Thanksgiving

Sight.  I can see the fallen, and the sparse tree-clinging, golden brown leaves.
I can see the orange and gold light-fretted clouds of another sunset.
I hope to see the bouquet of beams of many another sunrise.
I look up at the sky at night; and then the sight of the once-believed eternal stars
Fills my heart with mystifying questions and moody magic, through my eyes.
I can see the dew-jeweled web that a life-hungry spider weaves.
I can wonder at the wonderful wild world the spider simultaneously gilds and scars.
And in my mind, so many images of things I've seen, I'll never forget.
A newborn baby opening its eyes on life for the first time.
The eyes of a friend that look on me with caring love, and with hope or prayer for my cure,
And with appreciation and understanding of my heart's voiced verses of rhythm and rhyme.
The deadly dark ink of certain inhumane philosophy texts sprinkled with snare-trap lights that lure.
Seeing is wonderful and beautiful; but seeing is not believing, when that means being absolutely sure.
But romantic, sweet erotic love--so decried by those who dislove life--is pleasureful, perfect, and pure.
The lovely sight of one's lover, the source of loving light and love's sweet heat from life's perfecting fire.
Primal source of newborn life; primary pleasure; prime bond of love between two lovers' hearts: Desire.
I dream of the living light in the eyes of every lover I have ever loved:
If the heart were the final arbiter, then by the light in lovers' eyes alone, God would have been proved.
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Sound.  Birdsong beautifying the clear sun-lit air.
Male birds, singing love to their lovely mates.
The sound of my own singing, made to break through closing despair;
As if I had power to charm the Fates.
Infant life, a beautiful precious baby, cloying my ears with its coo and cry.
The mother singing the magical love of a lullaby.
Who can hear the music of such love, and believe that living light must die?
I never could before; but now, the shadow of no tomorrow feels close by.
The sound of the wind whistling; the mechanical clock-sound of minutes as they fly.
The voice of every lover echoing in memory's ear,
Makes me yearn for love again, sweet so-called sin, blessed by the bright blue sky.
My love of life that tells me that I cannot really die.
I feel the fear of the passing year; and yet this heavy hope is here:
The aching love in my heart, that dreams I cannot disappear.
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Scent.  Ah, the smell of roses!
A scent that in archetypical love of life reposes.
Yes, the honeysuckle, and the lilac, too; and the scent of every other flower.
The stirring sweet scent of a lover's hair.
To run my hands through those soft strands, I used to lose all sense of care.
The scent of my lover's skin, kissed with my passionate love, my loving that captured and kept--
Joyful and pleasureful--the terribly fleeting hour.
Then the scent of the fresh clean sheets on which we afterwards slept.
Death over life then seemed to flaunt no power.
Smells of all sorts--hot cocoa, percolating coffee, green tea, baking bread--
The smells of life, that make you glad you are not dead!
The smell of a new-mowed lawn.
The scent of our mother earth after rain.
Then there is no hint of horror; no searing fear, no sorrow, not even a pin-point of pain.
But in the rich luxuriant smells of life, as it dreams on,
God's love for us feels real; and every bitter gall falls to nothing, and is gone.
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Taste.  Now I must eat broccoli, spinace, Romaine lettuce (not iceburg lettuce), and cauliflower.
Organic when I can.  It is holistically claimed such fare has preventative and even healing power.
Raw vegetables when possible--or lightly cooked, as in Chinese restaurants.  What have I got to lose?
Conventional medicine tells me nothing for my final end, except very bad news.
But my holistic physician says that I can shake cancer's present treatment-pains and future shocks,
With green leafy vegetables, carrots, sunflower seeds, and at least twenty-five walnut halves daily;
Berries and fruits, beans, other nuts and seeds, colostrum, and twice a day six drops of detox;
Esseniac tea; organic moringa tea; pomegranate juice or capsules, and some resveratrol--
And who knows?  Perhaps I can keep together my body and soul--
Keeping myself alive for my genetiically gifted long life--
Which cancer threatens to cut in half like a slashing knife.
If I can get away from my chemical treatments, I may again please a lover, or may even joy a loving wife.
No processed sugar.  Sea salt when possible.  Apples, blueberries, bananas, pomegranates, and pears.
Goat yogurt, a quarter cup, sprinkled with four tablespoons of hemp hearts or hemp seeds.
No cheeseburgers or pizzas, that's for sure--no sodas, nor diet sodas--if I hope to lose my cancer cares.
If I hope to taste again the loving, living dream and pleasured life that a lover with his lover shares.
On one side, the foods my taste buds crave; on the other, the foods holistic thought says my body needs.
I cannot have steaks, chicken, or chops for which I wish; just salmon, cod, and other baked or broiled fish.
Boiled eggs or poached eggs only; or, rarely, fried--and only if fried in olive oil or coconut oil or canola oil. 
For salad dressing, only extra virgin olive oil.  And a teaspoon of extra virgin coconut oil every meal--
Before or after.  All so the flesh that bounds reality will not spoil--so to keep living reality alive and real.
Ice cream!  Well, I'm not allowed that.  Goat and coconut milk, yes; no soy milk, and nothing bovine.
No real ice cream.  I can have goat yogurt or soy yogurt, or coconut oil, made like ice cream to seem.
Yes, I'll taste that when I can; and I will be glad and grateful.
My water must be mostly Ph balance 9.5; at least one-half ounce each day per pound of my weight.
I hope it all will save me from dying a cancer death too terrible for anyone to deserve, so fiercely fateful.
And save me from dying loveless--no lover to caress my loving--a hell my heart finds harsh and hateful.
But whatever happens--whether I get gripped by this kind of cancer's painful death, or get away clean:
I will be grateful to God for everything I have tasted, smelled, heard, touched, and seen.
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Touch.  Ah, touch!  That's the one: the one that is most fun!
They may not literally feed among the lilies, but they are very hot.
Hot like the surface of the sun.
Lips on the tips; and then the lightning rips,
And tears through the clouds of doubt, despair, and hopeless fear.
To touch my lover, and feel her hands touch me, was to have heaven here.
Oh, God!  Grant me this, that before my life must expire,
I at least once more may feel such heavenly fire!
Indeed, I would not mind, if I must die, to die in love's desire.
If not, well then--as I slip early into tragic eternity--
I will try to die purely in sweet love's magic memory.
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Facing death, and yet now still living,
With every breath, my heart still feels thanksgiving.




--by PoetWithCancer (M.L.P.) aka Mr. Poet
Written on Wednesday, November 4, 2009   12:53 pm PST
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Humidity: 10%   Dewpoint: 17° F.   Barometer: 30.04 in and falling
High: 81° F.   Low: 54° F.   Sunrise: 6:06 am PST   Sunset: 4:41 pm PST
Copyright © 2009 by M.L.P.   All rights reserved