What Are You Thinking
• 03/18/24 at 03:22PM •What are you thinking,
about your God above?
Don't be too sad, for you,
may be falling in Love.
What are you thinking,
about your God above?
Don't be too sad, for you,
may be falling in Love.
This is a reprint of what I wrote to my wife when,
she had been officially diagnosed with Dementia but was
moving towards Alzheimer disease. It continued until she passed,
on December 24, 2023.
My love for you
grows stronger
each and every day.
Our conversations
become harder
as your memory
slips away.
I say I love you
and you say the same
but when we
wake tomorrow
will you still know
my name?
My fear has been realized.
Your warm breath,
moist and scented
with peppermint
and last nights wine,
slips past my ear.
My cheek, pressed
tightly to your breast
feels the muted beat
of your inner life.
I dare not sleep
for if I do
when I awake
I'll not find you,
beside me.
You will be gone
from out my sight
and simply vanished
in darkest night,
while I slept.
Here we are,
same place,
same time,
Life's embrace.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Public domain
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright. Millay was a renowned social figure and noted feminist in New York City during the Roaring Twenties and beyond. She wrote much of her prose and hackwork verse under the pseudonym Nancy Boyd. Millay won the 1923 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for her poem "Ballad of the Harp-Weaver"; she was the first woman and second person to win the award. In 1943, Millay was awarded the Frost Medal for her lifetime contribution to American poetry.
A Winter Feeling
Winter's mantle,
frozen crystal,
icy twigs,
encrusted grass.
Leaves, lying
beneath skeletal
trees, flaunting
their nakedness.
Starry diamonds
reflecting light
from a frozen pond.
Written for my beloved, 01/2018
If you were not of this world,
I would worship you.
You are the star that guides me
through lonely day and night.
You are the light that turns
the dark into bright.
You are inspiration in my quest above.
You are my everything,
you are my love.
A re-issue
Take my hand and lead me
to the place that angels dwell,
among the pines and fern groves,
where wild flowers tell,
of their existence and their presence.
Walk with me, beside the water,
hear the sound of a bubbling brook,
let the scents and sounds surround you
and be sure to take a look.
Can you see the color? Can you hear
the sound?
Can you see the love that shines,
when you are around?
Do you know my name, or does it
really matter?
Will I remember or forget,
engaged in idle chatter
or will you leave me alone?
Just plain drinking, 6 years ago
Let me sip the nectar
From a hundred silver cups.
Let me taste, the honey,
Produced by all the Bees.
Let me live today, like
Tomorrow will never come.
After I have lived and loved,
With no remorse or sorrow,
Perhaps the love I've shared
Will bring a new tomorrow,
With many a bright beginning,
For in loving, you will find,
Another day for more giving.
Written for My Beloved, 6 years ago.
Softly, so very softly,
I say your name
to faceless people
and no one listens.
Alone, in a darkened room,
sits a unhappy man,
surrounded by his frustrations,
lying at his feet.
Rising above this state of mind,
seeing beauty, as it's meant to be,
talking, loving, touching people
with his life.
He becomes a better person, through loving
and by saying,
"Softly, so very softly,
I say your name,
to faceless people
and no one listens,"
except for me.
Over the course,
of a life, so lost.
What happens now,
was it worth the cost?
An old friend of mine,
is back on the scene.
The darkness, my old friend,
Is back to see me once again.
That is good, a promise kept,
As it's been awhile since I slept.
Tired I am, there is no doubt,
That depression will cry and shout,
To gain a hold in this life of mine.
Fear not for my thoughts entwine,
With love, for all I know
That keeps this aged soul aglow.