Tag Archives: old

Christmas 2 a.m.



There, in the glow of the tree,
near the stockings hung with care
and under the mistletoe, we float,
all of us, ghosts in the air,
swaying to the carols
in our long-gone everywhere,
voices-over-voices away…

And all the aches are abated,
and all the doubts are done,
and all of it matters no more
because it all will soon be gone.
So dance/just dance,
let us swirl this one more time,
for here, for now, for there, for when,
it is enough. Just dance/just dance.
I will.


I love the Holiday season and have very fond memories of family and friends from over the years. This year is no exception and, in fact, will be particularly special: for the first time in over 30 years, we will be celebrating it with my wonderful and beloved sister and brother-in-law.

To all my friends out there who are gracious enough to spend moments of your precious time reading my poetry, thank you, and no matter what your background is, or country of origin, or religion, may God bless you and the light of unity and peace shine on you and yours now, and forever. As Tiny Tim said (in imitation Cockney accent if you can), God bless us, every one!

See you sometime in 2019…

For other, previous Holidays poetry, may I suggest:

Holiday traditions

Until we’re all together again

Seasons (by Tierney Tolar)

Thank you for reading Christmas 2 a.m. I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain, and as always, I look forward to your comments.

The photograph was taken at Old Sturbridge Village, a living museum of the 1850’s in Massachusetts. To see my photography blog, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem, and notes © John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Work 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is © John Etheridge,  https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use in any way without the expressed consent of its creator.

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I am getting old

img_6911_2_3_4_5The oddness of it was not the shock of it
but the well of it I fell into:
that scent was all I could recall.
It was not a perfume, but a musk,
and that deep drink was more
then all the else I could remember.
That is, I suppose, not her truth,
but mine.

up

I have not posted anything for a long while, the main reason being my pre-occupation with completing my Master’s degree in Digitial Science from Kent State. I completed the last course over the weekend and am now free to get back to two of my favorite pre-occupations: poetry and photography. So fair warning: more poetry to come!

Thank you for reading I am getting old. I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain, and as always, I look forward to your comments.

The photograph was taken on Long Island, New York, one beautiful New Year’s Day several years ago. To see my photography blog, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem and notes © John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © John Etheridge,  https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use in any way without the expressed consent of its creator.

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Free to fly

upWhen that first, open-the-elevator-door smell,
that antiseptic, bleached hospital scent hit me,
I thought of Pip, our pet budgie bird.
(I named him that, from Great Expectations,
and hadn’t thought of him in years.)

Bought from the egg with markings down to his beak,
the lines had receded over time; when he died
he looked and moved like an old, bald man.
He went soon after my mother passed
and just after my sister and nephew moved away,
so that for the first time in 40 years my father was left
with a home that was—let’s say the words—deathly quiet.
I talked to him on the day he was bleaching out
the cage and, despite my urging, said he would
never have another budgie; none could equal Pip.

Anyway, the thought passed in a fleeting
second as I stepped out of the elevator
and into Intensive Care to see if my dad
had survived the heart attack,
or if I would find, as I feared,
an empty birdcage of a bed.
It’s funny what you think of when, isn’t it?

swril2

Budgies are small, colorful parakeets from Australia that make wonderful and personable pets. At birth, the line markings on their head go all the way to the beak but recede over time; in Pip’s case his head was pure yellow when he died. The only budgie we ever owned, he was a delightful little creature that my father adored and cared for. Pip lived, I think, to a very ripe old age (for parakeets) of around ten years and was, as I said in the poem, named after the protagonist in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

The ICU stands for Intensive Care Unit, where my father, who is 89 years of age, was taken after his recent heart attack. Last week, we (my sister, her son, and I) had rushed back to his home province, Newfoundland, in Canada, to be with him. Happily, I can report that dad survived the heart attack and at this writing is still, wonderfully with us. I have written several poems about him but the one I love the most is That tree.

Thank you for reading Free to fly. I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain, and as always, I look forward to your comments.

For my photography blog, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.

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At a cafe, watching


Have a seat

She plays, as all little girls do
when allowed to be themselves
(by themselves, for themselves)
with an intense ferocity of will
that allows no entrance to her
fantastical: crayons to paper
with a non-stop dialog
of the whos, ways and whys
of her world.

She is my daughter, as are her sisters,
as too are my sons, her brothers,
and all the young I can imagine.
And all I want to tell them
is that I’m sorry, that I never meant
for it to be this way, that I had hoped
for better when I started.
But the fantastical—as real
as it is—admits no one,
and especially not us unbelievers.
So I pay my bill and leave,
not saying, of course, a word.

swril2

She was a darling child, caught up in her play so completely that it was fascinating just to watch her, her mother off to the side talking with friends. I thought, “There is great hope—despite our worst—yet for this world.”

Thank you for reading At a cafe, watching. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

The photograph is entitled Have a seat and was taken in New York City on the steps of the Manhattan library. For more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use or reproduction in any way, unless so granted in writing by the copyright owner.

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