***Scroll down if you want to skip my rambling to find four good poems****I'm trying to find coping mechanisms for my "fright" (not really the right word, more "the sense of being scared") for my Dad's health. The most "effective" way (if you can say wasting time is effective) is escaping reality by writing blogs and avoiding my "TO DO" list! Altho, I went back in earlier postings, and saw that I wasn't supposed to do this, see:
http://sheilasjumpinoff.blogspot.com/2008/10/not-gonna.htmlI also have been trying to write a special letter to my Dad to tell him how much I appreciate everything he has done for me and taught me, but I keep procrastinating on that (it's half written b/c i was going to give it to him Jan 13 on his birthday) because I get REALLY sad when I think about it.
Reading more and getting back into poetry is another coping mechanism. More about this below, but I also was re-reading earlier posts and I thought about "publishing" some of my poetry here....just gotta try to find that old notebook....I haven't written anything new in years. Maybe I should take some kind of poetry writing workshop...OH NO, not another thing for my "TO DO" list! There's just so much I want to do (see:
http://sheilasjumpinoff.blogspot.com/2009/01/so-many-interests-so-little-time.html)
Another way I cope is to get myself all "wrapped up" in the sorrows or travails of others. I know it is terribly selfish and I hope that I am not being inappropriately "involved" in their problems, but thinking of other people's suffering and trying to help out a little, has been "helping" me cope.
For example, asking for constant prayers (from EVERYONE I KNOW) for the darling angel, Caroline who is NINE, and one of my good neighbor friend's daughter who has cancer and underwent a FIVE organ transplant last summer. In the early stages of her cancer over a year ago, I took meals to their house. She is starting to do much better and her mother gave me a wonderful gift by bringing her out to dinner with us last week at Elfo's. She is a beautiful, young, wise little girl....and I am very fortunate to know her.
Or recently I found out about one of the girls I went to high school with (and wasn't really close with but have been re-acquainting myself with on Facebook) who lost her husband to cancer two years ago. Now there's another girl from high school who is suffering....and we were not really friends with back then, and I haven't even seen her in over 20 years, but she is suffering terribly in a life-threatening situation
I can't seem to "help myself" from trying to be "helpful" to others in tough situations....so I'm also turning to the written word to "help".
So yesterday I searched for close to an hour to find a nice little "gift" poem to send to her. I felt
compelled to send her something.
I just cannot imagine what her family must be going thru, not to mention her! I'm sure they are very hopeful and praying for a full recovery, and the last thing I want to do is send a poem that sounds like she's close to the end.
I have been signing her online guestbook where her husband posts updates on her health for a few months now. He recently appealed to people to send her more notes, as she is now more aware and conscious and loves hearing the notes read to her. I thought a poem would be a little different and interesting to her than the regular, "I'm praying for you." and "You are in my thoughts." messages that sick people usually receive. I hope I was right!
It's amazing how difficult it is to try to find an appropriate poem that would be motivating and somewhat helpful when her situation is so extremely dire, and she may be close to "going to the other side." I even sort of thought about sending some jokes to help her laugh (they say "laughter is the best medicine"). But, of course, since i was never very close to her, I have no idea what she would enjoy. I also didn't want a hokey, sappy or corny poem like you see in church bulletins. I wanted something really beautiful and real.
Well, this first poem by Rilke (below) is what I ended up sending. I hope it was the right thing. I hope she did enjoy it and had a few moments of happiness having it read to her.
I decided to post a few others in case you are in the mood to read a little poetry. Here are a few poetry sites if you want to search for more poems (many times you can search by topic and poet):
http://www.poetryconnection.net/http://www.poetseers.org/OH, and I cannot write about poetry without mentionin

g one of my dear friends from high school (who I have also NOT seen in over 20 years, but was very close with back then),
Leigh Anne Couch, who has published a book of her own poetry called (scratch that TWO poetry collections) called Houses Fly Away and Green and Helpless. I only knew about Green and Helpless, now I have to get the newer one! I'll paste one of her poems below too! Here's her publisher's website:
http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v6n1/poetry/couch_l/index.htmI hope she doesn't mind me "stealing" this picture of her off that website but it's so typically HER and I love her spirit soooo much! YES, you can love someone you haven't seen in over 20 years...oh, i'm so glad that is true!
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Early SpringHarshness Vanished.
A sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tenderness,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
Rainer Maria Rilke
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Nothing Gold Can StayNature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
Robert Frost
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The Chance to Love EverythingAll summer I made friends
with the creatures nearby ---
they flowed through the fields
and under the tent walls,
or padded through the door,
grinning through their many teeth,
looking for seeds,
suet, sugar; muttering and humming,
opening the breadbox, happiest when
there was milk and music. But once
in the night I heard a sound
outside the door, the canvas
bulged slightly ---something
was pressing inward at eye level.
I watched, trembling, sure I had heard
the click of claws, the smack of lips
outside my gauzy house ---
I imagined the red eyes,
the broad tongue, the enormous lap.
Would it be friendly too?
Fear defeated me. And yet,
not in faith and not in madness
but with the courage I thought
my dream deserved,
I stepped outside. It was gone.
Then I whirled at the sound of some
shambling tonnage.
Did I see a black haunch slipping
back through the trees? Did I see
the moonlight shining on it?
Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?
Mary Oliver
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Learning to Use the StickLet's say you're a blind boy in the street
jabbering nervously at the teacher
walking backwards in front of you.
He moves, and you toward him,
the traffic against you both. Not knowing
what's to come and when you'll fall
makes you fall to the curb and refuse to move.
It doesn't matter. You'll have to get up
and learn again the town isn't empty
just crossing to the other side
to make room in your stretch of nothingness.
Blindness is anything but that—
it's not black velvet or a locked closet either,
but a place you imagine is time itself
where ideas are as real as the lamp you knock over
again. You'll have to get up
and start learning to keep your eyes closed
for the seeing who can't bear to see them.
The hardest is learning you're not alone,
the nothing you maneuver through
is the something we're all born into—
Now, let's say I take you up
on your offer of coffee sometime.
I walk blindly into your story. I'm a character
there. I walk blindly into your body.
I'm a character there, and language is
the stick, or faith, or violence, or love is.
Learning to use the stick, tapping the walk,
gently stirring and parting the air, making
doorways to push yourself through,
learning there's no use looking down.
Leigh Anne Couch
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