Thursday, September 20, 2012

Poetry for thought...

I wrote this a few months ago.  Last week my Grandpa died and I remembered this.  Thought I would share it with the world.

I think that everyone looks at death differently.

A leaf must turn over to accept the water that the skies offer in rain,
A leaf knows not why he turns over
A leaf is not conscious of the rain.
A leaf turns over and gets pounded with water washing away the past.
A leaf knows not that dust has settled on it's cells.
A leaf is not conscious of how weary it gets when clouded by debris
A leaf Turns over to accept the water that renews it when the skies offer rain.
A leaf knows not why this happens over and over again
A leaf is not conscious that this rain is what keeps him alive.
A leaf must turn over just before it falls off the tree.
A tree Knows not why the leaves fall off and die
A tree is not conscious that new leaves will return in spring
A tree must turn over to accept the leaves that come after the hard winter is done.

I guess that this sort of describes how I think about death.  It hurts, but to see yourself as a leaf, taking the beating so that my energy can be recycled for the rest of the world, oddly makes it feel better.  We should celebrate the leaves that fall off the tree, for they make it possible for new leaves to bloom.  Just in case you want to read better poetry, here is one of my favorite poems.

O' Captain my Captain!
a poem by Walt Whitman

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

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