Poems

Below you will find poetry and prose that may be of comfort to you during your grief.  Several of the poems were written by grieving parents.

“I Thought…”
by Alice Check for Patrick Ryan Check 

I thought the measure of your life
would be a span of years
instead I counted it in days
then shed uncounted tears.

I thought as mother of a child
I’d be a loving guide,
until you reached maturity,
then I would step aside.

I thought that when you left this world
and stood at Heaven’s door,
I would not weep beside your grave
since I’d have gone before.

I thought I’d only learn from you
the depths of love—not grief,
so much from such a little one
whose time…so very brief.

“I wanted so much for you…”
by Maria LaFond Visscher

I wanted so much more for you, my sweet little baby.
I wanted to change your diapers, not my life.
I wanted to nurse you, not my grief.
I wanted to dress you up, not bury you down.
I wanted to hear the sounds of you crying for me at night,
               not my own sounds of crying for you, my innocent, misconceived baby.
I wanted to see you grow, not the grass upon the grave.
I wanted to see you asleep in the crib, not in the casket.
I wanted to give you life, not death.
I wanted to show you off, not alone go on.
I wanted to comb your fuzzy hair, not save a lock of it.
I wanted to pick up after you, not put down my dreams for you.
I wanted to hold you in my arms, not this doll.
I wanted to walk you late at night, not my fears.
I wanted so much for you, my newly born, newly gone—child.
I wanted so much more.

I want so much.

“Just Those Few Weeks”
by Susan Erlin

For those few weeks-
I had you to myself.
And that seems too short of time
To be changed so profoundly.

In those few weeks-
I came to know you…
And to love you.
You came to trust me with your life.
Oh, what a life I had planned for you!

Just those few weeks-
When I lost you,
I lost a lifetime of hopes, plans, dreams, and aspirations…
A slice of my future simply vanished overnight.

Just those few weeks-
It wasn’t enough time to convince others
How special and important you were.
How odd, a truly unique person has recently died
And no one is mourning the passing.

Just a mere few weeks-
And no “normal” person would cry all night
Over a tiny, unfinished baby,
Or get depressed and withdraw day after endless day.
No one would, so why am I?

You were just those few weeks my little one
You darted in and out of my life too quickly.
But it seems that’s all the time you needed
To make my life so much richer-
And give me a small glimpse of eternity.

“Not Like You”
by Sheri Hess

I am a mother, though not like you.
You cradle your sweet baby in your arms,
Mine are empty, but I hold him in my heart.
You brush her soft curly hair,
and tie pretty pink bows just right.
A lock of his hair is tucked neatly in a book
You pick daisies and tie them in a chain
to wear around her neck
I cut lilacs and arrange them in a vase to set at his grave.
You look forward to dreams and plans.
I hold on to memories.
I am a mother,
though not like you.

In Memory of Dakota Rain Hess

“My God”

You have given and You have taken.
You, who have taught me to love, will also heal the wound which has come because of the death of my beloved Jeremy.
Send Your comfort and Your blessing to all who mourn the loss of our dear ones. 
Bind up my wounds and theirs. 
May we all realize that we are but sojourners on Earth, and may we so live that when tears are shed they are tears of love and happy memories and not the tears of regret because of unused opportunities while loved ones and friends were with us.

Oh God, this hour revives in us memories of loved ones who are no more.
What happiness we shared when they walked among us!
What joy, when, loving and loved, we lived our lives together!
Their memory is a blessing forever.
Months or years have passed, yet we feel near to them. 
Our hearts yearn for them.
Though the bitter grief has softened, a duller pain abides,
for the place where once they stood is empty now forever.
The links of life are broken.
But the links of love and longing cannot break.
Their souls are bound up in ours for ever. 

Oh God full of compassion,
Eternal Spirit of the universe, grant perfect rest under the wings of Your presence to our loved ones who have entered eternity.
Master of Mercy, let them find refuge for ever in the shadow of Your wings,
and let their souls be bound up in the bond of eternal life.
The Eternal God is their inheritance. 
May they rest in peace and let us say:

Amen.

