Mary Joranco: I live in Rio Vista, California. I have been a typist for an Escrow company, a coordinator for a children's self esteem program, a church secretary, and a licensed preschool teacher. For 5 years I was a facilitator for a Children's Bereavement Program for Hospice in Stockton, California. I went back to school in my forty's and truly found I love to write and eventually wrote poetry. I have been a closet writer for years while raising my 6 children. I am now retired at 68 and enjoying my thirteen grandchildren, gardening, and learning to master the wheel in Ceramics. Now, finally I am taking the time to share my work.
At first the sunrays are a gentle glow
of warmth, surrounding you as an embrace.
A sense of healing peace from head to toe,
that makes you tilt your head and lift your face.
But, if you tarry in a sunny place,
a dragon's breath will blast from crown to feet
with flames of fire to lick your arms and face,
and cook your skin with ultra violet heat.
Beware! Be warned! Be wise!
and make a quick retreat.
Copyright © October l4, 1972 by Mary Joranco
After the darkness of night
An early morning delight,
A dewy carpet, bejeweled with light.
Viewing this scene I ponder,
Small works of God do not thunder,
Surely, I miss a vast number.
Copyright © June 11, l989 by Mary Joranco
I see death, in the dull glazed eyes of pain.
I hear death, in the breathless choking voice.
I feel death, in the weakness of a hand,
No longer able to hold unto life.
I sense the presence of a shadow near.
Of all the loved ones gathered here,
Can I be, the only one to see,
The truth of Death's Reality?
Copyright © July 10, l984 by Mary Joranco
The Quiet Time
The brightness of day, shadows into evening.
Tiny sparks of fire pattern the night sky.
Gently the lunar circle drifts through frothy shades.
The cool breeze billows to a crescendo,
then dissipates, like a breaker on the shore.
The busy house grows calm.
Only echoes of the pendulum
penetrate the moonbeams.
This is the quiet time.
A time of contemplating the joys of the day,
a time of stillness and listening.
The body relaxes and thoughts are adrift
upon "still waters."
The soul finds peace.
Then a soft veil gently covers the mind.
The only sensation is the slow pulsing beat
of the rhythm of life.
Copyright © October 9, l987 by Mary Joranco
The head of the clan
lies frail in the bed.
Choked whispers reveal his last words.
Loved ones softly weep
holding lifeless hands,
while others stand in silent prayer.
A man of black cloth
pours Holy Oil,
performing life's last ritual.
Sands silently fall.
as labored transition proceeds.
The heavy head droops.
Eyes no longer see.
Quiet breathing goes unperceived.
The clock stops, a body dies.
The head of the clan, deceased.
One family grieves for its loss,
Another welcomes with joy.
Copyright © March 3, 1984 by Mary Joranco