THE VISIT
I visit my mother, my twice weekly duty,
And listen to worries and small discontentment's,
In her box of a room where she's full of resentments;
"My savings are going, the meals are too bland." And I hold her hand.
Her gaze flicks distractedly from wall to wall,
"Will you dust? I'm sorry for making a fuss."
And I dutifully do the needless chores,
And look with longing out of doors.
I visit my mother and rush past the others,
The vacant-eyed residents slumped round the telly;
The fretful whining from Connie and Dolly
"Don't sit there, that's MY chair!"
Oh God help us all.
And Mum's eyes brim with fear for the thought,
That she might Need the commode for the third time that night.
And I sit and I stare And crave the fresh air.
Carole
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LIFE
Life scares the ..... out of me,
Events that intrude on my dreams,
The glowering shape of a tree,
The thought that divorce sets you free,
The knowledge that others might see,
That I'm coming apart at the seams;
That despite efforts, I'll never be,
The recipient of love's gentle themes.
Life's but a game for the brave,
For those with the strength and the wit,
But not for the cowards that crave,
For their terrors and wishes to save.
Their entrance for some other knave,
Through whose life they could harmlessly flit,
While, quivering, I gladly gave,
The effort of life up to it.
Carole
Copyright (c) |
