Shamelessly Stolen Stuff
Dearest, Am feeling quite poetic today, I know you think my taste in poetry trivial, none the less I began thinking about how my life has gone and wondering if I took a wrong turn as in;
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
That, of course led me to thinking about your favorite;
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice in the ground.
I can’t believe how accurate that is and, I began to regret that we sat there, you with your Emily Dickinson and I with my Robert Frost and how we marked our places with bookmarkers that measure what we’ve lost. That morning at 3:30am the phone jerked awake and then a voice like a selected weapon or a measured injection, coolly delivered it’s four words deep into my ear: “Your Abigail is dead”.
I was doing some chores outside and happened to glance in the window. I was expecting to see you bustling about with household chores. I shocked myself, to be looking for you, to be denying my new situation. Now, I live less than half a life with a huge hole in my heart where you lived. I’d dearly love to come join you, the woods are lovely, dark and deep.But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. And the lamplight o'er me streaming throws my shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Surely you don’t need a list of credits.
I’ll call you Shirley anytime I want,
now.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
That, of course led me to thinking about your favorite;
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice in the ground.
I can’t believe how accurate that is and, I began to regret that we sat there, you with your Emily Dickinson and I with my Robert Frost and how we marked our places with bookmarkers that measure what we’ve lost. That morning at 3:30am the phone jerked awake and then a voice like a selected weapon or a measured injection, coolly delivered it’s four words deep into my ear: “Your Abigail is dead”.
I was doing some chores outside and happened to glance in the window. I was expecting to see you bustling about with household chores. I shocked myself, to be looking for you, to be denying my new situation. Now, I live less than half a life with a huge hole in my heart where you lived. I’d dearly love to come join you, the woods are lovely, dark and deep.But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. And the lamplight o'er me streaming throws my shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Surely you don’t need a list of credits.
I’ll call you Shirley anytime I want,
now.
Replies
Beautiful! And don\'t call me Shirley!!
You are a funny man, did you know that?
Blessings on a Sunny Sunday.
Linda
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Oops pushed the wrong button again. . I loved your poetry even tho I rarely read poems, my mother was quite a poet. The poems would just roll off her tongue but she never wrote them down. Down
I hope today is a better day for you. I have learned that the grief doesn\'t get easier but I learn how to cope better. It has taken 3 months for me to figure out that much of this process called grief. My husband was a writer and poet. I have learned to appreciate the art form and take comfort in his work. Will be thinking of you tomorrow. Blessings