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"Sorrow"
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In
1989, as an outgrowth of and a response to our son’s
death after a 20-month battle with cancer, I began
to pen my thoughts in the form of poetry. I hardly
remember those early years of my writing, except
through the poems themselves. I no longer write
as often, with sometimes months passing between
writings. I no longer have such a felt need to express
my innermost thoughts on paper, my life having taken
its present course in a somewhat ordinary way. And
I am growing accustomed to the sameness and the
all-rightness of how things are today.
It is easy for me to believe that the greatest work
of my life was the care I gave to my son through
his illness and death, but I am beginning to realize
that my role today in the ordinary avenues of life
hold just as much promise and just as much importance
in the lives of my living family. And it is a blessed
realization to come to at long last.
It is possible that I am passing through a transformation
of a sort that I cannot imagine, so that I might
write words of a different nature for possibly a
somewhat different audience in the future. But at
present, I am content just to be. If blessings of
that nature come to me in future days, I will be
thankful then for new opportunities of expression.
At present, I owe a great debt of gratitude to my
sister for encouraging me over the last year, at
times even against my protests, to post a web-site
of my poetry and of my thoughts. I had no idea that
my finally relinquishing my hesitation to her desire
to create this site would bring about a new spark
of inspiration to examine my thoughts and bring
them out in actual words on the screen.
Although I have something special to offer, just
as any of you my readers have, I also have a very
ordinary life not unlike you. And as a friend said
to me, “It is a delicate effort to keep the
two balanced.” This is where I have come, to
understand that I am both special and ordinary,
and that it is not only acceptable, but very human
and very God-ordained to be both.
It is my prayer that if anything in what you read
here or in any of my poetry in this site touches
you or causes you to question or answers a question
for you, that you will glorify the Creator, for
it is in his creation that I find my strength and
my transformations that bring me continued life
in the spirit.
Sharon
Terry
Love
by
Nathaniel Terry, Sharon's son
When he was age 11 |
Love is beautiful.
Love is strong.
Love cannot break.
Love is forever in your family.
If love does crack or fall apart,
It can be mended once again.
Love is nice.
Love does not cheat.
Love is kind.
Love is sweet.
Love is when two people marry.
Love is all these things.
But remember,
Love is great.
Amen
by
Nathaniel Terry, Sharon's son
When
he was age 11
©Sharon
Terry
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For
Those Who Are Nearby
When
you've seen the great beyond
With feet still on the ground,
There is no merit,
ln sharing what you've found.
Come back, oh wandering pilgrim,
And hold the gate ajar,
For souls are waiting near you,
And coming from afar.
Within the gates of heaven
There comes but many a cry
Of wonder and of glory
For those who are nearby.
For mother after mother
Around the gate does stand,
And hopes for yet an entry
Into the other land,
Where child of heart is standing,
Arms outstretched and wide,
Accepting mother's wonder,
Accepting mother's pride.
For there is yet a season
To go beyond the gate,
To pass beyond the reason
Of those who seek their fate.
And, yet, on the tomorrow
When passersby look in,
They'll only see those mothers,
Not knowing where they've been.
©1993 Sharon
Terry
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Grief,
Be Not My Master
Oh,
grief, be not my master,
Though grief within me lies.
You tumble, and you toss your
head,
You strike as though you wish
me dead
But never will you gain the crown,
For you are not my master.
Though tears may flow and soul
may ache,
Within my heart you cannot lie,
For tears will cleanse and make
me whole.
You cannot wrench from me my soul,
For it is you that I control.
I give to you no power to hold.
Come visit me?
Yes, if you must,
But go away before the dusk,
For here you may not stay the
night,
No welcome room within my heart
Lies ready, swept, and well prepared
For such a guest as you.
"Rise Up," the cry screams
from my soul.
"Rise up," it's time
to claim the goal."
"Rise up," my heart
within me cries.
"Go forward now to claim
the prize,
And bring that prize within the
bounds
Of souls who seek God's glory."
"For you it is who fought
and won,
For you it is who lost your son
For purposes not known to man
But known within your heart the
plan,
And now, you see, you understand."
Dark the night when grief does
pass,
And deep within my soul at last
I see the dawn shine bright and
clear,
And hold within my heart so dear,
The one. True love he did impart,
For he still lives within my heart.
©1989 Sharon Terry
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No
Words
I
raised my hand to speak.
No words would come.
I closed my eyes and breathed the breath
of pain.
Expression comes, not in words now,
But in thought and grief and misgivings
at what I hear.
I love, therefore, I am.
I feel, therefore, I am.
I breathe, therefore, I am.
I know pain, therefore, I am
He lived, the boy lived.
And it was prayer that made the difference.
He was healed, the tumor shrank.
And praise, it was, that made the difference
How many times, Lord, pulled back to
this?
How many times, Lord, fighting this
off?
The guilt,
The shame
The pain of wondering.
He died.
Did I just not do it right?
©1993 Sharon Terry
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All
He Wanted Was a Robe
He
wanted a robe.
It was Christmas time.
All he really wanted
Was a robe.
He lay naked on the sheets,
Caught up in his own nightmare.
Turmoil raked his bones.
There was no fever,
Only heat,
Heat so strong,
So fierce
No clothes could touch his skin.
"Is there anyone you would like
to see?"
"No."
I wanted more,
More of an answer.
He lay naked on the sheets.
All he wanted was a robe.
We showered him with gifts that day,
That Christmas day.
It took all day,
All day,
Between coma and consciousness
It took all day.
His eyes were bright in wakefulness
I know because I see the pictures now,
And they tell the story.
Those shining eyes,
Glistening with love
That Christmas day.
All he wanted was a robe.
©1993
Sharon Terry
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