I’m with you…always

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I kiss both cheeks
Your forehead
Say I love you
Watch your eyes
They now have lost the sparkle
And speak more
Than your voice
The struggles through your life
Do they compare
With your life now?
The father, my father whose
Heart beats in time with mine
I hold back tears
Not allowing 
My sadness to be seen
I worship the man you are
The father you have been
Memories of games played
Laughter, strong arms
Words of advice
Always there, those smiling blue eyes
Gentle, self effacing
Never a harsh word
Always loved and adored
I hold your trembling hand
Listen as you whisper you are
A burden, a dill, useless
Words cannot describe my love, my
Admiration I have for you
You will not see me cry as we
Look into each other’s eyes
This I do alone
I kiss both cheeks
Your forehead
I say I love you

this will explain my sink or swim piece I recently wrote

The sanctuary of home

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His wrinkled skin hangs against
The crispness of the sheets
No decadent surroundings
The darkness of the frosted morning
Blanketed by cotton drapes
Connected to wires that
Monitor his heart and
The hand on the clock
Moves another space

He waits alone much as he lives
This sterile room brightly lit
His mind on hold for a diagnosis
He shakes from fear not cold
The noise of people walking
Wont allow his body to rest

He remembers the silence
Before bombs hit the streets
Those he dragged to safety
Tending to their wounds
Medicine was scarce back then
Some died in his arms

He blearily eyed thanked the
Nurse who brought a cup of tea
His manners remained impeccable
He was raised this way
Help him see the light of tomorrow
With the curtains drawn
Without the starchiness of
Cold sheets, let him return
Though he lives alone
To sleep within his quiet space
With the memories of home

Copyright 27.8.2014

Bring out your dead – Fiction Prose

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Winter solstice

crisp air stung as darkness fell

lantern lit hung on burial spade

its job to dig

the pit

coffin raw in state bore no brass or copper handles

… rough sawn timber to conceal the dead

family mourned

waited for the driver dressed in black

with his horse to cart their dead away

…he the suffering witness to tears in grief

women on bended knees scream out

her name

– 1848 –

the sickness hit …bodies fell

prevent the germs from spreading

pulse weak hot bread on soles of feet

reaction none ….pronounced dead

burial must be quick

white and drained of colour

lain not on satin but threadbare cloth

they lifted her…. to hearse

gathered to walk the streets

listen to the iron wheels the sounds of hooves

her whispers could not be heard amongst their wails

I did not die I am alive

……she cried beside them

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150 words or less of Fiction For Angela Geoff  and

VisDare 21: Diverge

Thank you again for a wonderful photo prompt this week Angela.  Forgive the macabre. 113 words.