The context of this? A friend’s grandmother was lingering, dying but not willing to leave. I wrote my friend the following conTEXTing poem. When she wrote back “I thought she had to hear; she’s in a coma!” I responded with the story of MY grandmother’s death, where I was the only one with her. I whispered “Grandma, I love you. It’s okay to go now.'” And she passed away. I texted my friend as she watched over her grandmother: “It’s soul communication. Not loud. Love.”

Did you whisper/

softly to her:/

“Grandma, it’s okay to go/

We can take care/

of ourselves/

you know”./

But sometimes they dont/

know it’s ok,/

so they won’t/

go away.

My Daughter turned
her back 2 me/
hours b4 i turned/
53./
Why am i so hated?
Why isn’t the disgust/
and mistrust/
long ago abated?/
How long/
until my wrong/
is gone?

The context is important to this poem. In a Christian church I belong to, all worthy men 12 years old and above can hold the Priesthood. One of their duties is to pass the Sacrament, (similar to Communion) to the congregation.
To “take the Sacrament”, a person has to be worthy, and want to.
I am not in that place yet in my life.
Sometimes I wonder if God remembers me. Although I know in my heart and mind that He and Jesus love me, sometimes … I don’t “feel it”.
One of the young men in the congregation has Downs Syndrome. He has had several brain surgeries and back operations, but has never complained. He always smiles and, as many people with Downs Syndrome do, seems to just radiate love.
On this particular Sunday, this young man passed me the Sacrament tray, which I passed down the row without taking any of the bread or water offered. As the tray was handed back to me, and I gave it to him, I glanced up. This is what happened:

He glances at me/
and smiles,/
a young man-child./
And tho I can’t partake/
what is offered there,/
I c in his face/
HIS care./
And in boyish eyes I c/
God’s love 4 me.

He wandered/
thru a half life:/
Children, parents, friends, wife./
Staring at the 2nd half,/
full of hope and doubt,/
he asked his daughter/
2 illustrate his way out.

I stare/
at a blank screen;/
it’s as if/
I lost my muse./
I sigh, dare/
2 finally grasp truth/
of Otis’ cry:/
You don’t miss your water/
’til your well runs dry.

Can U text here?/
Although I fear/
as I write U/
I’ll be more prone to woo/
than I’d do/
normally/
through/
hyperbole,/
Haiku,/
slant rhymes/
and, 4 U,/
sometimes,/
blues.

It’s raining, again./
Explain your flirt style, and when/
you do, use small words.

I hope you still know,/
both in sunshine or moon’s glow,/
your prettiness shows.

On I-5 from Canby/
I had 2 let her go./
It wasn’t up 2 me;/
she left long b4./
Ignoring who she was,/
what she could b,/
I missed my shot,/
got left/
on I-5 from Canby.

The pain/
of not hearing from u/
is exceeded only by fear/
there’s someone new/
and the knowledge that u/
decided we are through./
All combined,/
that makes me blue.