Tag Archives: weak

On the Savannah

16 Nov


On the Savannah

By L. Stewart Marsden

On the Savannah
Death stalks and waits
In every field of grass
Under each watering hole
For the unwary
Or the weak
Or those left behind;

The kind of strife that daily
Rises in the east and never sets;

Jaws and teeth led by smell and struggle and blood

Yet amply gives and hides in such a way
That prey pray for another day
To continue
And thrive
On the Savannah.


20 Mar


by L. Stewart Marsden

Why are you so weak?
Just what the hell is wrong with you?
Get out of that goddam bed and make your stand!
And . . .
and . . .
and . . .

That’s what I really want to say . . .
To prey upon your sense of guilt . . .
Rekindle your soul so the fire’s rebuilt
and you do whatever will make you whole
and finally finally come back to me.

Don’t you see?
Your frailty is the weakness in me —
and all that I see is a bleak emptiness
where you once rested
before you allowed this — this thing — to best you.

Damn! Why can’t you fling off the covers
and jerk out the needles and tubing and
whatever else is using your life?
And we, longtime lovers
return to the time when living our life
was never so hard, like
so second nature?

Yet you’re quietly, slowly leaving me
setting me free to an unwanted freedom
where I will resist and reject what’s to come
and become of me.

That — you —
are my ultimate frailty.
And when you die
I will cease to exist.

So I will persist to insist that you war and you rage
and resist the temptation to turn the last page.

Do you not hear me now?
Can you not nod or somehow or the other
acknowledge my rage?
Won’t you please rest my fears
with a soft, gentle squeeze or tiny pearled tear
that traces your soft and pale face
and lingers upon your whitening lips
that I bend to and kiss
for the very last time?

Damn you.