tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29999180.post869174754450725095..comments2023-11-05T04:54:08.272-05:00Comments on RawketScience: Otters holding hands, Love and TransitionRobin 'Keiko' Gregoryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11790151722012935335noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29999180.post-75104832551043536462007-04-05T17:04:00.000-04:002007-04-05T17:04:00.000-04:00Hey Paul.. love the poem.This is the poem Gary wro...Hey Paul.. love the poem.<BR/><BR/>This is the poem Gary wrote for his parents:<BR/>Poem Gary wrote:<BR/><BR/>They travelled together hand in hand<BR/>They came with each other to this new land<BR/>They lived and loved for all these years<BR/>Smile for them please and shed no more tears<BR/>They have left us now, they passed together<BR/>Their love united today and foreverRobin 'Keiko' Gregoryhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11790151722012935335noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29999180.post-39589240516129664312007-04-04T15:20:00.000-04:002007-04-04T15:20:00.000-04:00Psalm and LamentDonald JusticeHialeah, Floridain m...Psalm and Lament<BR/>Donald Justice<BR/><BR/>Hialeah, Florida<BR/>in memory of my mother (1897–1974)<BR/><BR/>The clocks are sorry, the clocks are very sad.<BR/>One stops, one goes on striking the wrong hours.<BR/><BR/>And the grass burns terribly in the sun,<BR/>The grass turns yellow secretly at the roots.<BR/><BR/>Now suddenly the yard chairs look empty, the sky looks empty,<BR/>The sky looks vast and empty.<BR/><BR/>Out on Red Road the traffic continues; everything continues.<BR/>Nor does memory sleep; it goes on.<BR/><BR/>Out spring the butterflies of recollection,<BR/>And I think that for the first time I understand<BR/><BR/>The beautiful ordinary light of this patio<BR/>And even perhaps the dark rich earth of a heart.<BR/><BR/>(The bedclothes, they say, had been pulled down.<BR/>I will not describe it. I do not want to describe it.<BR/><BR/>No, but the sheets were drenched and twisted.<BR/>They were the very handkerchiefs of grief.)<BR/><BR/>Let summer come now with its schoolboy trumpets and fountains.<BR/>But the years are gone, the years are finally over.<BR/><BR/>And there is only<BR/>This long desolation of flower-bordered sidewalks<BR/><BR/>That runs to the corner, turns, and goes on,<BR/>That disappears and goes on<BR/><BR/>Into the black oblivion of a neighborhood and a world<BR/>Without billboards or yesterdays.<BR/><BR/>Sometimes a sad moon comes and waters the roof tiles.<BR/>But the years are gone. There are no more years.Corby's Orbithttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03463959022217130280noreply@blogger.com