NURSING HOME
Raynette Eitel
This is the place for children
grown wrinkled and gray,
for cries in the night
for wheel chairs, teddy bears,
empty stares.
This is the place where dreams end,
where halls echo calls for Mother
where brittle laughter
cracks like ice
then slips unnoticed across the floor.
Behind each door
is a kaleidoscope of shattered memories
playing in meaningless prisms of color,
blurred visions moving, changing, shifting
to frightening, glorious, aimless shapes.
No one cares to look.
This is a place where pain of body and soul
meet and play impartially
across each wizened face,
where innocence goes unrewarded
and evil meets inlpunity.
The lucky ones are those
who forget where they are.
THE DAY I MUST LEAVE
Raynette Eitel
The day I must leave this earth
with faltering steps,
eyes grown dim from too much seen;
the day I tum my back
on all I have loved
to go and dance among the stars,
I shall bequeath a trail of rainbows
to remind you of my love.
The day I must say goodbye
to the glory of a red sun spilling
like paint across the eastern sky
the day I can no longer hear
your laughter,
hold your hand and soothe your tears,
I will linger in your memory
and leave you my joy.
The day I must go away
because I am too tired to stay,
too used up from years of caring
from bearing sorrow,
from puffmg up with ecstasy,
the day my poems end,
the final chorus sung,
I shall leave melodies in your head
and words for you to snag, midair
to bring soft lullabies
as you sleep.
SLOWING TIME
Raynette Eitel
Someone slow down
the grandfather clock.
Go sit on his hands.
Cover his face.
Hang onto the pendulum
for dear life
for slower pace
for more time.
There are dances to be claimed,
dreams tamed
like slow songs,
nights with antique stars
strewn across our bed
while we ignore the flight of time
and a moon’s swift journey
across the sky.
Stop the chimes.
Halt the clatter time makes,
the constant din of ticking,
clanging, buzzing.
Let us slip like ghosts
up the silent old mountain
beside pitted, ancient rocks
and tired, timeless trees
casting tall shadows
across the shriveled earth.
When I Am Gone
Raynette Eitel
When I am gone
you will find me in the comfort
of a cup of coffee
as your day begins
and you will stir my words
like cream,
remembering my voice.
When I am gone
memories will slip in on moonbeams
and I will walk with you in your dreams
drying each tear
as you feel I am near.
When I am gone
you will hear swatches of music
swells of cellos singing Vivaldi,
a measured beat of Soussa
rich chords ofTchaicovsky
as I dance in your head
on feet young again.
When I am gone
you will hear my laughter
as children play outdoors,
or around your kitchen table
as conversation turns light
at the end of day.
When I am gone
you will see my face
in fleeting expressions ofyour sisters,
your children and grandchildren,
I will smile back at you
from the mirror.
When I am gone
you will hold these
baskets of poems
close to your heart
and it will be as though
I whisper comforting, familiar
thoughts to let you know
I am not so far away.
OLD POET
Raynette Eitel
I have reached the age
where my feet move slowly enough
for words to catch up,
skipping along in iambic pentameter.
Once I hopped over merry metaphors
rolling like marbles in front of me
so I would not fail to notice.
There was a time when rhyme
rang in my ears like a lullaby,
when alliteration clung to my tongue
like licking lime lollipops
until my lips puckered.
Now, weary words wander blithely
across my pages,
recalling passion, laughter, tears
from other years
then leaving a sort of peace.
I don’t mind that my life
is in the final couplet of a sonnet.
The first twelve lines were superb.
I expect only that the ending rhyme
will in all due time
be unique and pleasing to the ear.
ARCHEOLOGICAL DIG
Raynette Eitel
I never dreamed my soul
would one day become
a rich dig holding
precious shards of childhood,
broken pots of memories,
bent coins of youth,
beads of crystallized tears
all for the gentle nudging,
careful chipping
of someone who really cared.
Dreams sifted through sunlight,
fears lit by stars,
words long buried and forgotten,
layered in the mud of grief
are petrified, hardened
faded
jaded
not willing to give up their
places in the tomb of memory.
I never thought my soul
could ever be a dig.
Will it render joy
or will a prized treasure
be ground to dust
leaving only my broken heart?
