I was concerned about posting this poem, but it is a reflection of how a person can feel when their body is totally dependent but their mind is still very active.  The desire to really LIVE is still there, but the ability to do so is not.  Here is the poem:


If only
I could be
What you want me to be
If only
i could cry
If only
I could tell you how I really feel
If only
My pain was acceptable to you
If only
I didn’t have to
Keep up the false front
If only I could say
“I want to die
Because I cannot live
But really
I want to live
But my body will not let me”
My mind is still there
Alert as ever
I am aware
Aware of everything
I want to taste of everything
But all that I can taste
Is the bitter pill
Of pain
And dependency


I met Him while down on the ground,
We both spoke the same language,
It was the language of hearts,
Not the language of power
Where hearts have turned to stone,
It was a language of tears.

The world despises tears,
As it pushes us onto the ground,
But we are not like stone,
Pain and hurt forms our language,
Tears form their own power,
The power to heal hearts.

We all have sacred hearts,
When we can cry tears,
Not from a position of power,
But from way down on the ground,
It’s a universal language,
When our hearts are not stone.

It’s easier to be stone,
Nothing touches our hearts,
We speak our own language,
We cannot cry tears,
Unless we fall on the ground,
Losing all our power.

It’s frightening to lose our power,
To be kicked, like a stone,
Pushed further r onto the ground,
By many hardened hearts,
Come, cry with us your tears,
Come and speak our language.

For you it is a new language,
Now you’ve given up your power,
You may be frightened by your tears,
Now you haven’t a heart of stone,
Together, let’s join our hearts,
As we both lie on the ground.

When we’re on the ground we lose our power,
Our language can’t come from hearts of stone,
But from hearts empowered by tears.

#FOWC. Wistful. Snowy Memories


FOWC with Fandango — Wistful

“This house is a bloody mess,” Shelley yelled at Mick.

Mick was in his usual position, sitting in his recliner chair with his laptop on his knees, engrossed in his various forums. Beside him were plates that he had had various snacks on, and mugs that had once had coffee in. Shelley was furious. There was so much clutter in the rather small room that Mick had adopted as his own, that she could not even walk through it safely to remove the offending objects.

In her fury, Shelley retired to the bedroom where she started going through the drawers underneath the television set. She had forgotten that the photographs were there. As she looked at them she felt exceedingly WISTFUL. There was their old house. Small but beautiful. Well, in her eyes anyway. At the end of the road were trees and behind them the wonderful hills that she used to climb with her dogs. Though you couldn’t see them, there were lakes as well.

In her mind, Shelley went back to that place, remembering all her escapades there. She had known some real characters. Life had never been dull. In particular she remembered the snow. You could go out in the afternoon, travel just a few miles, then return to the small town where they lived, to find yourself cut off by the snow. Then, you had to park your car and walk the rest of the way home. Shelley shivered as she remembered, suddenly not feeling so wistful. Outside, the sun was shining. She made her way out into the garden, and thanked her lucky stars that she no longer had to face the rugiurs of winter in that place. She would never be cut off again.


Blackbirds are black
Violets are purple
I will wear purple today
Edged with black
Singing a melancholy song
On my darkened path
Pausing by the wooden seat
Where once you showed me bright flowers
Wild with delight
Waving in the breeze
And now you wave goodbye
With the same wildness
Mad as ever you were
But brightly coloured
Today I will wear purple like the violet
Giving fragrance by the wooden seat
Edged with black
Fragrance of death