The last visit and conversion…

Cherry

By Mark Heathcote

Thu, 15 Oct 2009
  • 932 reads
2 comments
 

Here lies,
My grandmother…
A week from: death.
The archetypal grandmother
Of all nursery cries
Made that much, better.

Here lies,
My grandmother…
In that week of heinous—lies,
Spoken in “hellos”
And not “goodbyes”
In that week before; her death.

Before the cloak of her life
Falls, silently bereft.
In surrendered, breath
In hopes prayer
In hopes never-ending
In words that are formed,
Like crusts of bread.

Floated in the mouths of the living,
Where once it was healingly, said.
That our own increments will rise
Conversely,
And speak from our own deathbeds.
Shall not all of us…
One day, converse, with the dead.

Here lies,
My grandmother…
And to date she is dead.

Certificate U
Poem
The kismet fate of serendipity
Autobiography

Comments

Submitted by tcook on
Mark - your best poem for a while but I do wonder if we lie to those about to die or if we tell the absolute truth. I think that you lie when you are two generations removed and tell the truth when you are one generation removed - for the latter are about to become the 'next to go' and it creates a time of honesty. It's really got me thinking though!

Submitted by Mark Heathcote on

Last visit & conversion

 

Here lies—

My grandmother

Weak tired, nearing her death

The archetypal grandmother

Who soothed all manner of nursery cries

Who made everything so much better?

 

Here lies—

My grandmother

Weak drained approaching her final breath

In that last week of heinous lies

… Spoken in strictly sweet “hellos”,

Not in them sad, departing, closing “goodbyes”.

 

… Valedictions, farewells

Before, the cloak of her life

Lifts & falls silently bereft.

Closes like a child's ballerina music box

In her last wheezed surrendered, dying breaths.

In hopes-prayer

In hopes coiled never-fading-ending

In words, formed all too cold & informal

Like crusts of stale bread.

 

Floated in the mouths of the living,

Where it has been faithfully said

That our own, increments will also rise

Conversely, against all natural logic        

And speak from our own, deathbeds.

“Will not each & every one of us..?

One day, converse, with the dead”.

 

Here lies—
My grandmother
And to bring you up to date she is now dead, deceased.

But conversely against our present state of mind

But not this individual, not my heart or will.

I’ll open a ballerina music box; hear her sing once more

I’ll see her again in this life or the next, all logic denied.

Of that my dear friends I am not just nostalgically sure.

Mark Heathcote