248. Enough

Here's another one
To add to the few
They seem to be coming
more often
What am I to do?
At first they barely existed,
But now they're second nature
How do I go about changing it?
Too much of something can
never be good
Just a slight bit of this is
already too awful.
When one is finally resolved
The time till the next
gets shorter.
The issues seem to be the same
The anger and frequency
seem to be more
How much longer will it be
till someone just says
"ENOUGH!"

247. She Knits

Knitting away she rocks in
her rocking chair -
Unconscious of the time,
Unaware of the day.
Since that time so long ago,
that dreadful, atrocious day,
She stopped keeping track.
Everything just didn't seem
worth it anymore,
Every action of hers was mechanical,
like a robot that needed oiling.
Left all alone, with everything taken
away from her -
Every motion or thought seemed lifeless,
even life itself.
She never talked about, nor did anyone
dare to ask -
they just wondered.
Did her husband leave her? Die in a war?
Was a young child victim to some disease?
Did she abandon her family?
Grow up all alone?
Only she knew the answer to a secret
so well kept:
A long time ago, it seems in a
distant far-off place
Three men knocked on the door
looking for a place to spend
the night.
Her husband let them stay
in the barn.
Early in the morning, while
she was getting some eggs
She heard screams and smelled fire
She ran back to the house as fast as
she could, but still, she was too late
The men had run off - plundering her
house, raping her three daughters,
slitting the throats of her son and
husband, burning her house to the
ground
Leaving her all alone, intact, but with
more hurt than anyone else.

Her face turns into one of
pain and anguish,
hurt and sorrow -
That is when they know she's
remembering the terrible
thing that left her like this
But at times, a slight smile spreads
across her face, her eyes get a
dreamy look, she slowly stops
knitting.
These are teh times when she thinks
of the day when she'll be
reunited with he family.
But until then, her secret will be
kept between her and her
knitting.

246. Who is John Thompson?

"Who is John Thompson"? you once asked.
"You don't know?!" I gasp, surprised.
"He is the old man that sits on that bench -
All alone, with one eye."
"One eye?" you ask.
"Gouged one out," I reply.
"Why on earth would he do that?" you ask.
"Have you ever wondered what it's like
to be alone in this world? [nod]
I mean really alone - with no one, not one
soul, to turn to;
To see only darkness, no light;
To feel no happiness or joy, only sorrow;
To have your heart break not by someone else,
but by your own doing?
Do you?"
[You are silent.]
"Look at John Thompson; look at him.
The only way he lived was by himself,
no care in the world for anyone,
not even himself."

"Then one day, he picked up a book;
a fancy-looking one, all garnished
in gold.
Flipped to a page by chance and read.
No one knows what it said - quaint little
poem - but his face softened, his heart
softenened, he wept.
He wept and wept;
No one knew what to say.
A little girl approached him;
touched his hand.
When their eyes met, he cried out
In a whirlwind, he reached for his
eyes,
But only succeeded in gouging one out
before they stopped him -
the girl shrieked in terror."

Now look at John Thompson -
What do you see?
An old man, alone on the bench,
clutching that fancy book.
What does he have to say:
Some nights poetry is not enough.

243. Reaching

I'm reaching out for something.
What? I do not know
All I know is that if I stretch
far enough,
I may be able to reach it.
With many grabs and snatches,
One would think I'd catch it,
but no -
I'm still here, holding nothing
When will my hands be filled?
How many reaches at nothing will
finally yield me something?
I grab at everything -
Left only with a movement of air,
a tightened fist.

Only then do I realize that every time
I grab, I've lost a chance to catch -
my hands are closed.
I choose instead to open my heart.