 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:09:07 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 158745
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Door
[time] => 2010-04-08 03:54:45
[hometext] => This is a hopefully inspirational description of the peaceful passing of an old man wanting to be re-united with his wife.
[bodytext] => The Door He struggled to open his eyes, lids so heavy it required considerable effort. The room was dark, curtains closed to and the only light from a solitary standard lamp. With great difficulty he turned his head toward the large oaken door. A door that in the sixty years he had lived in the house had never been there before. The three down-filled pillows, plumped beneath his head no longer gave him comfort. His night clothes, he noticed, now felt loose around his body and felt quite damp. It was with great sagacity, serenity and assuredness that there was to be no more. Realisation came not as a shock but almost as a relief to the tired old man. He had outlived his wife, his beautiful partner and had welcomed her passing. Cancerous cells had ravaged her body and stolen her beauty and spirit. Yet she had fought and fought for that was her way, for her and for him to the absolute limit. Her death in the end was remarkably peaceful, in this same room where we began. His orders were clear to grieving relatives that there was to be no-one trespassing To this final resting place and to all involved he had made that most explicit The door drew his gaze once more and he knew that he had, with all he could muster, to reach it. Where door met frame there emanated the most intense light but he felt no discomfort. Indeed if anything the warmth of the light spurred his fragile frame to rise. He lifted his head, his arms and with amazing ease his body rose up to his great surprise. Swinging his tired old withered legs round he summoned his strength and his spirit. His body rose from the bed and standing stooped he approached the door with all effort. This was to be his last journey, to a better place, he knew because he was wise. As he made his way slowly forward he swore that he heard the distant sound of a choir. He was amazed at how easily he progressed even though it was at such a slow pace. Gnarled fingers from an arthritic hand reached forward to grasp the handle of the door. A door that he knew that after he had passed through would be there no more. Turning the knob he pushed open the door and was embraced by a light as bright as a fire. Turning he looked back and looked at the body on the bed which now had a serene face. As he passed through the door it closed and the spirit passed on to follow God’s law. Alistair Muir 07/04/2010. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 134 [topic] => 49 [informant] => aliopterix [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 0 [associated] => [topicname] => mystical )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com