Featured Poet - Jane H. Fitzgerald

BANG, BANG, YOU’RE DEAD!

Bang, bang, you’re dead!

It had been so easy to play

Cowboys and Indians 

With my childhood friends

Bang, bang you’re dead

Only meant fun and games

Watching my companions

Pretend to die in agony

In old age I bought a real gun

Thinking I’d rather be dead 

Than incapacitated 

mentally or physically 

Dying in real agony

If illness claimed me

With one pull of the trigger

I could determine my fate

But then I thought of my grandchildren 

Would they find my blood stained body?

Would they wonder why I abandoned them?

No, I couldn’t do it

The gun was a horrifying selfish way out

Perseverance to the end

Was the only acceptable exit

Love will carry me through 

The gun was dutifully sold and

Bang, bang you’re dead

Was no longer a viable option

UNDER THE EAVES

Under the eaves in the attic

Hidden in an antique box

I discovered an old photo today

The picture was a catalyst for 

Remembered joy and painful longing 

My heart ached to fly back to that 

Time and place once again

The starry night had lasted til dawn

Was it really you and me

Your arm wrapped around 

my shoulder, holding me close

Together becoming an organic whole

My youthful innocence and passion tore

Through the static photo paper 

Gripping my splintered heart

Crushing the life out of

My altered aged visage

Your young loving face forever lost

Wasn’t I blessed 

Wasn’t I cursed

Left hanging on with agony

To the outside 

Of the empty box