It’s irritating,
When words seem to be
Unfaithful blemishes
Of yesterday’s past,
And a constant annoyance,
Unwitting today’s unknown.

To think about your what if’s,
And should don’ts of,
Repetitive reminders from the scars,
Engraved in you’re witty,
But beating heart is a daring,
Challenge to an unfaithful mind.

The fear to hold joy,
When a dark rose neglects,
The power of a white one,
In it’s purified significance,
Unveiling the worth and,
And the death of its own demise.

But no one realizes the faithful
Beauty of a dark rose.
To sting, to warn to challenge,
To be truthful to the subconscious,
Of the heart that also has protection,
Held and brace by pericardium.

Even the heart needs to be comforted,
And the mind in need of consolation,
So remove the stones blocking your eyes,
From your visual death,
Of growth and compassion,
Love is blind,
The mind is weak.

Then there is fear,
You can overcome.
So overcome it,
With the passion in your eyes,
The smile that you have,
For the very truth of your wellbeing.

given                                emerald veins
enfracture           sightful           caverns
of        this           pulmonary        gaze,
earthbeat        pericardium     of  whim
and mystic with a settled dew of ages--
some  heady  ancient   script     of    silk
still        gathers      fragile nourishment
and            struggle warmth     to drain
my        needless      thoughts   of flight,
center          span to dome         the air--
geodesy                                       of form
enframing                               emptiness
and                   crimson                   fates
to                                                  quench

As the rain teems outside the bathroom window, pelting like bullets against the double glaze,
I look into the mirror and see that huge scar extending around my right side, pink and shiny. It moves independently top to bottom, once cut never to be the same again.
Bulging unnaturally, there is a cannon ball within. Somewhere twixt the decapitated kidney and the sliced pericardium there lies a presence which I can never ignore. Solid and intrusive it inhibits movement and gives perpetual discomfort. It was never there before the operation, it has always been there since.

Gazing up into the 77 year old eyes I hate what I see, where there should be the  gleam of victory having vanquished the foe, instead I see the beggarly hallmarks of a victim.
The pallor, the network of suffer lines around the eyes. The lifelessness and ague of expression, the absence of vigour and the lack of will, of endeavor.

Not always is this so.
On good days I spring out of bed with the early light of dawn, smother the awareness of the cannon ball with two Panadol, swallowed with rainwater from the tap, prior to cleaning my teeth.
Striding down the hallway accompanied by the scampering cat, (leading me indelibly toward her bowl for food).
Cracking open the tin box and performing the ritual of the morning pill take… (6 with milk)
A cup of scalding hot tea, strong, sugared, with a touch of milk.
Then off to work with purpose, anesthetized against the ****** thing. Anesthetized against the negativity.

All my life I’ve been physical, proud of my muscular ability to achieve anything I set out to do.
My wife once said to me, “Marshal you never ask yourself whether you can actually do anything… you just do it!”
Those were the days!
Now I attack jobs, on the good days, and convince myself that something of the old spirit remains …and it does, the thighs pump, the hands, dexterously create…. The project grows and the spirit within soars….
Alas, two hours down the track with the cannon ball weighing like a tonne of lead in my gut and the wondrous physicality expired, I haul my weary self up the hill with the sure knowledge that I can no longer hack it.

Somewhere, in the twilight of my days, I have to come to terms with the limitations.
Celebrate the good and accommodate the other.
For I have faced the ****** foe and survived…and for this I must elevate myself....and be supremely and positively, grateful.
For I live and love...For what more can a man ask?

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki, NZ
25 August 2022