N
nytraveller
Guest
I met Sylvia about two years ago. I wrote poetry to lift her spirits, and found all too often, she lifted mine.
The Poet and the Angel
by T.L. Stokes
It seems fitting, on a rainy Monday,
as full misty cups of clouds
pour down, erasing
the fine green edges of solumn firs,
I just read the letter
from the man who loves you.
I don't know how to tell you this,
he began. I knew all the rest.
I look out from the window
of my weeping heart,
and see you standing right in front of me.
I see your face, the yellow sun
of your soul.
I am not ready to let you go.
What words will the poet write now?
You would say to me: write not of the sadness.
Let the clouds be swept away,
let the wind blow fresh, let spring come again
like the frogs who sang dirges
and kept us up. Made us laugh
and forget.
Forget that cancer loomed
on the aching horizon.
We stood in silence,
hearing the beconing voice of death.
And busied ourselves with weaving,
with all the colored twine and thread
of life here on the table.
The days would pass but only
in terms of the present. You taught me that.
You were too busy living your life
to fear too much.
We were afraid. And that was accepted.
As was the morning frogs singing,
and our laughter. And the wonder,
of your small boy on a maiden flight.
Of losing hair. Of poetry. Of your new cat.
What words now my friend
can I write of your passing?
How can I be strong enough
when inspiration becomes the clouds
on my face?
So I write of the sadness. Forgive me,
but it is the truth. And that is what you
taught me most. Live honestly, live
like a bucket. Fill and pour, fill and pour...
love.
for Sylvia
and all of us who love her
The Poet and the Angel
by T.L. Stokes
It seems fitting, on a rainy Monday,
as full misty cups of clouds
pour down, erasing
the fine green edges of solumn firs,
I just read the letter
from the man who loves you.
I don't know how to tell you this,
he began. I knew all the rest.
I look out from the window
of my weeping heart,
and see you standing right in front of me.
I see your face, the yellow sun
of your soul.
I am not ready to let you go.
What words will the poet write now?
You would say to me: write not of the sadness.
Let the clouds be swept away,
let the wind blow fresh, let spring come again
like the frogs who sang dirges
and kept us up. Made us laugh
and forget.
Forget that cancer loomed
on the aching horizon.
We stood in silence,
hearing the beconing voice of death.
And busied ourselves with weaving,
with all the colored twine and thread
of life here on the table.
The days would pass but only
in terms of the present. You taught me that.
You were too busy living your life
to fear too much.
We were afraid. And that was accepted.
As was the morning frogs singing,
and our laughter. And the wonder,
of your small boy on a maiden flight.
Of losing hair. Of poetry. Of your new cat.
What words now my friend
can I write of your passing?
How can I be strong enough
when inspiration becomes the clouds
on my face?
So I write of the sadness. Forgive me,
but it is the truth. And that is what you
taught me most. Live honestly, live
like a bucket. Fill and pour, fill and pour...
love.
for Sylvia
and all of us who love her