Your Love Still Sings In Me

Poetry

Life is different now 

It’s quiet and noisy in ways that it wasn’t before

Windows frame stories differently too

Not quite the same comings and goings

Doors shut in strange ways

The kettle boils less

The steady shouts for cups of tea only echo through the kitchen 

I wonder if I drink it more now out of sentimentality  

Still, joy streams through the home

Every so often, sadness wafts in

It’s just part of our life now 

So much the same, but so different without the familiarity of you intermingled

Missed always but in a way always here

In the laughs 

In the fights

In the dreaming

In the hoping

You still stay with me and I know my heart lives because you did

None of this would be without you and in that I know, death is not victorious 

The thief has not stolen everything 

The sting is tempered by how your love still sings in me

If I Should Have Another Life

Family, Poetry

If I should have another life
I would take exams in compassion
I would harden my stomach,
but not my heart,
against the decay of the dying
I would go to university to learn to appreciate diversity
I would stay up all night teaching myself biology so that I would one day know how to treat the
poor
unfortunate
souls
that lay wasting
You see, I have become acquainted with a rare breed of person
The most patient and kind and accepting women
In the back of my mind I knew they were there
Diligently working
Caring for the weak, the broken and the hurting
But I never really thought about the detail of their hearts
The types of souls that dedicate their lives to the daily grind of giving dignity to the dying and call it
a vocation
a calling
a gift of loving
It makes me think about my own daily grind
How I love the strangers in my life
How many times have I walked past eyes that are searching for hope
Not realising or refusing to see
That their hope lives inside of me
In my turning a blind eye I have robbed them of a hand up from the squalor of
lost dreams
lost potential
lost homes
lost family
I didn’t choose to study how to care for the sick, those near death
But I don’t need a degree to be the hope that others need
a simple conversation
a spared few minutes
a sandwich
a warm drink on a winter night
a hug
How hard can it be for us to love the weakest in our communities?
This is what these pillars of strength have taught me as they tend to
the dying men
the dying women
the dying children
That love is a way of living.
There is this strange thing that happens in the last few weeks of life
When you know death is around the corner and your time is nearly up
I’ve seen a man confess love in place of anger
Remember lost moments of joy instead of hate
Connect to strangers in immediate ways
like this moment
this very moment
is the only
thing
that
matters
In those last weeks, every detail that filters in, is turned into sharp relief
The smile of a child
The specks of white in somebody’s eyes
The kindness shown that once would’ve so easily been lost in ungrateful haste
Now strikes your heart like the blow of sweet loves kiss
It strikes me, that if we lived like those live in the final weeks of living
Life would be more magical than the most romantic movie
More adventurous than fictional stories
If we lived like those women who live to care
Our communities would not be dying
So I should not think
If I should have another life!
I have this life to live
Like every moment counts
And every person
worthy
of
love

The Room Opposite

Poetry

Old lady Jane has the bed in which she’s framed
Her chest rises and it falls
Rises and falls
She hardly says a thing at all
“Would you like some food old lady Jane?”
She only stares back from the bed in which she’s framed

Old man Bob has his wife and his clock
Standing up
Sitting down
Wandering around
“Back to bed old man Bob”
As long as he has his wife and his clock

Name on the wall
I never saw you at all
You came that night
You went before dawn
A sign that says “no entrance, visitors report to the nurses station”
You were only a name on the wall, only a name on the wall