Tag Archives: death and dying

OLD CLASSMATE LUNCHEON

Time used to slip away.

Now it skips.

Soon, it will run.

From first grade through high school and beyond,

the bond with old classmates remains strong.

Their faces are still young, to me.

My heart carries the fraught memory

of times spent side-by-side,

as life pushed us away on its tide.

We carry their presence within us with pride.

The me no one ever knew resides in each of us openly now.

I marvel at the person we once hid inside.

Today, we rush ahead of reunion,

meeting for lunch and soulful communion.

Our thoughts and actions have become bolder

as each of us grew older,

except for those who sped ahead.

We honor the lives of those now dead.

We celebrate with impunity

those still part of our hearts’ community.

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Filed under FAMILY STORIES, POETRY

KEEP BREATHING

Acrylic on canvass painted by Louise Annarino
upon hearing results of 2016 election in USA.

Chains of cool air 

strung like loose beads on thread

rattle unsteadily 

within lungs too tight

to move out the breath

aching to leave

a heavy chest,

weighted down 

by tears of regret.

In the first stage of grief

I am angry,

so angry,

my country is dead.

Who will grieve with me?

Those watching reality TV?

Those betting on games?

Those still seeking fame?

Those paralyzed by fear?

Those who only hold dear

their latest triumph over others?

Worn-out working single mothers?

Frustrated youth, anxiously hopeless?

Fired civil servants abandoned, feeling useless?

There are tears enough for us all.

But, too few who will cry out loud.

The screams must be released, you see,

that we may again breathe free.

Breathe out, damn lungs, despite the pain

Only then can we breathe freedom in again.

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Filed under POETRY, POLITICS

LAST BREATH

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

What is the period of mourning

when a nation dies before our eyes?

Not in sudden cardiac arrest,

not like a slow cancer.

nor a natural aging

of its body politic.

But, like a chronic illness

which has worsened over time,

sometimes in remission

allowing hope to remain alive.

But, when death’s grip pries

the life from every cell

which protected a nation from demise

and its heartbeats accelerate

at a far too barbaric rate,

what then? How can hope survive

when our national freedom dies?

The violence, the bombs, the rubbled ruin 

comes after the next election, I fear. 

The election may save us from loss

of freedom, but at a cost.

Like Ukraine, we can take a nation back

by electing constitutional, loyal leaders

and set our enemies off to the side.

Like Ukraine, our enemies will regroup

and ferociously and physically attack

what they could not seize by stealth.

They will never let go of power and wealth

which we allowed them to take during this

DOGE-dealing, Heritage Foundation steal.

Courts may save us for a time.

But, be prepared.Everything is on the line.

And the mourning is ever-ceasing

for those who see the fate

of a nation which for too-long

embraced its power and its wealth, 

and allowed itself to hate.

Slavery was our original sin and set the stage

for all the other hate and division

that has led to this time of fear and outrage.

How long is the mourning period for such a loss?

It has been my entire life; yet, my hope has endured.

But, my body senses death at my nation’s door.

And, I fear I simply cannot take it anymore.

What is the end to this period of mourning?

Every cell in the body politic is warning

that this nation, our beloved nation

may be close to its last breath.

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SELF-CUTTING

Photo by Kelly on Pexels.com

It appears my country is bleeding out

from wounds cut both shallow and deep.

Blood flows from old wounds reopened.

Those hurt the worst, do not doubt.

We see patterns of hate where cuts scar.

MAGA rubs the body politic until it burns.

It wears long sleeves to clothe and hide

the wounds of Project 2025.

Our collective guilt has finally won out.

Cutters inhabit the White House

screaming fake rage and fake news

that makes great TV 

but leaves the world crying to see

the death of a once-great democracy.

Stop the bleeding we beg and plead.

Staunch the flow, lower those hands

cutting so eagerly 

to destroy the place we once felt safe,

if not perfectly, at least happily, free.

Cutters cannot stop themselves.

