Poetry

Your Last
Goodbye
by
Lorraine Frost

As the darkness fell
Around your face
The distant smile
Oh what a waste
Of a youthful life.
I see your face so
Full of sorrow
There's no tomorrow.
Your saddened eyes
Your weakened mind
You've left behind,
Your joy your laughter
My pain ever after.
You'll always be
Forever young
The brightest star
More than the sun
I'll always ask
Forever why
You had to say
Your Last Goodbye

A Poem
by David Harkins

You can shed tears that he is
gone,
or you can smile because he has
lived.
You can close your eyes and pray
that he'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see
all he's left.
Your heart can be empty because
you can't see him,
or you can be full of the love you
shared.
You can turn your back on
tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow
because of yesterday.
You can remember him only that
he is gone,
or you can cherish his memory and
let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what he'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love and go
on.

When that happens, do not attempt to instill artificial life into my body by the use
of a machine. And don't call this my deathbed. Let it be called the bed of life, and
let my body be taken from it to help others lead fuller lives.

Give my sight to the man who has never seen a sunrise, a baby's face or love in
the eyes of a woman.

Give my heart to a person whose own heart has caused nothing but endless days
of pain.

Give my blood to the teenager who was pulled from the wreckage of his car, so
that he might live to see his grandchildren play.

Give my kidneys to the one who depends on a machine to exist from week to
week.

Take my bones, every muscle, every fiber and nerve in my body and find a way to
make a crippled child walk.

Explore every corner of my brain.

Take my cells, if necessary, and let them grow so that, someday a speechless boy
will shout at the crack of a bat and a deaf girl will hear the sound of rain agianst
her window.

Burn what is left of me and scatter the ashes to the winds to help the flowers
grow.

If you must bury something, let it be my faults, my weakness and all prejudice
against my fellow man.

Give my sins to the devil.

Give my soul to God.

If, by chance, you wish to remember me,
do it with a kind deed or word to
someone who needs you. If you do all I
have asked, I will live forever.

FOR BRANDON
By
Brian E

When does the pain go away?
Does it ever go away?
I drive the dark roads at night,
and I think of you.
I stare up at the pictures
of you on my wall,
and I think of you.
I think of your smile,
your laugh,
I think of how lucky you were,
how close you were to
the threshold of success,
close to having everything
you ever wanted.
And I think of Eliza,
lovely Eliza,
scarred forever for reasons
she cannot understand,
and cannot bare to try.
Yes, Brandon,
I will think of you always,
and I will always wonder,
Why did you have to die?

Brandon
And he has left us.
Yet, in his absence,
His presence is
And shall be
Stronger than ever.
For he is
Everywhere now,
And he is
Inside of us;
We, who witnessed
The brilliance
Of his flame
And were warmed
By it's heat;
We, who heard
The chimes
Of his church bell laughter
Ring the plains
Of starry dawns;
We who stood
In the pure rain
Of his divine
And noble spirit
Are now it's
Blessed, honored keepers.
Within and through us
He shall live on
And in our lives
Shall ever be enriched
By him
In ways
Wondrous and untold.
Fly high, dear friend.

--Robert Zuckerman
March 31, 1993

FOR ELIZA
by
Brian E

When we were young,
it only took a kiss from our
mother,
to cure the pain outside.
Death leaves us feeling hollow,
empty.
We feel like a part of us has died
along with the person we loved.
And there is nothing Mom, in her
great wisdom, can do,
to cure the pain inside.
While the tears flow and our
hearts mend,
We come to face the reality of our
loss,
And all we have is time and
memories,
to cure the pain inside.

The Progress
of the Soul
Death be not proud; though
some have called thee. Mighty
and dreadful, for though art
not so, For those whom thou
think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death...
--John Donne,

When in the
chronicle of
wasted time I see
descriptions
of the fairest wrights, And
beauty making beautiful old
rime, In praise of ladies
dead
and lovely knights, Then, in
the blazon of sweet beauty's
best, Of hand, of foot, of
lips,
of eye, of brow, I see their
antique pen would have
express'd Even such a
beauty
as you master now.
--William Shakespeare,
Sonnet 106.1.1

The day will come when my body will lie upon a white sheet neatly tucked under
four corners of a mattress located in a hospital; busily occupied with the living and
the dying. At a certain moment a doctor will determine that my brain has ceased
to function and that, for all intents and purposes, my life has stopped.

TO REMEMBER ME
I will live forever
by Robert N. Test

REMEMBER ME

Remember me with smiles and
laughter, for that is the way I
will remember you all.

If you can only remember me
with tears, then don't
remember me at all.

-- Anonymous

Para Brandon
by
Aldarwa

La muerte se sintió tentada
al ver a un ángel vestido de
negro,
de ojos tan tiernos,
de dulce mirada.
ugaba a estar muerto
caminando entre vivos,
pero no estaba
sino más muerto que vivo,
pues el hada negra
le envió a su dama,
fría, veloz, con brillo de acero.
La dama metálica
atravesó su escudo de cuero,
y allí, sobre el gélido suelo
yacía lánguido el ángel,
que con apenas un soplo de vida
su corazón aún latía,
suplicando a gritos
que no llegara su hora ese día.
El hada malvada,
cruel y maldita,
escuchó su llanto,
y le concedió trece horas de
dolor y de agonía.
Con una lucha sangrienta
en una batalla
desde el inicio perdida,
el ángel, cansado,
con sus fuerzas marchitas,
se sintió vencido
y cerró los ojos a la vida.
¿Pero qué hado macabro,
qué destino maldito
condena a un ángel
a pagar tan alto precio
por querer alcanzar un sueño?
Todavía hay quien espera
que un pájaro negro,
te envuelva en su vuelo,
y con sus alas negras
te traiga de nuevo.
Pero lo cierto es
que sus alas
no son otras que las tuyas
y, las suyas y las tuyas,
ambas,
sesgadas fueron
en aquella noche oscura.
Esa cita cálida y blanca
que con ansia esperabas,
se ha convertido
en un velo de lágrimas;
tan sólo ha quedado
un aro dorado,
el olor de unas flores
y vestiduras de gala,
que ahora te llevan,
en tu viaje sin miel,
sin final y sin paradas.
Duerme ángel mío,
descansa,
que por cruel y siniestro que
parezca,
en tu propia tumba
la gloria alcanzas.
Aunque ya no estén tus ojos
para ver tus logros,
aunque ya no estén tus labios
para reír por tu dicha,
aunque ya no estén tus manos
para rozar tu gloria con los
dedos,
y ni si quiera tu corazón
vuelva a latir inflamado por el
gozo, con pasión,
es ahora, estoy segura,
de que tu espíritu,
tu ser,
tu fuerza,
tu alma pura,
reposa como suave y frágil
pluma
sobre un retazo de cielo,
quizá acompañada de otra
estrella
que dejó de brillar temprano;
y, ahora ella,
que te cuide y te proteja.

Poetry

If tears could
build a stairway
And memories a lane I'd
walk right up to heaven and
bring you home again.
--Anonymous,
contributed by Lorraine Frost