Eyes fogged by cataracts of dust and grime
Rusted tears of neglected shame.
Those you’ve sheltered stolen by time
No one left to recall your master’s name.
Those skillful hands that built your shell, now rest beneath the soil.
Yet cursed with an extended life, you’re forced to endure each era alone.
Generations came and went, until the day that final breath came in toil.
The final master was carried away, and hence forth, you’ve been silent as a stone.
They gathered round your flaming hearth, to sing, laugh, and love
Stockings hung on Christmas past, enticing children to behave.
Can you still hear them, ancient one? Into your structure are those memories wove?
What of the one who wore this brace? To its support, was he a slave?
Swiftly swept – no say have we; For time’s torrent waits not for thee. Youth flows post-haste – Looks will flee. The soul remains for eternity.
Love is all – the rest’s fool’s gold. Guard thy tongue and don’t let it scold. Warm thy heart’s core – Don’t grow cold. For Heaven awaits with joys untold.
I wrote a poem that brings out some of own experiences with anxiety. Though it may not work for everyone, I’m often able to stop some of the anxious/ negative thoughts from developing into by switching to thoughts of gratitude. (I have nothing against tigers)
I usually write more positive and upbeat posts, however, this is not one of them. I’ve decided to share an issue that has haunted me for a number of years. No, I’m not looking for sympathy, not my style, but I wish to create an awareness of a condition that is prevalent in the First-Responder community (I’m one of them). Of course, this problem is not just limited to First-Responders and their families, there are many in the civilian community that suffer too, and I write for you, as well.
In fact, the therapeutic benefit of puttting thoughts to paper is one of the main reasons I began to write. This poem is a bit of a hybrid, done intentionally, to relay the message of life with PTSD.
Everyone is entitled to their opinion, all I ask is that your comments be respectful. I have lost six co-workers (some of the good friends) to suicide and there are many more whom I don’t know.
Morning light through window shines, but I wish for darkness to remain,
For with the light, come the demands of life, far too much
“Take your meds!” they preach. “They will help to reduce the pain.”
I swallow them down to banish the ghosts, yet never escape their clutch
What happened to the man I used to be? Full of life and no dark stain,
He’s but gone, a phantom from another time, never to return again
Okay, so awhile back I tried my hand at some poetry (see A Fireside Tanka, Aug. 30), and today another attempt is being made. This is just a Cinquain about being content with your home and lifestyle, despite what society says.
On blocks or wheels, sanctuary for me
The world outside but a caustic soup
Campstove, canned ravioli, so content I’ll be
No stairs or room for a group
Mansions won’t move at the turn of a key