"surgery" poems - Hello Poetry

We’d been together so long, it seemed That nothing could tear us apart, We lived our lives in a world of dreams And Barbara lived in my heart, But frost had covered the window pane And then it began to snow, As Barbara turned, with a look of pain And said, ‘It’s best that you go.’ I didn’t know what she meant at first As I looked up from my book, “Go where?’ I questioned, but thought again As she quelled my heart with a look. ‘I said I want you to leave,’ she cried, And her face was set in stone, ‘We’ve come to the end of the path,’ she sighed, ‘I want to be left alone.’ Then suddenly all confusion reined I didn’t know what to say, Whatever had brought this mood on her, I wished it would go away. But she was firm, and she packed my things And ushered me out the door, I stood there shivering in the cold To be back on my own once more. I found a flat and I camped the night There was barely a stick or chair, I’d have to buy all the furniture To make it a home in there. But I sat and cried in the empty room As the question came back, ‘Why?’ I’d loved her so and my heart was torn, I thought I wanted to die. I went to her with my questions, but She slammed the door in my face, Whatever love she had had for me Had vanished, without a trace. It hurt so much that she cut me off With never so much as a sigh, I called that all that I wanted was To tell me the reason, why? The roses had bloomed so late that year Were still in the garden bed, We’d always tended the bush with joy, We both loved the colour red, So I snipped one off as I left one day, And planted it under her door, To let her know that I loved her still I didn’t know how to say more. Her brother called in a week or so, Said she was in hospital, She’d gone in just for a minor cure And thought that he’d better tell. So I caught the bus and I went on down With a quaking fear in my heart, She hadn’t said there was something wrong Before she tore us apart. The doctor came in his long white coat, His brow and his face was grim, I said, ‘Don’t tell me the news is bad,’ He said, ‘I’m out on a limb. Your wife just passed from the surgery, But she pulled, from under her clothes, And asked if I’d pass this on to you,’ In his hand was a red, red rose. David Lewis Paget

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Jan 14, 2017

Jan 14, 2017 at 1:10 AM UTC

david-lewis-paget

The Rose

We’d been together so long, it seemed That nothing could tear us apart, We lived our lives in a world of dreams And Barbara lived in my heart, But frost had covered the window pane And then it began to snow, As Barbara turned, with a look of pain And said, ‘It’s best that you go.’ I didn’t know what she meant at first As I looked up from my book, “Go where?’ I questioned, but thought again As she quelled my heart with a look. ‘I said I want you to leave,’ she cried, And her face was set in stone, ‘We’ve come to the end of the path,’ she sighed, ‘I want to be left alone.’ Then suddenly all confusion reined I didn’t know what to say, Whatever had brought this mood on her, I wished it would go away. But she was firm, and she packed my things And ushered me out the door, I stood there shivering in the cold To be back on my own once more. I found a flat and I camped the night There was barely a stick or chair, I’d have to buy all the furniture To make it a home in there. But I sat and cried in the empty room As the question came back, ‘Why?’ I’d loved her so and my heart was torn, I thought I wanted to die. I went to her with my questions, but She slammed the door in my face, Whatever love she had had for me Had vanished, without a trace. It hurt so much that she cut me off With never so much as a sigh, I called that all that I wanted was To tell me the reason, why? The roses had bloomed so late that year Were still in the garden bed, We’d always tended the bush with joy, We both loved the colour red, So I snipped one off as I left one day, And planted it under her door, To let her know that I loved her still I didn’t know how to say more. Her brother called in a week or so, Said she was in hospital, She’d gone in just for a minor cure And thought that he’d better tell. So I caught the bus and I went on down With a quaking fear in my heart, She hadn’t said there was something wrong Before she tore us apart. The doctor came in his long white coat, His brow and his face was grim, I said, ‘Don’t tell me the news is bad,’ He said, ‘I’m out on a limb. Your wife just passed from the surgery, But she pulled, from under her clothes, And asked if I’d pass this on to you,’ In his hand was a red, red rose. David Lewis Paget