You Ought To Write a Book

Talking with an interesting lady shortly before she passed away. This is not her story -- but it could have been------------

 

YOU OUGHT TO WRITE A BOOK

 

" You ought to write a book," I said

but she just smiled and shook her head;

"I haven’t lived enough to write."

Then she described her life down on the farm.

She spoke of the animals --- and the heat,

Of the flies -------- the drought -----

And burning wheat.

She told of flooded rivers

And drowning sheep.

And the joyful awakenings

To a clear blue sky!

Of the birth of chickens

And new growth of spring..

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

but she still smiled and shook her head.

"I don’t have anything important to say."

Then she spoke of her wedding day

And of two babies born and grown.

She told of rustlers who stole their sheep

And ---- why the postman died.

She recalled --- the day her husband left

When the children were just in their teens

And how she was forced to sell the farm!

She spoke of choking city fogs

and her fears for children country bred.

She wept, as she told

How they wandered the streets,

And of the way her daughter died.

And how her son took the vengeance trail

Killed the rapist -----

And went to jail ----

To die in the electric chair.

And how she

Could not weep .

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

she wiped her eyes and shook her head.

"No one wants to read my story." Then

She smiled and told how

Her life improved,

About the joy of a lottery win!

Her eyes shone as she described

The only holiday she’d ever known---------

The trip to Europe, The Snowy Swiss Alps,

How Ireland really is emerald green.

A foggy ride across the English Channel,

The helpful and friendly Gendarmes.

Her faded eyes twinkled as she recalled

The Italian who pinched her bottom!"

At my age too!"

She giggled like a girl.

 

Her lashes drifted down,

Rested against pale cheeks,

And once again

I wondered

At the tenacity of life.

A drip

Adjusted in the wrinkled arm

The Nurse

Gently stroked the grey curls

Before leaving the room.

 

Moonlight filtered through slatted blinds

Kissing the sleeping face.

Lasses raised and blue eyes opened wide

In pleased amazement.

"Why, you’re still here?" she smile

"Of course I am" I replied

and reached for her hand.

Frail fingers closed around mine

With a strength

That surprised.

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

her fingers tightened, and she shook her head.

"No one would be interested!"

Then she spoke of the time

Her plane was hijacked

Over the Indian Ocean!

How the smell of fear

Swept through the cabin where she sat,

Too terrified to move.

How the frightened cries of children

Added fuel to the anger

Of grenade holding maniacs,

And how mothers begged for mercy------

When there was none!

Ten people died that day, three of them under five.

She trembled as she recalled

How she froze -------

With a gun at her head;

Afraid to breath.

Of the explosive relief when demands were met

And the plane landed.

Then how

As the last passenger reached safety,

A fusillade of shots

Ended the terror;

Except for recurring dreams.

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

She smiled and shook her weary head.

"There isn’t any time" she sighed

then turned her face

and gently ---------

died.

 

 

ã Copyright JG 1986

Author's Note

Thoughts, views comments all welcome thanks.

Reviews

[blacksky45]

omg! i needed to walk away from my compuiter for 5 min cause i was crying from this. i dont know why though. i know that you made up a lot about the stuff the lady did but it still was very emotional. this is definatly being added to my favorites. awsome poem!! keep writing!