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Joanne the Poet - The Poetry of Joanne M. Clarkson

“Hospice House” New Poetry Collection from MoonPath Press

I am so pleased to announce the release of my new poetry collection, “Hospice House,” from MoonPath Press. The book contains 65 poems. Some are inspired by patients and families I had the honor to serve as a Hospice RN. Others are about loved ones of mine who have crossed to the other side. And a number speak to the spirit of place or extraordinary situations.

I hope this is a chronicle of joy rather than of sadness. I intended my words to celebrate the continuous nature of relationships, changing certainly, but still dynamic and fulfilling. When I leaf through my book I can feel the strength and courage it takes to live in and also to leave our beautiful world.

Many thanks to Lana Hechtman Ayes, Editor of MoonPath Press and to Carolyn Clarkson who provided the cover art. And to all my readers who support my writing.

I am planning in person readings soon and through the new year. Now, “Hospice House” is available for $16.99, personally autographed from me or through Amazon or Barnes and Noble. If you would like a copy, email JoanneClarkson28@gmail.com, text 360-701-2030, message me on FaceBook or send a tweet.

Below is the introductory poem which explains the origins of Hospice. I have always loved this true story.

David and Cecily

Cecily Saunders founded the concept of Hospice Care in the 1960’s. The seed money was a gift from a patient.

They were both dying in a different way

that year at the bedside, speaking in dreams.

She, nurse and counselor,

him the one about to leave this life.

This was when he promised her a window,

the place all patients wish for, bed

from which they still could see

the world alive beyond them.

They were in a kind of love, the kind

that lasts a moment of forever.

She confessed her desire to found

a sanctuary for last days, space of peace

where the soul forgives the body

and each sets the other free.

Pain mitigated beyond medicine.

It wasn’t the money he willed her,

sizeable, but not a fortune,

that built it. It was their shared

compassion, hers for his suffering,

his for what she had yet to achieve.

They called it Hospice, temple

to last heartbeats that could be a care

home or the patient’s own bedroom.

“I will be the window in your home,”

he had told her, clearest mirror

admitting every dimension of light.

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