Bulwark

Three days after a diagnosis of brain cancer, I lay in my bed the night before a “debulking.” Such a petrifying term to use when thinking about your own brain. It had been a quick and frightening week from the onset of symptoms to a surgery that may just end me. My brother Mike stayed in the room after all the others had left. We shared the fear, sitting quietly. At one point Mike mused that the MRI had probably just picked up a dust bunny. There was no real threat…just a technical error. if only it were true. A nurse soon entered the room and offered me a sedative to hasten sleep. I refused. Mike didn’t understand. It wasn’t until the muse uttered, “maybe this time is not about me.” that we understood the true gravity of these last moments. We both cry when I read this poem. Thank you Mike for being my big brother.

Shadows on the image
reveal the waking reality
of slumbers inferno.

nightmarish and expedient,
like lightning I'm struck
go back to sleep
and dream another

loved ones gather
to witness life's passage
hoping,
praying,
warding,
standing guard as night falls

like pearl to the sand
hats, bandanas, and kisses
cover my roughness,
protecting me where i cannot

missed opportunities recounted
clarity in lifes' priorities....

immediate.

wishes well made
should time be allotted

twilight on tomorrow's journey
all the gargoyles have flown
yet one remains...
a bulwark for the waves

I am but a passenger on this voyage
Pull down the sails
and drift into the nether,
lest this squall consume us both

better a year my elder
always weathered ahead of me...
yet a storm like this
can test a vessel, only once.

underneath the surface
the leviathan looms...

hearts command
the courage to persist
if but this beast could be a little smaller.

harpoons steadied for the thrust,
and with brazen laughter
you mocked the beast,
"you are but a dust bunny!"

Let fly your trident, and
I loosed my own.