Poetry

POETRY SECTION COMING SOON...

Intimations of mortality …

by Ron Graves.

This is the way we go on.

One day at a time, one meal at a time, one pain at a time.

We turn away from all our fear, for to acknowledge it would be to imbue it with certainty.

We eschew our demons, denying them lest, in their reality, they destroy us.

But they are us, and may not be denied with impunity but, still, we try, we try.

We do not turn, as the hollow footsteps near, echoing down time’s passages, or at the distant swish of scythe, ever closer, as if, by our disregard, they will become unreal.

Who knows, perhaps they will?

For now…

Ron Graves.

by Ron Graves.

There are only so many tears you can cry
’Til your heart stops breaking

So many nights, without sleep
’Til the dawn’s pale waking

So much hurt to be borne
As the sun mounts the sky

Will the burden this day
Prove so hard that you die?

Would you live for tomorrow?
Your heart soar like a dove

If the chance came along
Could you live, would you love?

If the chance came your way
Could you seize it with glee?

Give it all that you can
And say F*** you, ME ...

Ron Graves.

by Daliany Kersh.

My house is my prison: I have M.E.
I see no-one and no-one sees me
For most of my time I'm stuck in my bed.
My company's my Mum and the thoughts in my head.

Eight years I've lost; but how many more?
My loss is so devastating, how much more to endure?
Exhaustion and pain stop movement and walk
Sometimes I'm so weak, I can't lift a fork!

When people do phone and I'm not too weak
I have a quick word while I'm able to speak.
But that rarely happens; it’s not every week
They seem to think I play hide-and-seek.

They witter on about their lives, don't ask ME how I feel,
I'm not asking for much, it is such a big deal?
I ask them about themselves, I do the "right" thing,
And as for empathy, they don't know where to begin.

I was only sixteen when ME brought me strife,
Before this, I had loads of friends and a great social life.
But when they learned my life was such a bore,
They severed our friendships as if with a saw.

Without my mother, what on earth would I do?
She's my cook, cleaner, confidante and best friend too.
She washes my hair, brings a tray with my meal
And puts up with my illness, is that a fair deal?

Rare times I feel better, for a bit I can play,
When all ‘s said and done, it’s not every day.
Despite this I remain positive, I’m like a sun-ray.
Self-pity and depression, I keep far away.

The why and the how, no doctor can see
But I know that I've got it; it's inside of me.
They're scrimping on research, but one day
They'll find us a cure, or so they say.

How long is this sentence?
That - no one can tell.
All other prisoners alone in their cell
Can tick off the days until they'll be well!

My Present’s a nightmare, and my Future’s on hold.
I believe I'll recover one day, so I'm told.
My house is my prison; there is no key.
My sentence began when I first got M.E.

Daliany Kersh.

I used to have a life. I never was a sprinter,
not even as a child, but yet I had a life.
I trained as a dancer, and worked to pay my way;
and later on I went off and danced upon the stage.

Then I got married, and had a bunch of children,
One, two, three; and, still only 21,
I did the things that mothers do, cleaned the house,
the school run, helped my husband with his work,
went to church, taught sunday School, camping with the kids.
Life was very busy.

I took my dogs for long walks up into the hills,
and life was hard but, nonetheless,
I coped as much as anyone and maybe more than some,
and never did I guess, not even for a minute,
that one day soon my life would end, well, life as I knew it.

Who could have known a bout of flu, or something very like it,
would lay me so low? Would take away my freedom,
and leave me a prisoner of this too solid flesh?
To be reduced to this! A dessicated vegetable
too weak to hold a cup of tea, too tired to even think.

I went to the doctor, and he of course looked cynical,
Well, I was a woman. And middle aged at that.
I must be depressed. Or better yet, neurotic.
And ever since I¹ve done the rounds
of blood tests, ³Are you depressed?²
³No², I try to tell them.

I went to University and got a good degree.
Does this sound like depression? I rather think not.
And only exhaustion made me give up
on my longed for PhD.

But still and yet they ask me boringly, repeatedly,
³Are you depressed?²
No, I¹m frustrated, I need to get a life!
My body won¹t allow me to do the things I want to do,
to walk and dance and sing, oh how I long to sing!
I want to dance the night away just like I used to do,
or even go out walking, or take a holiday.

