Poetry

Some of the poetry to be found on Margie's CD When Death Comes Close

Too Soon, Autumn

Get back on the trees
you errant leaves!
How dare you fly
across my path so soon?
Forget your cheering colours,
green will do.
My body has not had enough
of summer.

Practising Dying

I have decided to practice dying,
like the monk who sleeps nightly
with his cup upended in the saucer.

I choose to practise surrender to the things that trigger my resistance:
to Post Office queues and cancelled trains,
to dinners too cold and days too hot,
to flea bites and my achy knee.

I choose to practise acceptance of all lesser losses:
the discarded garment that came back into vogue,
the butchered apple tree in my erstwhile garden,
the friendship that envy turned sour.

I choose to practise abandoning guilt and shame:
my three failed marriages,
the promises to visit I did not keep,
my children’s struggles I failed to see.

I choose to let unfulfilled visions die:
the crafts I made that few seemed to want,
the self-help book I wrote that helped no one but me,
the retreat I set up where few came to stay.

I choose to let go, when called to, of
the little house I so adore,
the work that gives my life meaning,
the illusion that I am in control.

Like the monk who sleeps nightly
with his cup upended in the saucer,
I have decided to practise dying.