Tears

"Tears"

He sat beside the bed and held her hand
For years they had waited for this moment
the IV dripped chemicals from its stand
finally each had made their atonement.
He sang to her and stroked her long fingers
She begged him to remain until the end.
In his mind her her last look would always linger.
He knew he no longer had to pretend.
She had absolved him completely; that was true.
He clutched her hand and begged her stay.
His last avowal was long overdue.
When at last her face began to gray.
and her shuddering breath finally did end
he knew on her he could no longer depend.

* * *

Today's title comes not from the poem itself, but from the fact that I wanted to cry the entire time I was writing it. I hate, hate, HATE writing in any kind of a strict form. Did you know that English rhyming poetry is held in such high regard because the English language has so few rhymes? I have so much more respecte for people who churned out I don't know, say ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SONNETS when I attempt to write one lousy one for myself. If it's in iambic pentameter, it's because I'm lucky. Grade: unsuccessful, but a useful exercise nonetheless. I never want to look at that poem again.

* * *

And now, journeying onward from strict cold form into the loving embrace of self-indulgence. Tomorrow's poem is "A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman (per a request for some Whitman). The goal: Combine two big, big things (like the soul and the night sky) use them to reflect on the Truth of one another.

A Clear Midnight

by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.