Posted in Guest Writer, Perspectives on Cancer, Poems/Poetry

PERSPECTIVES ON CANCER #30: When Cancer Strikes

WHEN CANCER STRIKES

by

Dan Roberson

It was both
a blessing and a curse,

Her chestnut
hair was often tangled or worse,

There were
times Laura hated her hair,

Conditioners,
detanglers, moisturizers,

Sometimes made
her wish it wasn’t there,

 ·

It had been
that way as far back as memory could get,

Uncontrollable
when dry, hard to manage when wet,

Laura’s
curly hair was admired often, she’d confess,

But it was
often a distraction as a frizzy mess,

There weren’t
many options on how to fix her hair,

She worried when
the wind made it fly here and there,

Often Laura
looked out of control and people would rudely stare,

 ·

Looking
calm, peaceful, and beautiful was her goal,

Forgotten were
the comments about her beauty as a whole,

Intelligence
and her abilities made her special in all she did,

But under
hats, tied up in tight braids, her curly hair she hid,

 ·

Laura was a
businesswoman, ambitious in every way,

Determined to
be a success before she turned old and gray,

Laura was
also wife and mother with two children on her mind,

Time for
them or even for herself, was very hard to find,

 ·

Her husband
sent her flowers every month to let her know,

That he would be waiting for her if she decided to take life slow,

Her life was filled from dawn till night, with one job to the next,

Rarely did
she spend quality time with Joe, and both were too tired for sex,

Vacations
were quick and far away, with pictures to prove she was there,

But wherever
she went and whatever she did, she covered up her hair,

 ·

Questions
from a young M.D. on her routine annual exam,

Made her mad
when he said, “We need further tests for you, Ma’am,”

She went
through the tests mainly to prove him wrong,

Much to her
chagrin blood was drawn, it didn’t take them long,

Laura balked
at first when new appointments were made,

But soon she
was on her way and memories of the visit began to fade,

 ·

Later that week several phone calls at work interrupted
her day,

“We want you
to come in, not tomorrow, perhaps yesterday,”

“What’s so important?”
she wondered as she brushed tangles from her hair,

“I’ve always
been so healthy, so why should I care?”

That night
Laura brushed her hair ninety-nine times or more,

With each
tug she commented, “Curly hair is such a chore,”

 ·

But Laura
was restless, the upcoming visit was eating at her,

And at her
next appointment she decided she would concur,

“You have
cancer,” he said quietly, “we should treat it aggressively,”

“I don’t
have time for cancer!” she shouted, “or even time for me,”

“We need to
treat it with chemotherapy,” he stated, “as soon as we can,”

“If we want
to win this war, we have to make a plan,”

“Doctor, I’m
too busy for this, I’ll do chemo in the spring,”

“Then they’ll
bury you deep while you sleep, the chemo won’t mean a thing,”

 ·

The nurse
read a list of changes that Laura might expect,

Foods to
eat, nausea, loss of hair, there was little time to reflect,

She could
deal with changes in her diet, so why did she care,

Yet on her
way home one thought returned, she would lose her hair,

 ·

What would
she do about work, would everyone lose respect?

And what
about her children and her Joe, what would he expect?

“This is not
fair,” she thought, “I’ve fought hard to get where I am,

Now I have
cancer and that puts me in a jam,”

She’d talk
to the doctors and see how this could be fixed,

Laura knew
how business worked, maybe this could be deep sixed,

She was
afraid to hug her husband, likewise with the kids,

With this
draining more from her, their marriage would be on the skids,

Joe listened
to her intently and suggested a group for her to attend,

“I don’t
need a support group,” she countered, “I just want to mend,”

He left a
number of the group in case she wanted to call,

For two days
Laura wanted nothing to do with the group at all,

 ·

But the
third evening as she brushed and detangled her hair,

Laura
wondered what others did when strangers began to stare,

She called a
cell phone number knowing she had to make a choice,

She agreed
to go to a meeting when she heard a cheerful voice,

“Come on and
join us, we’ll have a special guest tonight,

You’ll find
we have lots of fun because no one gets uptight,”

Nervously she
brushed her hair as she waited for her ride,

In the car
it was explained she’d have to wait outside,

 ·

Waiting outside
a home made her feel this was not the place to be,

But she only
had time to see what they wanted her to see,

Conspicuously
placed was a sign stating the group’s name,

“Birds of a
Feather” and in smaller print, “We’re all the same,”

 ·

Laura was
led in at the appointed time but saw one empty chair,

“It’s saved
for you,” a woman called out, “and your beautiful hair,”

How could
she explain that soon her head would soon be bare,

She was
afraid they might laugh and show they didn’t care,

Laura’s fear
was growing as she glanced about the room,

She was the
only one with cancer and ready to meet her doom,

 ·

Businesswomen,
single women, mothers, daughters, wives,

These women
were all beautiful and had normal lives,

“We have a newcomer tonight, so welcome Laura
with applause,”

