POEMS... that bring a smile/tears to you face.

[debey]

i hope i hugged you


One of the blessings in my life was you.
I cried with joy at the moment of your birth.
Your first smile was such a sign of love.
I hope I hugged you then.
When you fell down trying your first step,
I hope I hugged you.
Did you say Dada or Mama first?
I hope I hugged you.
As your eyes lit up seeing the first Christmas tree,
I hope I hugged you.
The day you started school and looked so scared,
I hope I hugged you.
When a friend made you feel bad,
I hope I hugged you.
After I had to make you behave,
I hope I hugged you.
When a lot of your requests were denied,
I hope I hugged you.
When you asked things about life,
I hope I hugged you.
When you did something really good or bad,
I hope I hugged you.
Before God took you from me,
I wish I could have hugged you one more time.
By Karen Rae Stublaski In memory of her son, Timothy Earl 7/27/62 ~ 8/16/80

[Huckleberry3911948]

i am sorry for your loss beautiful poem.

[debey]

you are in my thoughts & prayers. I've known no greater pain, that saying Good bye, to our children............
We invite anyone, grieving, to join us........

http://www.city-data.com/forum/group...your-loss.html

[Steve Bagu]

As the OP I find the additional POEMS shown very warm to my heart. They do bring a small tear in the corner of my eye. This is not meant to be a mourning effect but only to show a side of tenderness and sadness in the memories we all share. Life has its ups and downs. Fond memories are good for the soul. They will bring a slight smile on a recollection of the past and maybe a tear also.
We are being looked down on from above and are being watched over. The passing of my late wife the day before my youngest daughters 16th birthday was devastating. She said that later on she woke up in the middle of the night and saw the image of her mother at the foot of the bed looking at her. We all have some story in our past. Again thanx for the NICE poems. Steve

[poconoproud]

Before this beautiful rose does die,
hang it up-side down to dry...
A memory it shall then become,
preserved until you both are one.
Take this memory to heaven with you...
there the rose will be fresh and new.
Give it to your beautiful wife,
so she will know you remembered her life.
Together, forever, your spirit will fly,
with never another tear to cry.

I wrote this for a friend who's wife died of cancer, and gave it to him with a single red rose...which he has hanging up-side down to this day.

[Whyte Byrd]

Originally Posted by poconoproud

Before this beautiful rose does die,
hang it up-side down to dry...
A memory it shall then become,
preserved until you both are one.
Take this memory to heaven with you...
there the rose will be fresh and new.
Give it to your beautiful wife,
so she will know you remembered her life.
Together, forever, your spirit will fly,
with never another tear to cry.

I wrote this for a friend who's wife died of cancer, and gave it to him with a single red rose...which he has hanging up-side down to this day.

Wow! What a beautiful thing to do.

[hollygolightly]

Anne Sexton~ "Wanting To Die"

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.