HURT

Hurt permeates our lives

Physically through injuries or chronic conditions,

Verbally with words of shame, bigotry or taunting,

And emotionally through death or loss.

I can’t understand why people delight in hurting others.

I know they must be in pain themselves

But does it really make them feel better to belittle another,

To rake their souls as easily as they would rake their skin?

 

POEM: SAMANTHA II

Samantha had a special place in my heart, not just because we were together for 22 years, but because she was very special – and I brought her halfway across the country.  She liked to travel with me – by train or plane or car – as long as she could be with me, she put up with the rigors of travel.

SAMANTHA I

That cosy ball of fur curled up beside me
Twitches slightly in a dream
What kind of dreams do cats have, I wonder?
Chasing mice? Pouncing on toys? Eating catnip?
Or is she dreaming impossible dreams?
Wondering what it would be like
To soar like a bird, scamper like a mouse,
Or dart here and there like a dragonfly?
Could it be she’s dreaming of the kittens
She’s never had nor never will?
Or what life would be like with someone else?
Who can tell what dreams a cat has?
Who will ever know?
But when I move, she opens one eye
And purrs when I pet her,
Seemingly content with the life she lives.

SAMANTHA II

Soft tread of furry paws
Lightly touching the floor,
A faint ring from the bell around her neck,
Then a questioning ‘mrreoow’
As she looks for me,
Even before going to her food dishes.

Always she wants to be near me,
Following me around the house,
More like a dog than a cat,
Then indignant if I trip over her.

Her long silky tabby-striped hair
Needs to be brushed every day,
And she purrs as I hold her on my lap;
Unlike nail-clipping time,
Which started out as a war
For the first few years,
When I had to be covered from head to toe,
Including thick suede gloves.
But as she grew older, she mellowed,
Until it is quick and painless for both of us.

Round green eyes look into mine
And she winks at me.

This is Samantha, whom I taught to sit
In both of Canada’s official languages.
Samantha, who always reacted
To the fridge door being opened,
Right up to the end.
Samantha, who comforted me whenever I cried,
Even if it was because she was sick.
Samantha, who at 21, struggled
To return to health after a stroke and succeeded.
Samantha, who at 22, looked at me
With those round green eyes
And asked me to let her go
And I did.

POEM: THE GAME

This was another of our group writing challenges.  I don’t remember what words we had to use except for black hole.

THE GAME

In 1492, Columbus may have sailed the ocean blue,
But in 2540, Devreker thought he might be late
For his game of gerfen on his date.
Martissa was getting over the flu
And was quite restless with lots to do
That she’d put off while she was sick
But a game of gerfen was her pick.
How could Devreker say no to that
When Martissa’s wishes made her cat
Purr like her mistress – loud and tuneful –
And made the heavens bright and moonfull.

The object of this game, you see,
Was to hit a planet around the course
By computer only, not by horse.
Nine planets there were, since Pluto came back,
And getting them anywhere took a great whack
Of courage and momentum, which led to the winner,
But it was worth it for the prize dinner
Of gargantuan portions – winner’s choice –
And enough libation to make you rejoice.

Only once had Devreker scored big at this game
But it was enough to present his name
As the only android to score a with a splat
A hole in one – a black hole at that!

X marks the spot where the game begins
And nobody stops playing until somebody wins
By getting a planet in each of nine holes
Using a stick and very long poles.
One can play on one’s own
Or with others on their phones
By computer or mind to mind
Whatever is easiest to find
Is how the game can be played
As long as the scores can be made.
Days it can take for all players to go
Taking turns with each planet and so
When a game ends it ends with a bang
With whistles and cheers and all the bells rang.

POEM: DRAGONFLY

DRAGONFLY

Dragonfly darting in the summer dusk,
Flashes of brilliant blue.
A miniature helicopter
Gone wild and out of control.
Zooming and diving over the heads of my cats,
Swooping towards them to tease,
Then soaring high out of reach and sight,
Luminescent wings beating madly.

GRIEF – Part 1

Some of my writing is very personal – especially ones I’ve written about death. This is a poem I wrote after my mother died which I entered in international poetry contest and for which I won an Honourable Mention.

TEARS

Tears,
Wet, salty,
Running down my face,
Silently, leaving red eyes,
Puffy.

Some people can cry quietly,
Delicately, even daintily.

Not me.
Even as a child,
Just being close to tears
Would leave my cheeks red & blotchy,
My eyes swollen,
My nose plugged up.

I cry easily over little things –
An ad on TV, a family reuniting,
A lost cat –
But other times I hold the tears in
Until finally they gush out in a torrent
Of unstoppable weeping,
Loud sobs wracking my body until I am exhausted.

I cried for several days for each of my cats –
Miss Molly who was killed by a car,
Matilda who was killed by a racoon,
and most of all for my oldest cat, Samantha.
I cried when I made the decision
To have her put to sleep,
And I cried until she died in my arms.
Sometimes I still cry for the loss
Of my twenty-two year companion.

After my mother’s memorial service,
I didn’t cry for her for three years.
Not until my favourite uncle,
My mother’s youngest brother,
Also died of cancer.

Then one night, I was listening
To my tape of Les Miserables
Before I went to sleep.
When Fantine sang her death song,
I started to cry and couldn’t stop.

I cried for the loss of my mother,
For the loss of my uncle,
For the grandchildren my mother
Would never see.
I cried for my loneliness and fear
That I would always be alone,
Never having someone to share my joy and pain with.

In my dreams I would shout angrily
At my mother,
Going through all the aspects of grieving
That I did not – and could not –
Allow myself to do while she was dying.

During that time, she told me I was her rock,
The one person who would not fall apart on her.
And I fulfilled my purpose,
Sharing intimate moments
In the darkness of the night.
Not true darkness, for it is never truly dark
In a hospital,
And never truly quiet.

There are always noises to be heard,
Some identifiable –
The soft padding as a nurse walks by,
The squeaky wheel on the meds tray,
The ding of a patient’s call button,
The muted ringing of the phone at the nurses’ station.

Then there are the unidentified noises –
Strange creaks and groans,
Swishes, thumps and bangs,
As I lay on the narrow cot,
Trying not to move,
Trying not to make my own noise –
That loud crackling of the plastic cover
On the hospital’s mattress pad –
While I lay awake,
Trying not to think
Of what life would be like when this was over,
And succeeding only because it was
The only option.