The leader
continued, “And in case she’s worried, it’s time for us to pause,

We’ve faced
our fears before, and sometimes hid our shame,

But together
we are strong and our freedom we proclaim,”

 ·

One by one
each removed a wig to reveal her hair was gone,

“We’re all
in this together, no one is all alone,”

Their smiles
were wide and welcoming as the leader took her hand,

“When you
can, let Laura know that you really understand,”

 ·

When the
meeting was over Laura returned home,

She kissed
her children and showed them her comb,

She
explained her disease and told them about her hair,

They answered,
“We love you, mommy, we don’t care,”

Her husband,
Laura learned, was compassionate and kind,

He loved her
for her heart, her ambition, and her mind,

They decided
to fight cancer together and strive for the best,

And they’d
spend more time living and loving with zest,

The cancer
went into remission and Laura grew back her hair,

And whether tangled,
frizzy, or wind-blown, now she combs with flair.

© poem and artwork, Dan Roberson, 2011 all rights reserved

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Dan Roberson ~ lives in Kansas City, Missouri.  He says, ” I celebrate life. I retired from teaching and now I’m looking for new parades to lead, or to follow. I’m alone, still hoping to be a published author, and trying to stay on my chosen path. I have no anchor to hold me down and I’m ready to rid myself of possessions that impede progress. I want my imagination to soar. I’m open to learning about new worlds, new countries and languages, and different ways to look at things I thought I knew. Every day is a bonus day and I look forward to the challenges it brings. I’m finding out that technology is fast and getting faster and there is much information that I need to learn.”  You’ll find Dan at My Blog.

Posted in Guest Writer, Perspectives on Cancer, Poems/Poetry

PERSPECTIVES ON CANCER #22: Bath

BATH

by

Myra Schnieder

·

Kindness, an Irish lilt in her voice,

spares me the effort of running the water

and supports my elbow when, stripped

of everything but wound dressings,

I take a giant step into the tub.

·

Warm water wells into my crotch,

unlocks spine, lullabies stomach.

Is it because I’ve passed through

extremity that this comfort is intense

as the yellow daffodils trumpet?

·

Yesterday – my raw body stranded

by the basin, chill sprouting on my skin

while a Chinese student nurse

conscientiously dabbed each

helpless area – is miles away.

·

Dimly, I remember a stark room

and the high-sided saltwater bath

I was dipped in a few days

after giving birth. As Kindness

babies my back with a pink flannel

·

I’m reborn though maimed, ageing.

And this pool of bliss can no more

be explained than the song that pours

from a lark as it disappears into

stitchless blue, the seed circles

·

that cram a sunflower’s calyx,

day splashing crimsons

and apricot golds across the sky

before it seeps into the silence

of night, the way love fountains.

 ·

© 2011, Myra Schneider, all rights reserved. This poem is posted on Into the Bardo  with the permission of  Ms. Schneider. Any further reposting requires her permission. 

Photo credit ~ amazon preparing for a battle (Queen Antiop or Armed Venus), byPierre-Eugène-Emile Hébert 1860 (National Gallery of ArtWashington, D.C.), public domain photograph via Wikipedia

·

Bath is an excerpt from:

Writing My Way Through Cancer  Jessica Kingsley Publishers (2003), and

Multiplying The Moon  Enitharmon (2004)

Editor’s note: The opening poems of Multiplying the Moon are Myra Schneider’s response to her experience of terrible illness. In the aftermath of fighting breast cancer, she found herself writing poems that explore transience, death, and survival from many different angles. The main theme of `Voicebox,’ the long fictional narrative in the middle of the book, is communication; the poem follows the connections and disconnections between its main characters. In a short poem sequence, the poet draws on findings from the 1901 census to re-create her father’s early life, and the understanding she gains helps her to feel a new closeness with him. This is united by the theme of investigation of the self and its relationship with the outside world.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Myra Schneider ~ was born in London in 1936 and grew up on the Firth of Clyde. She is the author of four poetry collections from Littlewood, three novels for children from Heinemann, and has three poetry collections published by Enitharmon: Exits, The Panic Bird and Insisting on Yellow. With John Killick she has written Writing for Self-Discovery  (Vega, Chrysalis Books) which was re-published in 2002. Her book Writing My Way Through Cancer, was published by Jessica Kingsley in 2003. The book is her fleshed-out journal from the year 2000 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It includes poem notes and poems and a section of therapeutic writing ideas.

Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

FROM THE BEGINNING

Family photo subject to copyright.

