Healing Moment

I am sitting on the kitchen floor;
I have fallen again.
You are oblivious,
upstairs in the shower
singing your heart out.

The dog walks over to me,
covers me from head to toe
in healing spit;
I stroke his head,
turn my thoughts and

ask if he remembers when
we used to run in the field,
how he carried sticks far too wide to
fit through the gap in the hedge
so we walked the long way round.
The days I threw the ball and
he sat there looking at me,
embarrassed, it seemed,
that I could do something so silly.
His soft paw prints on frosted grass,
my footprints, solid, healthy, firm.

We have come a long way together
over the years, the dog and I;
friendship, understanding, trust, love,
and healing –
yes, much healing.

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Sonnet

I long for what I can no longer be,
strong limbs that move and never question how.
I long for who I can no longer see,
the one who disappeared and left me now
to tread life’s path a very different way;
a stranger in a world that I once knew
where land and sky just seem to fall away
and raging, rolling seas, my soul imbrue.
Until a shaft of light somewhere appears
and lulls the tempest to soft whispered waves
that ripple on the shore, allaying fears
restoring peace and hope my spirit craves.
The sun, the moon, the earth now realigned,
and I am who I thought I’d left behind.

Glenda’s Response

My dear friend Glenda hasnt, as yet, started a blog so she asked me if I would post her response to my poem for her, here on mine. So here is is below; I feel very emotional every time I read it; it is beautiful.

The Friendship Experience by Glenda Brown

We gradually flake off each other’s layers,
my friend and I, well understand the nature
of the black beast we are both wrangling,

spinning in the void that is helplessness; yet
we daub ourselves in our burgeoning spring,
create poetic garlands, flow with destined words,

sometimes filch the busy sun’s ancient warmth;
we are impish children, unable to feel remorse
at being nabbed with mature hearts and minds

in the cosmic cookie jar, detecting liquid gleam,
as if some gnarled, beneficent blacksmith in his
workaday forge were creating the history of gold.