no no no
all I hear is screams
the knife, bat, and gun
then the screaming comes
thrusts to the stomach
tearing
swung to the torso
crushing
shots ring out
bloodied finger tips
touching the wounds
he leans
slowly to the side
sighing his last
the nightmares God
make them stop
I want to see heaven
not the things
I’ve done
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
as they spoon the succotash and
noodles
into a skull
past
caring.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
in a world long ago
gone
leaving this is
nothing.
loving it was
too.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
fingers thin to the
bone,
I offer no
prayers.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
dying
I have known the dead
here on earth
and elsewhere;
alone now,
alone then,
alone.
–Charles Bukowski
I sit on the steps of God’s house, contemplating the depression eating away at me like the stage 4 cancer failing both of my kidneys. Family’s hugs and weary eyes remind me of my enclosing demise. Can they see me?
I hide melting into the blackness. Alone, understanding and accepting what the future holds. Their stress hurts to watch; though, a confession lightens the soul it burdens the listener. They could not bear to know that their loving gaze makes me feel sicker. I’m beginning to hunger for an escape into the clouds. My sweet chariot to swing low and ascend. Feel the warm kiss of death while she entangles my body and we drift into that ever lasting sleep.
I breathe deep and hold it in as if I’m drowning. Trying to feel the breathlessness of my lungs collapsing when I am no longer moving. I suppose on a grand scale death’s always pending . So it’s not fear that fuels this sense of certainty but knowing that they will miss me. Sitting here. Visualizing my daughter’s pain as her teardrops stain the hollowed shell of my remains. What comfort could my spirit gain knowing that I’m the reason she cries rain every night?
He pushed his hand into night’s pocket, seizing his food of desperation and munched it, the nutrients nestling in the thicket of his bowels; imagining death as his distant lover. He shunned all those who searched for him and moved further into the corner, cold floor, and hard wall his brothers whispering in his ear. Will you go now, right now, gently into her beckoning arms?
His answer may have been yes had it not been for the bucketful of gold rising in the sky, spilling yellow rays onto his cheeks that danced into his eyes. He could see his selfish ways. The courage to live kicked up in his throat as if singing from a serpent’s tongue. It whipped and split the remaining dark. Movitated him to seek out his seekers. Hang onto their hugs. Dry those weary eyes since a minute of their happiness was worth more than a moment of his despair.
With the sun warm on my face I sink deeper into their embrace. I don’t tell them about my relationship with death. She will come knocking on my door, waiting for me to satisfy her; but today, I will not answer.
That we head towards
our separate End
and know it only
by the name of Death…
But makes this life
with you more dear.
And having known
this joy and you
so tender
without a fear
I face this life
so beautiful
and in the End
will with pain
surrender
the sight,
the touch,
or memory
of You.
–Stephany
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly.
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
–Maya Angelou
R.I.P always
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
jenniferhecker.com
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
–W. H. Auden
iol.co.za
Death and calamity exist
to breach the unreachable walls built up around us.
like the crumbling of Lady Liberty’s twins
our arrogant towers would fall
leaving a hole devoid of petty prejudice
delivering us back to our original state
reminding us that we are only
human.
here’s to not dying today
woke up again
still pissed that the sun rose
I’m just really really really
not a morning person.
seriously.
if there was an option
to bury all morning people in a box
I’d do it
then carry on with my
miserable commute
haven’t lashed out at my mom lately
gotten into a fight
nope i am living
good and boring
the way the Church intended
think about it
only exciting lives skirt around death
tempting to pants him
long life is a supposed sign of heavenly blessing
Church mandates state
you should keep your hands to yourself
quit messing with death
he’s secular and cantankerous
we don’t know who’s next
I’m vexed
cause death’s party is poppin
the soul isn’t willing
& the flesh is already weak
i see the life i want to live
and know the risks
but without passion and pain
i don’t wish to wake up again.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
–Dylan Thomas
Death becomes integral to life. That’s why we live it.
The Poetry Corner 