Mrs O Day s Dinning Room A Poem On Mental Disturbances Days of Tears Tarnish
Mrs. O'Day's Dinning Room
She's no beginner
In her elaborate sequels
To do herself harm
Suicide or spite
She could fool the best
With her hidden sickness
(passive dependence,
Manic edge, borderline
Schizophrenic -eyes cocked)
Now bobbing back and forth
In an armchair (full of medicine)
Locking the doors behind her
In fear of shadows and the weird.
When she's all there
She's always the new woman;
She used to be, pretty
As pretty can be,
Now fat and aging
Carefully she hammered
Herself out like that...
Slowly, slowly, so men would
Avoid her, leave her be;
She knew she was breakable
Too brittle to live among the
Malice and mad, the crooks
And the deceivers, I say-
Too brittle, as old ceramic.
She now talks shallow
Over the phone, like a mouse
Slowly opening up it jaws
Listening, staring face-
Wondering if she'll be devoured
Before she speaks, or
Dragged under the carpet...
And needing weeks and weeks
To rebound and recuperate?
She most always feels alone.
She even ambushes herself to
Hide inside her apartment
Fending off her fiends and ghosts!
When they're gone, she
joins the world again, in
the patients' dinning room.
#2356 4-20-2008 (Dedicated to dedicated to MS). It is a sad that so many folks who have to deal with mental disorders, but in America anyhow, there are places to go, and medication to take to make it through a life somewhat normal. Alas, for the third world, where I spend much of my time, and have visited asylums, and do not have all these leverages.
Days of Tears and Tarnish
(A poem on grieving, death and renewal)
Days of tears and tarnish
Often hidden
Behind one's days of youth and charm
They came to you, you know
Like two water drops
Made into one, so long ago,
then one dies
And the other looks out the
Windowsill...
No glory descends
As the world turns
(and turns and turns)
We just go back to
Living our life (after grieving):
Waiting for the mailman,
Paying taxes and bills
Feeding the fire to keep warm
(in the cold Minnesota chill);
Poised as a hushed rose
Remembering
All those years...
And the first water drops
From your eyes
That turned into one!
#2357/4-20-2008 (This poem is dedicated to an old neighborhood friend, Dave Meyers, died March 23, 2008, at the age of 64, from cancer-a quite sort of man, married to my high school friend Nancy, for 44-years).
Source: http://ezinearticles.com/
Added: April 25, 2008
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