The ‘When’ Poems
When Flowers Die
When flowers
die,
They die
slowly—
Edge by edge
The petals
curl,
Still,
silently,
Without
complaint.
Unlike us,
Cut flowers
Should be let
go
Before the
first
Tinge of death,
While they are
Yet radiant in
Deepest colour.
We, however,
Must stay alive
Long, long past
Our first
bloom—
Till we have
Crinkled and
Brutishly
browned
With excess
time.
Yet we have
what
Flowers have
not:
Our love for
them
Dies with them.
Our love for
our
Beloved blooms,
More
resplendent
With long
years—
Lasting past
the fading,
Lasting past
even
death itself.…
When An Old Man Dreams
When an old man dreams,
he never dreams his age--
for only in his dreams can
he become young again
and so he dreams freely
sailing through the world,
carelessly, wantonly even,
for he is young again and
the young fear nothing
except the immediate.
I dreamt last night I was
a young man and moved
through the world as
though I owned it-- I
drove my car like some
immortal fool and went
to a party where I was
the centre of my own
attention—and when I
saw a beautiful woman
with her eyes on me,
yes, only me, I went
to her and wrapped her
taut body in my arms
as we kissed a long,
long kiss, lips meshed,
and with eyes closed
we ignored the tiny
world gathered about
us as the soft pleasure
spread to our souls …
I can’t wait to sleep
and dream… to sleep
and dream...to sleep
and dream….
When Angels Come
When angels come,
they are seen only
by babies and very
young children, soon
to be forgotten. And
sometimes those who
are good at heart
will encounter angels
who look so human
yet ….
When angels sing,
theirs choirs sing
with choirs human,
and both can be
heard in heaven
as on earth. Or
an angel’s song
may be a ballad
in an Irish pub.
When angels weep…
they weep far more
for our loss of joy
than sins committed,
their quiet tears for
love omitted.
When angels laugh,
they laugh at the king who
holds tight to his throne.
They find humorous
The rich man who owns,
and laugh the most
at the materialist
who says “Clearly,
angels cannot exist.”
That gets them
rolling in the
endless aisles
of Heaven.
When I Leave You
When I leave
you,
It won’t be out
of anger,
It won’t be out
of jealousy.
It won’t be for
another woman,
And it won’t be
for freedom.
When I leave
you,
It won’t be
with grace—
It will be
hard, hard to do.
I could try to
fight it—
But with what
power?
Taken quick or
slowly,
I’ll still be
taken
Out of this
world,
Out of your
life.
Never out of
your heart,
I know—I’m
planted there,
A Gibraltar
till time’s end.
Yet…yet
I fear for the
weight,
The heaviness
on you:
All the times
you’ll need
A touch, or
miss my breath
On the nape of
your neck.
When the stars
weep,
When songbirds
die,
Then, only then
Will my love be
left
By your lonely
side.
Do I yet know
how
Much I love
you?
Will my soul chant
In mourning for
you?
Will it long
for this world
Of night and
day only
Because you are still in it?
When Death Was Free To Roam The World
When Death was free to roam the world,
Unconstrained by science and medicine,
When doctors were mostly showmen,
And priests held the final word,
Then people believed in God and in
Heaven’s bliss and hell’s torments.
We moderns think that quaint now,
As we look back, we so much wiser,
Battling microbe killers while our
Instruments poke the universe, our
Knowledge galloping ever faster; and
Now we think death is the end, there
Will be no more, and angels are left
Only in those obsolete shelters that
House old illusions of a dead deity.
‘Be thee so sure?’ an ancient prophet
Might ask, for if you are wrong in
The measuring, in the weighing of
This world, then what world might
Await you when body and brain expire
And you find something still exists, an
Imperishable mind, one far beyond
Our mortal understanding clipped
By our senses and our feeble fears?
When The Heart Breaks
My hearts breaks so readily nowadays--
at hearing of the sudden death of a friend
or witnessing the slow death of another.
My heart is wrenched to see dementia
in my lovely neighbour with her lovely
English accent, and ‘Oh my dear’s,
knowing her sparkling voice might
soon be stilled as she moves slowly
and irretrievably into her childhood….
I want to ask God the why, the why not
of this part of the Grand Design—but
I know there will be no answer… though
perhaps I already have a part answer--
For when I was young and selfish and
perhaps even callous, my heart did not
see, my heart did not hear, my heart
knew neither longing nor joy-- it was
as though my heart were dead, unfeeling,
unresponsive...fearful, oh so fearful….
Now my heart lives and breathes and
feels pain and loss and joy, oh, the joy!
Is that what God wanted all along,
that I unclothe my heart and bear it
naked to the world, in hope and love?
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