·

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day

When the last fires will wave to me

And the silence will set out

For the Anniversary of My Death, W.S. MerwinThe Second Four Books of Poems

FROM THE BEGINNING

by

Jamie Dedes

It was yesterday

that I retrieved my soul at last

moved by the placid persuasion of a psalm

reminding me of my rootedness

in the archives of heaven

 ·

In earlier times

life lay ahead, a rhythm of reciting tones

a paced chant before all that somber news

and facing facts and quiet homely work

of peacemaking for your sake

 ·

But this morning

I awoke a fading mendicant nun

reading my own rich requiem Mass

celebrating my heart’s trove

and your constant love

 ·

A few more breaths

and I’m a whisper in your ear

an old story of someone who birthed you

now melting into the great Forever

leaving us only a hallowed cord

 ·

From the beginning, Son

your spirit was to us a joy dancing

a perfect poem finely etched in old gold

holding fast to beauty and grace

faithful to your own gentle spirit

 ·

Listen to the hollows in the wind.

Listen, Son –

how love encircles and

echoes from the small Beginning  ….

into the great Forever

Posted in Essay, Guest Writer

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

My friend and Christian poet and writer, Donna Swanson, writes here about creativity, the  fleeting quality of success, and the things that really matter, like family and gratitude. No matter your definition of God (or not) or whatever your belief system is (or is not), the essence of the message here is core wisdom.  Enjoy! … and thanks to Donna for sharing. J.D.

·

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

by

DONNA SWANSON
·
There have always been creators. To us creating is a display of God’s image in the world. Creating is an ache in our spirit; a compulsive reaching out to those who share life with us. We can no more not create than we can not breathe. Though there is a longing for our creations to be affirmed and applauded – anyone who denies that is lying to you – there is a deeper hunger to do the act of creating. The feel of a brush on canvas; the weight of a pen in the hand; a particular word that completes a poetic phrase: these are to our souls as oxygen is to our lungs. Though no one responds, still we must offer. Perhaps the next painting will invoke a response; the next book, the next poem, the next song…
·
And success? Now, as I look back over my life, I have a much different perspective than I did in my youth. I see those things I created, and they are good. I know they have blessed the few people they have touched. And now I can put them to rest where they belong; in God’s hands. If there comes a time when He wants them widely known, they will be. If not, they were infinitely satisfying in their creation.
·
Again, as I look back over my life, I see the successes that mean so much more than any amount of fame could supply. I asked God to give me acclaim and the praise of my peers. He gave me good children who rise up and call me blessed. I asked God to make me financially successful. He gave me a beautiful home set amidst towering pines given by those I loved. I asked God to make my name known. He gave me a husband who knows me and loves me just as I am.
·
Our family has never been abundantly wealthy, but we have never gone without food or clothes or a warm fire. We did not have expensive indulgences or travel to exotic places, but we’ve had those small blessings that mean most because they were a surprise or a loving gift.
·
Success is relative. Success is fleeting. Success is a carrot leading a donkey down many a rocky road. Success is okay if it happens, okay if it doesn’t. It’s the road one takes to get to the destination that builds the soul. The road has been worth it.
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Connect with the multi-talented Donna at the links below:
Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

IT’S WINTER

IT’S WINTER

by

Jamie Dedes

If you are viewing this poem on the home page, you will have to click with your mouse on the subject line of the post for the poem to lay-out properly.

No illusions, no illusions, no lies, no softening of the truth,

no tears, no bargains, though sun shines and birds sing,

Winter is here, I know.

Winter is too crisp and sharp to invite either love or lechery,

and those men, husbands and lovers, see through it to seasons

young and not so inclined to ponder as one man complained,

while I watched the grass die, the leaves dry, the earth harden,

cold winds blowing over the graves that house our bodies.

And I being me was always asking

“Why”

Once Spring danced like wild flowers in the wind,

held dew and promise and smiled like a well-fed babe.

It hadn’t heard the word defeat and didn’t know hate or anger.

Spring liked to play, to romp, to sing and

she hung her question on a tree to ripen –

“Why”

Summer took itself seriously, was wide-eyed with longing, sizzling in the sun.

It wore a red dress and the champagne happiness of a husband and baby

and bravado because Summer is young and youth is bold,

a silver bell that rings and rings and never stops.

Too much is not enough and yet – a tremulous

“Why”

Autumn gently smiled, like Da Vinci’s lady, and danced old dances,

reminisced Begin the Beguine, stepping lightly on brown leaves.

It was lined with gold and muted silks, remembered is manners,

nodded wisely, spoke sagaciously , and was a might too profound.

Haughty with itself, it just knew it knew

“Why”

Winter…Winter is content, sees itself in Time displaced and learned

laughter has meaning and fleshy bonds and boundaries dissolve.

A bit stiff, cold, and slow now, slowing to honor the sacred,

to say “i love you,” to say “it was good,” to say “thank you.”

Sun rise, sun set, and once dormant trees burst forth with green,

sanguine and serene, just a habit now that question

“Why”