never has been a respite from work
once hands were supple and smooth
now they are wizened and arthritic
each chore has become a painful one
but there is no one else to do them
so with sore hands I labor on today
doing jobs no one else wants go do
pondering as I work, life's meaning
never has been a respite from pain
now a heart once young and hopeful
winces with deep wounds of years
there is not enough joy, often enough
to offset the drudgery of long days
grinding by, each reflecting the other
and I ponder within lingering anguish
how I have endured it, how I will
I THANK GOD FOR THE MOMENTS WHEN I CONCEDE(VERY OFTEN)AND ADMIT TO THE HEAVENS THAT IT'S TOO MUCH, ALL MY STRENGTH IS GONE. FOR IT IS THEN THAT GOD LETS ME KNOW...IT WAS 'HIM' ALL THE TIME...AND HE HASN'T GONE ANYWHERE. FROM THAT POINT, HE AND I...'WE'...GO ON. THE JOY OF THE LORD, IS OUT STRENGTH. THANKS FOR SHARING. LOVE, BLESSINGS AND FAITH...JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
My, this is so unlike your usual poems of many genres and so beautifully and easily done. In this poem, I sense something intensely personal, the realization of the ravages of aging.
As a result of recent events in your life, you have now reached a point where your verve and drive that could overcome almost any obstacle thrown in your way is being robbed by the pain of overuse of the very tools that you use for your prodigious output.
Eventually, all of us have to cut back, give up and find ways to relax as our aging catches up with us. I guess that's why they call it, retirement.
Although I have three phyical problems which could, and I'm sure will eventually ring my life's final bell. But I'm not afflicted with pains that so many suffer from. I am so grateful about that. I can only sympathize with you Susan, and I know that isn't much, but it is all I can offer.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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So many yes, many lives
are lived like this.
Miss the music you've had before.
Walt
Always,
Deborah
A loving expression of hope to you!
Lady Mary Ann ❤️
As a result of recent events in your life, you have now reached a point where your verve and drive that could overcome almost any obstacle thrown in your way is being robbed by the pain of overuse of the very tools that you use for your prodigious output.
Eventually, all of us have to cut back, give up and find ways to relax as our aging catches up with us. I guess that's why they call it, retirement.
Ron
I send you Hope...
And positive loving thoughts...
Diana...
David
Love ya!
Jane