SamadhiMuse

               Coping with my disease
                  is hard enough for me alone
               yet I seem to inflict my pain
                  on others who don't deserve it.
               Sitting up in the middle of the night,
                  trying desperately to sort me out
               is an exhausting process.
                  Even medication cannot keep me forever.
               He sleeps in there - I can't disturb him
                  God, -  will you hold my hand
               through this night?
                  can you tell me about my tomorrows?
               Why is just living hard for me?
                  I am at the border of society
               always peeking in but never "normal"
                  he calls me hyper and wild.
               I have been reading his poetry.
                  He knows me well for such a short knowing:
               Am I that transparent.
                  Why, God, is change so difficult?
               These episodes of pain are wearying
                  why am I so reactive to events
               that in the perspective of time
                  are so insignificant?
                                 Helen O'flarety
                                 September 17, 78
                                 written at my apartment

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

            This love is so new ---
            on a rose, a drop of dew
            that needs protection
            from scrutinization
            This love makes me spin.
            That line is so thin
            that I'm walking
            I feel like balling.
            This love is so strong ---
            who knows if it will last long?
            I can't shut out the past,
            but I ask:  can it last?
            This love brought on a new light,
            so strong I stay up the night ---
            wondering if it fits me,
            knowing I want and need thee.
            You question as vehemently as I.
            Your questions raise me high.
            And I dash me down ---
            am I but a clown?
            Please give me time, my love,
            nothing else to think of ---
            it may be a fantasy of mine,
            but I hope to make it reality in line.
                              Helen O'flarity
                              september 17, 78
                              written at my apartment

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —