Death in Spring 

I balanced all brought all to mind

The years to come seemed a waste of breath

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death

                (Irish poet, W B Yeats)

As I tend to my garden springing forth new life,

A small voice quiveringly talks to me about spring

And a loud voice ever shrieks to me about death.

I try to nurture that small voice through the pain & strife

I remain my own watchdog ever watchful by stealth

Fielding myself from huge volleys of shocks and cushioning my falls with a zing,

With but some enthusiasm to inflate I ride upon life’s bumpy roads - like a fling.

Just some days back, dark and sinister death came softly to my bounds

And even as I felt my loss, my tears just seemed to hang around.

Numb, everywhere I turned I saw flowers abloom, I felt my dear one was talking to me

My loss I thought was all spread around in flowers for me to see… L

One of my dear bubbles had burst spreading colors everywhere & in the air a self sweet scent

Over all pathways were flowers galore, almost everywhere that I went.

As I spoke in my mind to my lost one and sang lullabies – myself to console

The spring air just kept tossing the day over and the moon kept riding up tall

Whenever I look at the moon, the stars twinkle in my tear- rimmed eyes

I clutch at the air, then let it assail and wonder what all will thus pass me by.

I wrench at the air and agonize till pain gives way to a mere dull ache

If this is a dream and I am asleep, I sure want to be up and awake.

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

…………………………………………………

…………….; any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it “tolls for thee. “

                  John Donn385446_2749360774630_1275906064_3010089_1342257118_n.jpg