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Another poem
Mar. 3rd, 2010 10:46 pmThis one is so very tragic to me. It reminds me of all the marriages I have watched crumble and makes me wonder where things go wrong. The author is unknown but that doesn't make it any less powerful.
The Wall
Their wedding picture mocked them from the table,
These two whose minds no longer touched each other.
They lived with such a heavy barricade between them
That neither battering ram of words
Nor artilleries of touch could break it down.
Somewhere, between the oldest child's first tooth
And the youngest daughter's graduation,
They lost each other.
Throughout the years each slowly unraveled
That tangled ball of string called self,
And as they tugged at stubborn knots,
Each hid his searching from the other.
Sometimes she cried at night and
Begged the whispering darkness to tell her who she was.
Hey lay beside her, snoring like a hibernating bear,
unaware of her winter.
Once, after they had made love,
He wanted to tell her how afraid he was of dying,
But, fearful to show his naked soul,
He spoke instead of the beauty of her breasts.
She took a course on modern art,
Trying to find herself in colors splashed upon a canvas,
Complaining to other women about men who are insensitive.
He climbed into a tomb called "The Office,"
Wrapped his mind in a shroud of paper figures,
And buried himself in customers.
Slowly, the wall between them rose,
Cemented by the mortar of indifference.
One day, reaching out to touch each other,
They found a barrier they could not penetrate,
And recoiling from the coldness of the stone,
Each retreated from the stranger on the other side.
For when love dies, it is not in a moment of angry battle,
Not when fiery bodies lose their heat.
It lies panting, exhausted,
Expiring at the bottom of a wall it could not scale.
GUH it breaks my heart.
The Wall
Their wedding picture mocked them from the table,
These two whose minds no longer touched each other.
They lived with such a heavy barricade between them
That neither battering ram of words
Nor artilleries of touch could break it down.
Somewhere, between the oldest child's first tooth
And the youngest daughter's graduation,
They lost each other.
Throughout the years each slowly unraveled
That tangled ball of string called self,
And as they tugged at stubborn knots,
Each hid his searching from the other.
Sometimes she cried at night and
Begged the whispering darkness to tell her who she was.
Hey lay beside her, snoring like a hibernating bear,
unaware of her winter.
Once, after they had made love,
He wanted to tell her how afraid he was of dying,
But, fearful to show his naked soul,
He spoke instead of the beauty of her breasts.
She took a course on modern art,
Trying to find herself in colors splashed upon a canvas,
Complaining to other women about men who are insensitive.
He climbed into a tomb called "The Office,"
Wrapped his mind in a shroud of paper figures,
And buried himself in customers.
Slowly, the wall between them rose,
Cemented by the mortar of indifference.
One day, reaching out to touch each other,
They found a barrier they could not penetrate,
And recoiling from the coldness of the stone,
Each retreated from the stranger on the other side.
For when love dies, it is not in a moment of angry battle,
Not when fiery bodies lose their heat.
It lies panting, exhausted,
Expiring at the bottom of a wall it could not scale.
GUH it breaks my heart.
Poetry Meme
Mar. 3rd, 2010 09:56 pmI shall join the sheep and post a few poems as I look through some of the ones I have collected in a notebook over the years. This one By Margaret E. Sangster reminds me of a poem I wrote for my grandfather when he died, although hers is much, much better. Yet both are full of regret for things not done, of things we wish we could change.
The Sin Of Omission
It isn't the thing you do;
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flower you might have sent,
Are your haunting ghosts tonight.
The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way,
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were too hurried too much to say.
The loving touch of the hand,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time or thought for
With troubles enough of your own.
The little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind;
Those chances to be helpful
Which everyone may find-
No, it's not the thing you do,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting sun.
The Sin Of Omission
It isn't the thing you do;
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flower you might have sent,
Are your haunting ghosts tonight.
The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way,
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were too hurried too much to say.
The loving touch of the hand,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time or thought for
With troubles enough of your own.
The little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind;
Those chances to be helpful
Which everyone may find-
No, it's not the thing you do,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting sun.
