The wind is dancing
loud, rhythmic
pressing
against my windows
night twirling
out of control
until the sun breaks
and my world
is filled with
debris
brittle leaves
forgotten bits
of refuse
promises
broken and damaged
unrecognisable
Tomorrow
never comes
but if you stop
and listen
to the night
swirl around you
it ceases to matter
22 February 2020
My body
has turned
tyrant
I have
forgotten
how to listen
how to see
The dawn chorus
used to slip between
the cracks
of my resistance
until hope
became
a beating heart
Now
the silence
is impenetrable
While my body
rants and raves
at the unfairness
at the insistence
that each tiny
movement
each birth
of an idea
must be
accompanied
by pain
by impossibilities
It is 3 am
I am trying
to teach myself
how to listen again
even as my hip
begins to spasm
The birds
will come soon
I’m trying to be ready
23 December 2019
Sussex Coast
Like a gate that never opens
or one the never closes
or one banging in the wind
squeaking on one rusty hinge
My mind is not mine
just a bit of flotsam
lost to the irrational
forces of nature
or is it nurture?
I listen for your song
on the wind
weather storms
and still silences
hanging
on one rusty hinge.
Quality of Life is a recurring theme in my appointments with cancer doctors. Some people’s bodies and minds adjust quite well. Some don’t. I’m in the latter category. They remind me of the myriad of preexisting conditions and traumas my body had experienced before cancer and the trauma of treatment. Apparently my body is tired and a bit worn out.
I woke up in the middle of the night in pain and overcome by nausea and that sinking feeling knowing I wouldn’t fall asleep again and the exhaustion of trying to accept the realities of my new post cancer life.
Sometimes I think it would be better if there was no before for comparison. Sometimes I wonder if surviving cancer is the right thing, the kind thing. I am trying to find something I can do with these last years and my lack of mobility. I think I would like to be a student again. I loved college. I was good at being a student. So maybe my hobby will be learning.
Sorry. Rambling thoughts. I didn’t sleep. My head hurts. That phantom place where the incision was made hurts. Damaged nerves. Damaged lives.
Blessings.
New poetry I’m reading. I had to look up Erato. I had forgotten. She was one of the Greek Goddesses, the muse of erotic poetry and mime.
I was reading a novel but it failed to hold my attention. So now I’m sliding down the rabbit hole into poetry.