Instead I watch TV, and chat to people on the net
and, quietly and unobserved, go out of my mind.

Christine Stromberg
September 2001


As I lie here on my bed
I wonder what the future holds;
resting gets so boring
when even reading wears you out.

I have a radio of course though
interference ruins it.
When sorrows come they come not
single spies but in battalions.

Just getting up to feed the cat
is something of a challenge.
That it should come to this...

Imagine climbing Everest,
that should give you some idea.
A horse! A horse! My Kingdom for a horse!

Then back upstairs to bed
and back to boring nothingness;
to die, to sleep;
to sleep, perchance to dream...

Later on I'll go online and chat or write a bit.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
This world wide web is such a boon.
I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.

Christine Stromberg
© 2003


They say that my brain is turning to mush
or more acurately, Swiss cheese,
with gaps appearing all over the place
and scarring too, if you please.
And now they're discovering something else,
my genes misbehave as well.
Maybe they went though the washing machine
on the hot wash cycle from hell.

Neurologically speaking I'm all messed up,
immunilogically too,
and my poor old mitochondria -
don't ask - I haven't a clue.
This morning I found that, while I could write,
my speech had taken a dive;
I had to keep stopping as words disappeared
and I went into overdrive.

Right now I'm forgetting the alphabet,
it's crazy, but there it is;
my hands are working ok for once
but my mind is all in a tizz.
So how can I make up poems at all
in such a dreadful mess?
I'm beginning to think they write themselves.
And they do it with such finesse!

Christine Stromberg
© 2004


Character building they call it,
the struggle to survive,
when every day you're battling
just to stay alive.

When you really need that cuppa
and your body won't respond
and you've nobody to lend a hand
and you've lost your magic wand

what character does it take to cope
that you haven't already got?
Do I really need it building up
or should I just be shot?

Put me out of my misery;
you'd do it for a horse,
but human life is sanctified
and dignified. Of course!

When my legs decline to function
and I've stairs to navigate
I'm reduced to going on all fours.
It works, but isn't great.

I was made to be bipedal,
the arms are just too short;
it's ok going up I guess
but down is rather fraught.

So then I lurch from step to step
hoping as I go
that I won't fall headlong down the lot,
for nobody would know.

Character? Who needs it?
I've character enough.
What I need is a slave or two.
Not PC? Well, tough!

Christine Stromberg
© 2004


For nigh on twenty years now
I've watched this awful thing
whittling my life away,
draining me of zing.

I lie, limp and languishing,
upon my bed each day
as time, once abundant,
slips seamlessly away.

Perhaps I should capitulate
with a modicum of grace,
give up this pointless struggle,
take up my allotted place.

Dreams will be unfulfilled,
fears realised
but, cursed from the very first,
I can't say I'm surprised.

Grey skies glower down,
bare trees brood,
all is dark and sombre,
echoing my mood.

Fate, have your way with me,
I've no more strength to fight;
I'll follow unresisting
into endless night.

Christine Stromberg
© 2005


Waking as a beached whale
I slowly, imperceptably,
transform myself into a seal
but still barely move at all,
battling with gravity.

Every inch of me pulsates,
harmonising with my heart
as, dry-mouthed, I
think my thoughts
and wait
for the tide.

Christine Stromberg

© 2006

To be free

by Kelly Stowe

Why is it so hard to explain? This dark feeling I feel deep inside, the tears come when I’m alone and no one is by my side

Can anyone help me? I live in hope, some days the hope fades when I’m struggling to cope

Will anyone ever understand me fully these days I live in fear, how long will it carry on a day? a week? a year?

If only I knew why I was so worried, feeling as if no one cares, I know that’s untrue but when I feel blue, I can’t think straight and I am scared

The anger builds up, the tears start to flow taken over by paranoia and fright no way out, no energy left too weak to put up a fight

I hope someone will save me but how long will it be? I just want to feel save again enjoy life and be me

Want to feel loved, not a care in the world to be free from the darkness the pain and the cold

No more blame, guilt or tears, no more judging, insecurities or fears.

I wish the day will come soon fill me with happiness and let it bloom

Oh to be free, to be free and be me.

Kelly Stowe