The Poetry of Working with and Knowing Beautiful Souls

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Superman

I wish I could be Superman

And you were Lois Lane;

I’d break the Laws of Nature

And bring you back again.

I wish that I were Superman;

My love would be my strength

To bring you back to perfect health,

Your life to natural length.

But Superman was Jesus

When he healed people in pain;

He brought his dear friend back to life.

These stories weren’t in vain;

They must be showing us the way

That we can do the same,

Translate love into miracles

And lift you from your pain.

But maybe dying is just that

And life is one long dream.

God’s love then lifts you from your pain

And brings you back again.

Dedicated to the women of my support groups by
Marilyn Brine Gilmour   
July 31, 2009

Karin's laughter echos through the halls of Heaven

                                                               

                                     
                                   

                                                                 In Memory of:           

Lois

Harriet

Martha
Letitia

Michelle

Valerie

Mary

Louise

Pat

Lori

Mary Jo

Vigi

Jay Marie

Cecilia

Sue E.
Lynda

Iris S.

Michele

Trudy

Roberta

Kathryn

Sharon

Brenda

Sandy

Karin

Joni

Jane

Linda B.

Betsy

Sue C.
Penny

Meam

Sue D.

Kelly

Gail

Margaret

Cathy

Bonnie
Barbara (individual)

...to Lois

Maya Angelou, from her collection, I Shall Not Be Moved


When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder, 

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes briefly,

see with 

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken. 

Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed

and informed by their 

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable

ignorance

of dark, cold

caves.

And when great souls die

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of 

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.