Oh God,
this hour revives in us memories of loved ones
who are no more.
What happiness we shared when they walked among us!
What joy, when, loving and loved,
we lived our lives together!
Their memory is a blessing forever.
Months or years have passed, yet we feel near to them. 
Our hearts yearn for them.
Though the bitter grief has softened, a duller pain abides,
for the place where once they stood is empty now forever.
The links of life are broken.
But the links of love and longing cannot break.
Their souls are bound up in ours for ever.

“My Little Angel”
by Anonymous

You’ve just walked on ahead of me
And I’ve got to understand
You must release the ones you love
And let go of their hand.
I try and cope the best I can
But I’m missing you so much
If I could only see you
And once more feel your touch.
Yes, you’ve just walked on ahead of me
Don’t worry I’ll be fine
But now and then I swear I feel
Your hand slip into mine.

“The Bridge Builder”
by Anonymous

An old man going a lone highway
Came at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting your time with building here,
You never again will pass this way,
Your journey will end with the closing day.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you this bridge at evening tide?” 

The builder lifted his old, gray head,
“Good friend, in the way that I’ve come,” he said
“There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This stream that has been as naught to me
To the fair-haired youth might a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim,
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

“The Daffodil Principle”
by Anonymous

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, “Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over.”  I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead.

“I will come next Tuesday”, I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy.  Still, I had promised, and so I drove there.  When I finally walked into Carolyn’s house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren, I said, “Forget the daffodils, Carolyn!  The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!”

My daughter smiled calmly and said, “We drive in this all the time, Mother.”

“Well, you won’t get me back on the road until it clears, and then I’m heading for home!” I assured her.

“I was hoping you’d take me over to the garage to pick up my car.”

“How far will we have to drive?”

“Just a few blocks,” Carolyn said.  “I’ll drive.  I’m used to this.”

After several minutes, I had to ask, “Where are we going?  This isn’t the way to the garage!”

“We’re going to my garage the long way,” Carolyn smiled, “by way of the daffodils.”

“Carolyn,” I said sternly, “please turn around.”

“It’s all right, Mother.  I promise.  You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience.”

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church.  On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign that read, “Daffodil Garden.”  We got out of the car and each took a child’s hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path.  Then, we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight.  It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes.  The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns—great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.  Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.  There were five acres of flowers.

“But who has done this?” I asked.

“It’s just one woman,” Carolyn answered.  “She lives on the property.  That’s her home.”  Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.  We walked up to the house.  On the patio, we saw a poster.  “Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking” was the headline.

The first answer was a simple one.  “50,000 bulbs,” it read.

The second answer was, “One at a time, by one woman.  Two hands, two feet, and very little brain.”

The third answer was, “Began in 1958.”

There is was:  The Daffodil Principle.

For me, that moment was a life-chancing experience.  I though of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun—one bulb at a time—to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountaintop.

Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, she had changed the world in which she lived.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration.  That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time—often just one baby-step at a time—and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.  When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things.  We can change the world.

(“The Daffodil Principle” reprinted from “Family Connection”, SIDS Mid-Atlantic Newsletter, Spring, 2004)

“The Feathers are Strong…”
by Anonymous

The feathers are strong on the wings of love,
we fly with them into realms of ecstasy,
we fly as high as we can go.

Rocks, trees, mountains, and loving arms
offer deep, warm, mythic comfort.

Fly high,
fly far,
your goal is the sky,
your aim is the stars.

“The Rose” 
by A.L. Frink

Near a shady wall a rose once grew.
Budded and blossomed in God’s free light.
Watered and fed by morning dew.
Shedding its sweetness day and night.

As it grew and blossomed fair and tall.
Slowly rising to loftier height,
It came to a crevice in the wall
Through which there shone a beam of light.

Onward it crept with added strength
With never a thought of fear or pride,
It followed the light through the crevice’s length
And unfolded itself on the other side.

The light, the dew, the broadening view
were found the same as they were before,
and it lost itself in beauties new,
breathing its fragrance more and more.

Shall claim of death cause us to grieve
And make our courage faint and fall?
Nay!  Let us faith and hope receive…
The rose still grows beyond the wall.

Scattering fragrance far and wide
Just as it did in days of yore,
Just as it did on the other side,
Just as it will forever more.