Thursday, August 11, 2011


With my poetry self silenced

my dreams have turned peremptory.

My outer garden might be peaceful,

enclosed by trees and bird song

but my garden exists in an earthquake

ravaged city, frozen into silence

by last week's winter storm;

I am losing time-honoured carers

and many friends are reaching critical

transitions. I am bandying about

words like carotid artery,

pneumonia and dementia.

My dreams have returned me

to a house of grief, more spacious

and airy but requiring further attention;

I stumble when I walk, if 'walk'

is the right word, I lack

necessary information.

If the inner world mirrors the outer,

I am unfinished and ungainly.

1 comment:

  1. A very poignant poem, dear Diana. As if you don't have enough to deal with, there are earthquakes, aftershocks (which seem to me to be earthquakes without end) and foul weather. It seems to mirror your bodily estate. Yet your mind and heart are hardly 'unfinished and ungainly'. Such wondrous poetry comes from a highly evolved, graceful mind and soul.
    Your loving friend,