Sherry Asbury

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Manners

No one told me I was dead.
Rudely left me out of
their conversations.
When did I begin to guess?
When the coffin’s black lid
chewed up the last bit of light.

*********

Bonnets

nodding,
almost nuns
in their plastic
accordion
rain bonnets.
Old ladies.

*****

Moon

Now is night a gauzy curtain
blown by the breath of the moon.
Moon wears diamonds in her hair,
the sky preens and primps.
Secret destination...left unsaid...
gently calls out your name.

Just some little poems I found in folder...

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Growing Old

I stand frozen in the darkness
as I stare into my mirror lit by moonlight...
barely able to believe - my old age is near.
See those wrinkles; see each shadow and dent.
Please, someone tell me where my years
of living went...
No pleasure do I find in platitudes
about golden years.
It is real and it is here with all its agonies
and tears.
How sad she is - old woman whose years
have passed her by.
She refuses to tint her hair - no white lies...
It is right there in the face that used to
be pretty and unlined.

Live your life before your days
are trinkets you can’t find.

Live like it is your last day

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Sister Sarah

Sister Sarah weaves the world
on her own loom...
she shades in no compromise.
She blinded by truth.
Blisters are rubbed onto her soul
as if by shoes too tight to leave
a breath of reasonable freedom.
Her gentle goodness shines
through the stain of her
exceptional abilities.
Sister Sarah smiles and the world
becomes a complex kaleidoscopic whirl.

Sister Sarah is a reward...
a tipping of the scales of justice.

Revere the "special people" - they are the sane ones.

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Blue Heron

Your long neck twists itself
into a graceful question mark.
Tall as a man your legs
carry you to waters where you feed.
Sloughs and ponds - even the
occasional drainage ditches.
You lend an elegance to the world.
You do not destroy or plunder,
but snack on fishy delights
taken up in your sword of a bill.
Blue heron, thrive.
Your estuaries and flood plains
are disappearing as civilization
populates the earth.
Pragmatists take the world as it is.
Lovers of animals sorrow
that one day you will be extinct.
What do you add to this world?
You are not a shopping mall
or housing development.
What you do is add grace
and beauty to our world,
making it a more beautiful
place to live.

Progress sounds sensible and necessary - but we will lose the wonders of our world without caring for the inhabitants that the brain-dead consider extendable.

#green #early #consevation

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Old Woman, Walking

She shuffles purposely, eyes down,
seeing only that path her veiny legs mark out.
A broken old toy on a frayed string.

Flesh of her feet squeezed past
the boundaries of her sneakers.
Pitted, marshmallow feet that have traded
high heels and sheer hose for sweat sox.
She wears three pairs...all she has -
trading them each day.

She swims against the tide, determined
to make her way - to remember her destination.
Her green Book of the Month bag is clutched
to the fray of her coat...everything she has
and is - is in that bag.

Her eyes play peek-a-boo with the sun.
Images flit on her retina, frightening her
to jump; some shadow-shape approaches...
she flies apart, afraid and confused,
helpless to regain her route from memory.

The place she goes is not the place
she wants to be, but it is such a long trip home...
if she could remember where home is.

The plight of women on the streets is sad to behold. Where is there a place for them>

#social #age #women #commentary

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Homeless

Pulling her cardboard
with a filthy, ragged string...
she searches.
No corner is her own.
There is nowhere
she belongs.

Sometimes the cardboard
catches a breeze, sails up
to smack her in the back of her legs.

But life has smacked her
so many times - she does not
notice anymore.

There is little hope for a clean place,
but dry sure would be nice.
Her bones sing in the night air,
a chorus of hungry wolves.

The cough in her chest
is thick with illness;
her feet are crippled stubs.

She can not remember if she is very old,
or young as a chick.

She wanders - sure of this...
she is cold and hungry and has
no place to rest her head.

#homeless

Sherry Asbury Jul 2015

Journey

I have often bent my head
to rest on a pillow, not linen
and feathers, but concrete
and small squalid stones.

Like the breath of
a thousand butterflies,
a little wind has covered
my exposed and tested bones.

My lips have often whispered
in God’s ear, and He has
answered with a bit of stale bread.

Now I sit quietly in corners
listening to the gossip of honeybees,
whose wings are translucent
in an August sun.

I watch my skin grow thin and fragile
as sheets of onion-skin or the wings of moths.

It has been a journey - harrowing
and flush with revelation, leaving me
gaping at the wonder of it all.

#life #discovery #aging