It is up to you and me.

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HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Hospital stays are never pretty.

Patients surrounded by the dark and gritty

effort to save sinew and bone

and beating hearts wavering, so alone.

A constant metallic beep and buzz replaces

the sound of family and friends at home,

with laughing hearts and loving faces.

Grim falsity becomes another unknown,

where workers hurry to keep apace

while patients solemnly lie abed

filled with worry and becalmed dread

of what the next test will indicate

the next test to affirm the threat.

The test itself is no gift of nature,

but a torture device to be endured.

Patients find distaste and abhor

the endless infusion of poisonous brews

meant to enlighten the darkest space

within the sublime mystery of anatomy.

The test itself darkens the soul 

desperately trying to stay whole.

Patients share their common litany

when nurses and aides walk out the door,

“ Just leave me be. Please, leave me be!

I cannot take this anymore.”

Good wishes and good intent well-meant

is not enough to meet patients’ wishes

to truly be seen for who they are.

But to see a person builds connections

which too often may break, despite intentions

to save that life hanging in the balance

and wrench away the peace of mind required

to cut an incision or suture a wound

of a real person and not just a body of flesh.

What more can anyone expect or be desired?

Health care soon becomes mired

in benign neglect, or outright disdain

for any patient who might complain

of treatment that robs one’s dignity

with the sacred promise of impunity

clothed in false smiles pasted on hurt faces.

The real issue seems to me

that we can never forget our common humanity.

That patients and medical personnel are both trying

to do their best to heal a body which is always dying.

Bodies begin to die from the moment they are born.

No time to waste as we embrace each morn.

The stakes are so high we often forget

the needs of the living-ill must still be met.

Gratitude only carries patients so far.

Hopefully, out the door and home once more.

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AVOIDANCE

Photo by Liza Summer on Pexels.com

All I want

is to avoid 

my own thoughts

lately clothed in fear

so pronounced 

they bring me to tears.

It finally must be said

anger fades to grief

when death brazenly nears.

Watching a beloved die,

clutching the hand,

wiping the brow,

for perhaps the last time

applies to nations.

I watch my beloved country

whose solemn vow

has always been protect and defend

all those living within

the boundaries of an idea in place

to open freedom’s gates

to all equally, within its small space.

I hold my nation’s heart and soul

with trembling hands 

and shortened breath.

In painful realization

that so many countrymen

in this amazing nation

fear not, nor mourn with me

the loss of our democracy.

Friends and family alike

smirk and snarl in true delight

the unleashed dogs of fear and fright

which rip apart all we have built

without a trace of grief nor guilt.

They break my heart

as they tear our world apart.

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ODE TO AUNT MILLIE

Carmela “Millie” Guinta 11-15-28 – 11-22-23

The world seems empty now,

solemn and still as a sacred vow.

The light which glanced from face to face

whenever her bright presence graced

gatherings of family and friends

joined like prayer beads end-to-end,

with voices raised in unbroken rhythm

which began like prayer and ended in hymn.

Such music we made as she led the chorus.

All she did, she willingly did for us.

How blessed we have been to have her near

for so many days of her ninety-five years.

The world now seems a colder place.

Yet, she still surrounds us with her warm grace.

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AGING SPACES

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Somewhere along the way

the package I carried has been mislaid.

Since I did not notice it missing until today

its importance has made little impact, I’d say.

The years rolled by day-after-day.

space where the package once stayed

grew dusty with age.

Until the day, where nothing could stop the rage

of loneliness filling page-after-page;

searching for communion with those not my age.

Old connections are no longer stable and sure

as death knocks at too many old friends’ doors.

That space covered in dust reminds me anew

of those friends I mislaid as loneliness grew.

Seeking youth and more life is nothing new.

But, I know this to be true.

Old friends can never be replaced.

Their faces remain. They occupy my space.

Their love for me is my only pride.

Dead or alive they fill every space inside

where memory and love will always abide.

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