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shard.

30 Aug

What a remarkable thing.Screen Shot 2015-08-30 at 9.54.05 AM
Thankful for a shard.
Feeling them all week in these
neuropathic chemo
feet.
Invisible shards
deep
unrelenting
daggers

tormenting
sleep stealing
walk stopping
ungripable
unpullable
unstoppable.

So how surprisingly marvelous

to step
to feel one
again
but to actually see
blood.
O exquisite pleasure!
Finally here be one
gripable
pullable
stoppable.

Neuropathic chemo
fingers
grappling with a shard
that can finally be
touched
gripped
removed
to the sounds of reverberating
laughter!

Never thought I’d be so
thankful
for a shard.

images

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4 Comments

Posted by on August 30, 2015 in Poetry

 

Tags: , , , ,

4 responses to “shard.

  1. Gina Deeming, Discovery Coach

    August 30, 2015 at 5:39 pm

    The wound
    is the place
    where the light
    enters you.

    -Rumi

     
  2. wordhaver

    August 30, 2015 at 5:45 pm

    YES! It’s an undeniable principle of life. And how I hate it…

     
  3. Patrick Gray

    August 31, 2015 at 9:56 pm

    [I tried to send this comment a couple of days ago, but my email system doesn’t show that it went anywhere. This is my second try (with a couple of typos corrected!)]
    *****
    I want you to know that I’m always impressed by the messages, prose, and poetry in your blog. You have touched me with your choices. I’ve been reading it since your entry on Tolkien, and have recommended it to others.

    I was born in Ohio, raised as a Christian, and have been baptized twice: once as an infant by sprinkling, and later by full immersion (as a teenager, by conscious choice). Since then—I am now 69—my beliefs have evolved. While I am no longer convinced of the absolute divinity of God and Jesus, I remain convinced that the words of Jesus contain the best guidance for humanity. About divinity, I still search for the truth, daily, and I suspect that it will finally come to me when I need it. I believe that necessity drives the universe. Universal necessity? Perhaps divine necessity? I remain open and searching.

    Are you familiar with Tagore? If not, I would like to recommend him to you. Not many Americans seem to know much about him. I ask because many of your words remind me of his works. I don’t mean that your beliefs are the same, but I would say that you seem to share, at least in part, a spiritual kinship. I hope that he touches you, as you have touched others.

    Here is a sampling:

    Rabindranath Tagore was a Bengali polymath who reshaped Bengali literature, music, art, and education. In 1913, he became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Unfortunately, he remains largely unknown outside India.

    FOUR QUOTES:
    Do not say, ‘It is morning,’ and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name.
    Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.
    I have become my own version of an optimist. If I can’t make it through one door, I’ll go through another door – or I’ll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.
    He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

    TWO POEMS:

    WHERE THE MIND IS WITHOUT FEAR:
    Where the mind is without fear and the head held high;
    Where knowledge is free;
    Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
    Where words come out from the depth of truth;
    Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
    Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
    Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;
    Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

    THE SOURCE:
    The sleep that flits on baby’s eyes-does anybody know from where
    it comes? Yes, there is a rumor that it has its dwelling where,
    in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with
    glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it
    comes to kiss baby’s eyes.
    The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps-does
    anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumor that a young
    pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn
    cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning,
    the smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps.
    The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs-does
    anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was
    a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent
    mystery of love-the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on
    baby’s limbs.

     
  4. wordhaver

    September 1, 2015 at 4:55 am

    Thanks, Patrick! Actually seeing both comment posts now. So glad what I write is finding traction within. Thanks for the heads up on Tagore and for the samplings. GOOD STUFF. Blessings to you in your journey!

     

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