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Try
I know it would be crazy for us to try.
I know.
But I can't help but think,
That it would be crazier still
To not try at all
And risk missing out
On all that we could be.
IT WAS ONE MISTY MORNING
THE SUN WAS FAR FROM SHINING
I WAS HAVING ONE OF THOSE SWEET MORNING DREAMS
WHEN THE "ONE" CAME SMILING

I BLOSSOMED WITH JOY
AND RIDICULED MY THIRST
AND MY HEART WAS KWENCHED
OH DEAR LOVE
WHY DO I HAVE TO TURN PINK THIS MORNING

YOUR SMILE FEATHERED MY HEART
AND YOUR WORDS GATHERED THE PIECES OF MY LIFE
YOUR FACE WAS UNCLEAR
BUT IT IS SOON TO BE REVEALED

WHEN DAD SAID SWEETDREAMS
THATS HOW SWEET IT WAS
This waiting room is painted of pain,
featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats,
of family members already lost,
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate's
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients
to be visited during the night shifts,
by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan - barely hanging -
is closing in full circle,
a whole life lived.
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling,
alongside the walls' stripes
designed with a print of doctors' usual words,
"I'm so sorry for your loss."  

If life truly begins at forty,
then hers ended at the starting line.
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor
if it weren't for olympics silently running in the background on the tv
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound.

It ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation
a possibly cancerous lump.
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages,
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn the pages over better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box,
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing.
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time.
It was just a little, smallish lump.
these news are hard to swallow.
my eyes are peeling onions.
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out.
Grandma's sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting "pressure".
neutral colours ***** the Scrubs' floors,
hypothermia lurking in the corridors,
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm.

It was a game of musical chairs,
But when the seven trumpets sounded,
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation.
An angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now.
With a plot twist, it's less players each round.
Who dies first wins, I've tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are *****.
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin.
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away - the whitened clay still one,
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh.

It's also winter our hearts,
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral.
And his life was a summary,
too brief a breath, as the contraction is.
No sympathy to bother saying
"I am".
Public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

Twenty-twelve was a scar,
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs, from the bottomless pits,
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely,
so very early.
Some of the things we will take to our graves
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves.
And hurt still drops in drips,
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood-washed tiles,
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares
are too real to be dreams.

uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem. || Thank you to Brian Walter and Lewish Bosworth for helping with the editing. I sincerely appreciate it.
So hell isn't all
It's cracked up to be.
I've seen the damage,
The torture
The pain.

And I react physically
To every single memory,
My stomach twists and I convulse,
And I gag and double over in pain.

Tears stream,
Y'know
The works.

But then there's the high waters,
And with each and every rain drop,
I believe I'll see it soon.

And I don't know which is worse,
My personal hell,
Or knowing that the end days
Could come
And I couldn't
Ever stop them.

Come hell,
Or high water.

I may not be strong,
I may not be powerful,
Or skilled
Or threatening
Or coordinated.

But I will do
Anything and everything
Within my power
To protect those I love
From the greatest harm I know:
Myself.

I am getting better,
Slowly
But surely.

I will no longer be harmful,
Come hell or high water.
Ugh, I feel sick.
 Aug 2016 Carolyne McNabb
Stephan
.

Dear Patient,

Here’s the prescription
I promised to write
Just like any doctor might do

An extended leave
A southern location
A room with a beautiful view

A candlelit dinner
Moonlight and roses
A bottle of chilled chardonnay

Romantic music
Soft summer kisses
Sending your worries away

The one of your dreams
An evening together
Love on a warm summer night

A sunrise good morning
Breakfast in bed
Satin sheets woven in white

A day in the sun
Drinks on the river
Affectionate moments for two


Take all you need
There’s no expiration
Unlimited refills for you

Signed,
Your Poetic Physician
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