Archives: Poetry Submissions

By Carol A. Hale

My old chair has always been there
Cradling me through dark years of illness and despair
Easing me through months when everything hurt ‘cept my hair
Rocking me as I helplessly watched independence fly way into thin air
Soothing me through sleepless nights when awakened from yet another nightmare
Its arms holding me as I mourned the loss of those who ceased to care
Listening in the dark silence while I cried and my very soul I did bare
Ever a comfort through days cloudy or fair
I do declare
Nothing can compare with my old chair

By Anonymous

Like a gnarled tree trunk rising out of the depths
drawing strength from the deep and patient earth
so too we will rise

yes, we will rise
and it will be sooner than any of us expect

when we had given up all hope
when we had become all too aware of the pain
of hope lost
and dared not to hope any more

There, like turning a corner and seeing a flower that managed to
break through concrete
or a friendly puppy wagging his tail
we will say,
“Is that it?
It seems so easy
why didn’t we see that before?”

and there it will be:
THE CURE

and we shall be cured.

But what interests me more is this:

Who will we be when we reach there?
What have we learned?

We are a blessed group of souls, cells in one large body,
experiencing the same agony in unison,
one of the hardest schools ever to have been.
An agony that, if we cannot convey it as we experience it,
how will we tell the tale once the memory grows dim?

Or why?

Our spiritual muscles have been flexed in the deepest way
and we have become olympic gold winners in the school
of pain

And this no coincidence
nor mischief of a malevolent God

To what purpose are we being forged in this way?

Who will we be on the other side of this?
What gifts will we collectively bring to the world
when we emerge, naked, moist and newborn?

By Andy Rees

Where is the one who knew no boundaries?
Where are the days spent running free?
Where now the stamina that’s failing to spring afresh inside of me?
Down in the west, those days have all gone.
Out like the tide with little trace.
Sleeping for now under a blanket – yet still they fight to show their face.

Not to be beaten by the hurting.
Not to be crushed by loss, or grief.
Not by the disillusionment and anger at those with disbelief.
Faithful and strong, hope keeps returning.
Never be broken, heart of mine!
Even if all is lost, and hope itself – still I choose not to resign.

There is much more to life than doing.
There still are other ways to be.
There are new battles worth the winning, before they put an end to me.
Do not be scared by seeming mountains.
Laugh at the fates, that show no care.
Remain yourself, in smaller portions – you can still reach that top-most stair!

If somehow you can be contented.
If you can learn to take small strides.
If you can pace yourself and not be caught up in life’s remorseless tides.
You will still have the strength to be you.
Some of the time your star can shine.
You will have gained so much by learning just what to do with precious time.

How many people know their true friends?
How many get to live two lives?
How many know they have the inner strength to endure all, and to thrive?
Confidence needn’t be diminished.
Wisdom and patience never die.
Humour, and love, and understanding, are still the standards we live by.