Standing Sure
©2025 Susan Noyes Anderson
image by Terry Tan de Hao on Unsplash
My roots are planted,
but they’re running fallow,
too shallow for the work
I need to do.
Cancer touches most of our lives, either personally or tangentially. I am currently fighting cancer myself and have written more than a few cancer poems lately. With that in mind, I’ve created a new category. No doubt I will add to my cancer poems collection as my treatment continues. I hope some or all of this poetry might be useful to others who are either walking the same road themselves or accompanying a loved one along the way. It is not an easy journey, and my heart is sending love and healing blessings to every one of us.
FINDING THE POEM YOU WANT: As you scroll through this section, read each snippet sample (usually the first four lines) to get a feel for the poem. When you find something you like, click “CONTINUE READING” to view the entire poem.
(My work may be used free for non-commercial purposes only. Please request permission by email and include full copyright information, legibly printed, on every copy made. For internet use, a link back to the poem on this website is required.)
My roots are planted,
but they’re running fallow,
too shallow for the work
I need to do.
2025 is here, the new year
looking less than bright.
A dark path looms before my eyes;
my heart is longing for more light.
Courage comes more easily,
when you still have a choice.
How can you show up brave if
you don’t even have a voice?
Is everyone here filled with dread,
or am I the exception?
These people seem too tranquil for
Oncology reception.
I woke up with one thought today,
one bracing bit of spirit wealth:
In life, there is no gift more sweet
than the freedom to be yourself.
My hair is falling down like rain –
disaster in the making.
These wisps and tendrils, once admired,
are borderline law-breaking.
We build ourselves just like a house
in this sojourn on earth.
Creatively, we’ve got the skills –
a blessing of our birth.
I’m doing some restructuring
I thought I’d done already.
And yet this house, however loved,
is holding less than steady.
A quiet room, a sterile room,
cold womb for the unwilling.
I sat there feeling quite alone,
my cup of sorrow filling.