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- 88 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
eBook - ePub
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About This Book
The Caregiver is Caroline Johnson's first full-length publication. It includes 50 poems that were inspired by the 15 years she devoted to taking care of her aging parents. The gathering includes free verse, lyrical poems, prose poetry and some formal verse. Many of the poems won contests and have been previously published in online print journals and anthologies. The poems touch on the topic of grieving but go beyond and focus on the many difficulties a caregiver experiencesâboth emotional and physicalâyet also recognize the spiritual gifts that come with helping a loved one. Caregiving is a significant issue for our times and will only become more important as our population ages.
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Information
I.
Remember your father.
He is your life, also.
âJoy Harjo
CROSSING
Today I came across a painted turtle
as I was bicycling near a canal.
He had stopped in the middle of the trail,
head erect, all limbs exposed, waiting.
He seemed stuck in the moment,
moving neither forward nor backward,
trapped in time.
I thought of you, dear father,
moving across unstable ground,
gripping your cane and hovering
for a brief moment
before the storms set in.
LIFEâS MELODY
âI have found if you love life, life will love you back.ââArthur Rubenstein
I had a dream my father stood up, walked
out of his wheelchair into transience,
into life, into that vast Design like the patient
spider who spins silk ribbons as we listen
to Chopinâs nocturnes. And how did you
play them, Arthur? Did you not merge
with the music and disappear into the Divine?
And isnât it time, Father, for all of us
to slip into our own surreal world,
which remains lost until we stand
up, push aside our chair, and reclaim it?
SHAPESHIFTING
We are walking on the oldest rock in the world.
Basalt. Itâs part of the Canadian Shield, you said.
Striated black basalt formed from hot lava four billion
years ago, later tilting and shifting to the surface.
I hold your hand as we climb over wet stone
and migrate through sand. A bird sings
as the sun sizzles into Lake Superior. Earlier
we saw four snapping turtles laying eggs.
Golden waves spin a quilt of gossamer threads
as we sit on ancient rock and watch the sunset.
You tell me the L.A. Kings and the Devils are tied
in the Stanley Cup playoffs. I hold some rocks
in my handâpreserved, not fossilized. One
a perfect oval, one a trapezoid, another a hooded
figure, a wise shaman hovering over a drum,
or a Ku Klux Klan member carrying a stick.
Or perhaps it is an Indian chief bearing
robes and head dress, or maybe even
my father in his hospital gown, bending
down to pick up lost golf balls.
BECOMING ERUDITE
Long ago you told me your father
tried to hypnotize all four of his sons.
You didnât remember much, except
you wanted to be smarter, and afterwards
you immediately began reading the dictionary
page by page, while your brothers laughed.
When it was trendy in the 1970s, you
sat us down one by one. I counted
slowly to one hundred. You told me
to close my eyes, but I remember
peeking at a blinking Christmas light.
Your voice was smooth, intoxicating,
like the vodka tonic on the side table.
We sat together for 10 or 15 minutes,
you feeling more confident despite
each sip, me drunk on the attention.
Now I spend quiet afternoons with you
in your wheelchair. The voices of Dan Rather
and Wolf Blitzer hypnotize us. Now and then
you close your eyes and I speak to you
in hushed tones, coffee in hand. You worry
about your finances as you grip the remote,
the panic of losing control aching into
each hour, each minute, each second.
YOUR LAST CHANCE
Out of the warm respite of cradling arms,
of childhoodâs easy embrace,
down the corridor of doctorâs distant glow,
where worn leather black bag reveals
tools of experience and years of practice,
where each wrinkle shows smiles of promise,
and yesterdayâs dreams drum out a heartbeat
of EKGs and good-byes, where laughing soaks your eyes,
and each handshake and kiss is a blue mosaic to achingâ
your dreams fall back, your memories are whatâs left,
the blackjack table now lies waiting as you
watch the dealer collect your folded hand.
Youâre not pretending anymore, your chips are low.
Youâve reached the Velveteen Rabbitâs goalâ
the moment of realness now is present as you
watch the sleek silver Santa Fe go barrelin...
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Contents
- Sunsets
- I.
- II.
- III.
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author