Category: End of life

Grief has mined my soul

scoured through the gravel, tipped the tress,

exposed the heart,

carved its shape on me forever.

I am laid bare.

Yet …

From this barren centre where not even the roots survive

you have scooped jewels,

shaped and polished,

set the colours in place.

The valuables have been carted away.

I am excavated.

 

And what if …

What if there is only usefulness?

Only product and outcomes and balance sheets?

What if the soft earth never returns?

Will grief define me forever?

 

God, take away this trampling,

this roar of relentless destruction.

God, send the seasons

of predictable pain and joy

that seeds will take hold

and the world will flower again.

Sharonne Price

This poem was written after home visits to a young couple whose baby was dying. It would be the third infant death for them. “She will die soon,” they said, with a  desperate resignation.

The poem was first published in “Behold” magazine,  September- November 2006

Multiple Myeloma

A lone dingo
howls in the night.
Predatory loneliness
stalks just beyond fright.

I hear her still.
Further? No, close.
To this boundary rider
Am I victim or host?

The sun’s long gone,
the moon’s dipped and turned.
No shadows, no shelter.
Desert stars unconcerned.

She howls again,
then trots away.
But the soul’s long sinewy night
is here to stay.

© Sharonne Price

Accompany me with singing

If when I die, Death makes a splash,
and Love is torn but true,
Then sing the songs of a life maxed out,
given, graced, full, ever new.
Just accompany me with singing.

If when I die I’m old and frail,
and friends and Church are too,
then make the songs so light and sweet
Jordan turns from grey to blue.
Just accompany me with singing.

© Sharonne Price

Beyond

No, this great orb will trundle through,
defy the void beyond the blue.
She’ll tread her path both grand and narrow
and spin her way through light and shadow.

Great Life relentless pushes on.
Spring’s propelled by bud and blossom.
Seeds must sprout and leaves unfurl.
Snow’s water churns the Maker’s mill.

This is sweet gift and paradise
that you and I, despite demise,
leave legacies beyond the sorrow
that turn and twirl and power tomorrow.

Sharonne Price

Last Days

Tis your season for withholding, Lord,
and mine for golden pallor,
I steady myself for the letting go,
and relinquish foolish valour.

Low horizon, orange moon
once full, now on the wane.
Last year’s nests cast shadows now.
They’ll not hold life again.

The wind blows hard, the sap draws down
You’ve taken summer’s sheath.
They’ll see the bony fingers soon,
and all that grew beneath.

I railed against the verdict, then.
Prognosis, promise, threat.
And prayed and played against the odds
for still more life, and yet…

’Tis your season for withholding Lord,
I’ll float to mother earth,
and sink in deep on forest floor,
sweet tryst with ancient birth.

Sharonne Price

What if you blew me away, Lord,
On this gentle waft of a breeze,
Across the white lace petticoat
And the wide-spread skirt of the seas?

Beyond seductive aqua
To bluer, sapphire deep,
Where whales lament in baritone,
And languid dugongs weep.

There is another haunting here.
I hear a faint faint bell,
And muted moans of shipwrecks
Swaying slowly in the swell.

This is a turgid highway
Of migrants, winged and finned,
Of nomads, pranksters, pilgrims
With bearings deep within.

So when I’m blown out seaward
I’ll hear the signs and sighs
Of travellers who have been this way
Their history in their cries.

But I’ll hover in still moment
And despite the wind blast, sing,
My compass will direct my flight
To your antipodean spring.

Sharonne Price October 2011