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You Ought To Write A Book
' You ought to write a book,' I said
but she just smiled and shook her head;
'I havenít lived enough to write.'
Then she described her life down on the farm.
She spoke of the animals --- and the heat,
of the flies -------- the drought -----
and burning wheat.

She told of flooded rivers and drowning sheep.
And the joyful awakenings to a clear blue sky.
Of the birth of chickens, and new growth of spring..
You ought to write a book' I said,
but she still smiled and shook her head.
'I donít have anything important to say.'

Then she spoke of her wedding day,
and of two babies born and grown.
She told of rustlers who stole their sheep,
and ---- why the postman died.

She recalled --- the day her husband left,
when the children were just in their teens,
and how she was forced to sell the farm.
She spoke of choking city fogs,
and her fears for children country bred.
She wept, as she told how they wandered
the streets and of the way her daughter died.
And of how her son took the trail, killed the rapist,
and went to prison to die in the electric chair,
and how she could not weep.

'You ought to write a book' I said,
she wiped her eyes and shook her head.
'No one wants to read my story.' Then
She smiled and told how her life improved,
about the joy of a lottery win!
Her eyes shone as she described
the only holiday sheíd ever known---------
The trip to Europe, The Snowy Swiss Alps,
how Ireland really is emerald green.
A foggy ride across the English Channel,
the helpful and friendly Gendarmes.

Her faded eyes twinkled as she recalled
the Italian who pinched her bottom!'
At my age too, she giggled like a girl.
Her lashes drifted down, rested against
pale cheeks, and once again I wondered
at the tenacity of life.

A drip
adjusted in the wrinkled arm,
the nurse gently stroked the
grey curls before leaving the room.
Moonlight filtered through slatted blinds
kissing the sleeping face.
Then blue eyes opened wide
in pleased amazement.
'Why, youíre still here?' she smiled.
'Of course I am' I replied
and reached for her hand.
Frail fingers closed around mine
With a strength that surprised.
'You ought to write a book' I said,
her fingers tightened, and she shook
her head.
'No one would be interested!'

Then she spoke of the time
her plane was hijacked
over the Indian Ocean!
How the smell of fear
swept through the cabin
where she sat, too terrified to move.
How the frightened cries of children
added fuel to the anger
of grenade holding maniacs,
and how mothers begged for mercy
when there was none!

Ten people died that day
three of them under five.
She trembled as she recalled
how she froze with a gun at her head;
too afraid to breath.
Of the explosive relief when demands
were met and the plane landed.
Then how as the last passenger
reached safety, a fusillade of shots
ended the terror; except for the
recurring dreams.

'You ought to write a book' I said.
She smiled and shook her weary head,
'There isnít any time' she sighed,
then turned her face
and gently ---------

(c) jenikawhispers
also penning under

Written for the No Frills challenge.

By jenikawhispers

© 2019 jenikawhispers (All rights reserved)


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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - The NO FRILLS CHALLENGE--read page for complete rules and info (challenge has been closed)

This Poem is part of a Challenge: - The NO FRILLS CHALLENGE--read page for complete rules and info (challenge has been closed)

This Poem is part of a Challenge: - The NO FRILLS CHALLENGE--read page for complete rules and info (challenge has been closed)

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