"high brow people lose their sanity"
she was a good old girl my ma
a real live east baltimore cow girl
a litttle hypocritical about keeping kosher with that mighty smitey god of her mothers before her. She loved those Maryland steamed crabs too much.
I remember the day she was on what was not to be her death bed
We all thought it was going to be her death bed. Rose
at peace with her G d, with no fear of death. We asked her so mom do you want the heroics do you want the doctors to resucitate
no she said. She could hardly speak after the heart attacks, the stroke, the cancer, the diabetes, the pneumonia. So when the doctor slipped in and went against her wishes and kick started her heart with a pace maker without asking us or her physician son. He wanted to strangle that heroic doctor. She lived another two weeks, of struggling for every breath. ready and waiting to die but with that tiny little battery continually kick starting her heart again.
It worked out for the best, she was able to die at home among her familiar surroundings, not in a hosptital surrounded by strange beeping noises and voices reverberating down long empty hallways. What does it matter where she died? I guess it don't matter It just seemed she was grateful that we brought her home to die. She was at that edge between life and death as we know it and she had no fear. I wish her daughter had come to peace with her but no that was to take another twenty years. Never too late for a mother's love.
Nothing to do with this I guess but
I always like that dickinson poem about the surgeon and "the culprit life"
Surgeons must be very careful.
When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions. Stirs the Culprit - Life!
Speaking of knives:
I remember the day after the day after my Rose of San Antone died
I was on a freight dock in Laredo reaching in my pocket for a knife to cut the big Texican's throat the second he turned his back on me. But it was not G d that stopped me. It was the voice of reason. All I had in my pocket was a little pen knife with a one inch blade that I used to cut plastic shrink wrap. And it had a dull edge. Well I don't know steve, maybe "the voice of reason" is the same as saying God.
Or as j would write it, G d.
Funny he had not done anything to hurt me, it was just the way he verbally pissed on my leg.
Wonderful poem steve
pardon the ramble
poetry the only known cure for obsolete diseases.
God never stopped me from killing anyone, and I never really wanted to hurt anyone, only just to kill them quickly and easily with no suffering, just a quick bang bang your dead like we used to play soldiers when we were kids.
What has stopped me from killing, never planned no perfect murders never thought about gettting away with it, the only time I put a long nights thought into killing someone. I am not sure if it was the mundane hope that comes with seeing the first light at the dawn of a new day, or karma that stopped me from killing. It just wasn't worth it I thought, a life time of running and watching my back, or worse .
I wish doreen would put a disclaimer on the poetry board, warning if you post a poem here you may be harrangued by long rambling tangental replies by me.
This not so much about mothers for me steve
More about an old country song
lord help me jesus I know what I am
