She’d seen its like, in the summer now gone,
with life coursing through supple veins;
It had clung to its nurture, as had all before it,
but Life—as its abundance—wanes.
But what’s this at the core of the seeming fossil?
A breast that holds fast its complexion!
‘Though altered by season and wounded by time,
the soul gave up no hue to recession.
So she saw that her own heart had not been discolor’d;
with the leaf, she let go her doubt.
In the shadowy room, grey curtains rustled;
untended, the light was blown out.
Nov94
Sallow was the moon on the eve of her death;
skeletal trees spoke not of forebode.
Upon barren Earth, spect’ral leaves gasped and shuddered,
ne’er to betray their secrets untold.
In a shadowy room, grey curtains rustled
like apparitions inviting the wind,
And a door was propp’d open in hopes of a caller
for solace or heed to this end.
On a bed of coarse linens, her gaunt figure lay
with a simple quilt-cover atop.
Her time-weary breast sounded the drone of her heart,
and she prayed for its beating to stop.
Beside her sparse bed, a window half-open,
(threatening the dim lamp nearby)
Allowed in an issue from an ancient oak
that traveled on a winter’s sigh.
The silent intruder found rest on her hand,
and its dry feath’ry load brought a stir—
Sheer eyelids drew back to reveal agate eyes;
a moment passed as vision came to her.
Her once-dexterous hand now trembled and pained
but she held the leaf closer to see it:
She regarded its form, unchanged by demise
and bitter winds assaulting to free it.
She’d seen its like, in the summer now gone,
with life coursing through supple veins;
It had clung to its nurture, as had all before it,
but Life—as its abundance—wanes.
But what’s this at the core of the seeming fossil?
A breast that holds fast its complexion!
‘Though altered by season and wounded by time,
the soul gave up no hue to recession.
So she saw that her own heart had not been discolor’d;
with the leaf, she let go her doubt.
In the shadowy room, grey curtains rustled;
untended, the light was blown out.
Nov94