new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
Sounding is sweet sorrow. Tears enough and one becomes a sea creature, adapted only for the deep pain...no more splashing in the shallows, or drifting on the waves below the moon! A different tune creaks in one's ears, fighting krakens in the black and deadly cold places of high pressure; see the fissure, in the very earth below us! Dive, dive, and bubbles blow up as they rise, like balloons they expand as we say goodbye...or words to that effect.
So poignant and so true. There's nothing worse than rock bottom.
Until, that is, what was lurking beneath that rock crawls out and surfaces. And then we understand that what we thought the absolute worst was really only the (relatively) worse. All things pass. Sometimes that's just the trouble.
EDGAR[Aside] And worse I may be yet: the worst is notSo long as we can say 'This is the worst.'-- King Lear IV.i
I suppose one can always hope for the best--even the poor married man who, for various reasons, has been forced to live in his in-laws' house, his state being aptly described by those married gents lucky enough to be living in their own abode as being worse than a skinned fox's. In a more serious vein, however, each of us has to work out his/her own way of facing grief; perhaps having someone there to help us get over it alleviates the pain, perhaps not, but as Tom says, all things pass, even though that might be the trouble. I just don't know. In fact, I don't even know how I wrote this poem--it was one of those "given" ones--done and over with in less than two minutes--too bad grief doesn't pass that quickly.Thanks to all of you for weighing in with comments.