What I Thought Was Mine

Today as I walk

toward hope of a clearer truth,

the one that all the books say is the best,

I will still rail against this pernicious disease

and go nowhere gently

because I am who I am.

I shall do mindful moments and meditate,

emerge feeling free –

for a while at least

assured that this is the way

because we all know that

now is all we have.

But beneath all,

I will silently seethe and shout

while I pointlessly crave my old life

as every day that passes it seems

a little more of what I thought was mine

is taken away.

Still Time

Today has a different feel to it.
It’s warm enough to open the doors
 and I watch the sun
play a game with spring
though I think winter
is just on a coffee break.
Are the green shoots being fooled
or am I?
They poke through the soil and grass
and talk about life starting over.
Maybe  it’s not too late for me;
maybe there is still time.

NOW

Now

Life changed when
illness arrived;
it seemed like
I had stalled,
quite out of the blue
in the middle of a busy road,
traffic all around me,
this way and that,
impatient, hurried.
And a black cloud of sadness
overwhelmed me;
a total eclipse.

Until I realised where I was.
it was simple;
I was right here in the now,
where clouds will never look the same again,
and with all the time I wanted just to be;
to rejoice in the depth of animal eyes
and be swept off my feet by the
colour of a bird’s tail.
Freedom, and a second chance
to notice all I had missed.

 

 

 

 

While Life Goes On All Around Me

It’s seven thirty, they’ve started early,
churn political expertise around in a rusty
cement mixer till it is smooth, creamy
and set into a new south faced existence.

Weary face in a timeworn van pulls up,
pours calcium into brittle bones of
daily life, his own rattled by plastic
progress; business is dead.

Lone jogger pads daily ritual to
crescendo, as a brisk breeze edges
its sharpness through the open window.

And here comes Boy Racer, dead on cue;
screeches to a tedious halt,
picks up his friend in the white shirt
with no tie.
They say he’s the clever one, Boy Racer,
can park his car on a postage stamp,

which makes me think about my life and
how, it seems, most of it fits onto a
stamp these days,
a small, watery blue one, second class,
lost in the post.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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