Rebecca Logue

The Cruelest Month

In an eloquent poem about
depression, T.S. Eliot wrote
“…April is the Cruelest Month…”
Depression: I’ve been in the same boat.

But it isn’t April’s renewal of life
that hurts my mind the most.
It’s the slow death of autumn,
to which November plays host.

Green is scraped off our palettes,
leached from stalks once flower crown’d.
October’s blaze of glory lies drab
under our feet on muddy ground.

The sunlight weakens till we crave
it’s healing touch. We cannot cope.
We isolate; we shut ourselves away.
November is the end of hope.

Copyright 2017, Rebecca Logue

Patrick Johnson


When homecoming game came, I was not there, but lost
In thought, about the memory of that past champion life,
When life was a fun busy game, and I, not yet across
The dim flight of no return, could run fast with the abandon of wild-life!

Waking up from that vast dream, my own loud funeral dirge
Clouds my ears with cries, while some old Good Samaritan
Persists, persists in saying that I am not, completely, dead –
Even until even we believe him, and I grasp his hand

But as I do, I wonder whose side am I on,
If it’s more important to become my lost self or else
If we are, all of us, tied and deceived thereon,
While I’ve stalled at becoming someone else –

Emptied, now we choose the good as one tied Body,
And silently mind the mission announced by everybody.

(c) 2017 Patrick Johnson