Katherine Eileen Dowling Poetry and Thoughts

  The Longest Moonlight Dementia is perhaps the cruelest fracture a family can endure. It is a slow theft, piece by piece, until the woman who raised you becomes a stranger holding your own memories. I think, in those quiet moments, I finally understood the specific heartbreak of Neville Longbottom—standing in a room with a parent who loves you, even if they can no longer find the map that leads back to your name. But there were flashes of the woman she was. The smile that could still illuminate every corner of a room. The hands that, by muscle memory alone, baked scones for a nurse she adored. The soft, lucid apology for a difficult night before. In the stillness of the early hours, she would wake and remember. She knew I loved the moon, watching it filter through her window like liquid silver. Now, as the memories continue to degrade, I am left with the heavy, human question: Could I have done more? To all the Nevilles and Nevillas out there: I salute you. To the children and the...

 The Ghost of the Journey The steam from the shower still clings to the mirror, a warm shroud that feels like a betrayal of the cold I used to carry. Standing here, dripping and quiet, my mind suddenly performs that old, frantic dance—the "Hospital Dash." I remember the biting wind on the walk home, the way I would scrub the clinical smell from my hair in a race against the clock. A quick change of clothes. A scorched throat from a tea gulped too fast. A blurred glance at the bank balance—counting the cost of devotion in pence and minutes. Then, the breathless rush back to your bedside, as if my presence alone was the only thing keeping the machines humming. I caught myself today, wondering why the ghost of that journey still haunts my morning ritual. You aren't in those sterile corridors anymore. You aren't behind those heavy ward doors where the air tastes of antiseptic and hushed voices. You are so very far away now—in a "there" that no bus route can reac...

  The 3 PM Shadow The 3 PM Shadow It’s Good Friday again, but where is the "good"? In the splinters of a cross, or the spilled, holy blood? How can torture be sacred? How is persecution a grace? When the world barely pauses to look at His face. The shops open late, a slow Sunday crawl, While families crowd tables and ignore the call. Even the cogs of the healers have ground to a halt, Leaving patients in limbo—through no one’s own fault. So forgive me, Great Maker, if I skip the oak pew, For I’m still a bit "cross," still a bit angry with You. I can’t weep for Your Son when I’m drowning in her, In the scent of the "white sticks" and the hospital’s blur. The fumes that I breathed while I stood by her side, While the "medical crap" took her out with the tide. You made us in Your image, or so the tale goes, But You left us defenseless against all these woes. Cancer and vertigo, dementia’s cruel theft— What kind of a Father leaves a daughter bereft? ...

What is an Effelump? I had a dream and out popped the Effelumps, and I realized that they had no real bearing on reality whatsoever. I figured they must be practically human in form, for they had two legs, two arms, and one head. They were rotund figures—neither slim nor obese, just rotund, like pot bellies in the middle—with commonplace necks, heads, arms, and legs. They had ruddy complexions; neither brown nor dark, neither suntanned nor "other," just ruddy and red, but not unsightly. I confess that until this day I have never read The Hunting of the Snark , but upon reading such a delectable masterpiece, I realize that upon nonsense, stories do indeed grow—and grow they must. For if it’s not told a thousand times until we are old, then it’s a story neither heard nor told. So, as in the Snark , what is, was, and will be, no one will ever know. I encourage my reader to go forth and read the Snark , for it’s indeed what it’s meant to be, and so is my book. Well, what does it ...

  Vertigo: My Strange Bedfellow I sit here, staring at my webcam,  Under blue skies stretched above.  The mercury rests below ten degrees;  Spring is blooming, indifferent and cold.  Yet I remain, a silent observer, Watching the world go by from the glass. Vertigo is a strange bedfellow. It arrived as a souvenir from Rome—  Now I long for that Italian realm,  The golden light, the warmth, the Buongiorno .  Yet here I am, anchored in the Manor,  Sizzling and fading in the sudden glare;  The sun is a weight too heavy to bear. Pavements tilt and the traffic spins dizzy. Vertigo is a strange bedfellow. I read, I write, I repair my life,  Clearing the clutter, one byte at a time.  It is a quiet ache, this restriction—  Physically mobile, yet visually bound. Vertigo is a strange bedfellow. So I will wait for the velvet of dusk,  Before I dare to emerge from the hall—  Unfolding my wings like a bat in the Spring,  ...

  In the Wake of Loss The Reaper struck in quiet shadows, Angel of Death breathed softly, took him home, In his wake we stand, shadows in the hollow, Knowing he's no longer suffering alone. Stroke after stroke, his body stole, A storm that tore through heart and soul, Worse than winds that howl and roll, A pain we carry, a silent toll. Now we can talk, of him, of his son, Memories flicker, shadows spun, But still the living face what’s begun— Another death, another one. Hearse on the avenue, black suits in line, More tears, more pain—oh, I dread that time, To watch his pain, to hear that chime, I wish I could disappear, make it sublime. The day of the service, I choke, I sway, In that dark place, I turn away, The rainbow’s memory, a fleeting ray, In the backseat, silent, on that day. Sisters in the shadows, now deserted, cold, Listening to “I wish I cared,” so old, While brothers stand firm, brave and bold, Rocks of strength, stories untold. A...