Tag: death

the bells

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

another day the bells announce

that someone else has gone

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

three seconds pass between each chime

of this voiceless, gloomy song

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

reminding me so frequently

that life’s not very long

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

must make the most of what i’ve got

before the got has gone

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

persists inside my mind

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

when will the tolls be mine?

except no bells will ring for me

no priest will speak my name

no body will be carried forth

to rot in some marked grave

just as the notes that disappear

when all the bells have calmed

thoughts of me will likely be

forgotten before long

ding… ding… ding…

bong… bong… bong…

Death in a small town

Death’s ever present

in this tiny town
placards go up,

placards come down
Death greets a someone

just coming alive
Death always sidled

at the old man’s side

church bells toll,

the old man groans
Death refuses

to leave him alone
but the old man spurns

such grave company
holding tight to the life

that used to be

each day seems fraught

with little but woe
though Death tries to coax, he refuses to go
rejecting the notion of beginnings and ends
exhausting the family,

ne’er making amends

Death asks the old man, what’s there to fear
but the old man screams, away from here!
my body’s broken,

my mind’s disarranged
yet from this life

I seek no change

but Death is as patient

as the old man is stubborn
kept busy that day

holding hands with a newborn
Death’s ever present

in this tiny town
another procession

slowly marches along

Sitting beside the old man

in the shade
Death points bony fingers

to the slow, sad parade
everyone’s life

must come to an end
even yours,

my dear, old, obstinate friend

i’m no friend of yours,

cries the frightened, old man
swatting away

Death’s ice cold hand
with a pain-filled shriek

he lifts from his seat
i wish no more

that you and i meet

i’m afraid that can’t be, Death whispers with laughter
i have work across town, but i’ll return soon after
don’t rush, says the old man, for i’m in no hurry
and grabbing his canes, shuffles off in a scurry

I’ve always found those most reluctant to go
Death comments to no one, for no one can know,
are those who live life

for none but themselves
with thoughts now of heaven,

but destined for hell

Death’s measured footsteps move slowly away
the old man’s denial

won out for the day
but Death will be back

by the old man’s side
for the end is the end

and from Death he can’t hide

Grief

It cut through the cool, quiet afternoon

with such intense clarity

that both the dogs and I stopped in our tracks

to look in the direction from where it came.

A woman’s voice

loud

low

anguished

cried out from a big house

down a small street

at the edge of town.

I knew almost instantly

it was not a cry for help

because I had rattled my own walls very recently

with similar sounds

when news of my mother’s death reached me

and I was forced to face it alone

thousands of miles from what once was home.

Instinctively I wanted to move toward her sorrow

offer comfort

offer company

but I knew such new pain

needed to be tempered with solitude

tears

time to process

and purge.

I looked up and down the streets

for someone

anyone

who might have heard her wails

and shared my heartache

as helpless witness

to such profound sadness.

But no one was about

just the dogs and me

and I suddenly felt intrusive

and newly stricken by my recent loss,

so on we moved

each step ushering its own fresh tears

coming stronger and stronger

as the sounds of her fierce despair

faded into the distance.

Her pain

is now entwined with mine

two unacquainted mourners

ever connected in our losses

in our sorrows.

Each time I pass her street

and recall her suffering

I feel her presence

(though a stranger to mine)

and am trusting time

has eased her pain

her tears

the grief.

The Forgotten Man

rusty and neglected

among the thorns

and tall, wild grass

stands the marker of a man

long since passed

a sorrowful reminder

of all life that comes and goes

of the life some might remember

and soon no one will know

no one to tend the marker

none to remember the man

no one to even notice

the monument at hand

I pass it nearly everyday

and wonder who he was

to warrant such an epitaph

to earn such a tribute of love

and then to be forgotten

at a corner where no one stops

in front of an ugly chain link fence

midst trash and weeds and rocks

decomposing a little more each day

like a body in a grave

none to recall the forgotten man

was he good

was he loving

was he brave

what would he think

of his sad, unkempt shrine

and what would I say

if this pillar was mine

such things are for the living

such things not meant to stand

such tokens of such fleeting days

won’t remember the forgotten man

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

That’s what you want to hear.

I’m fine.

I’ll say it loud and clear.

I’m fine.

It’s easier this way.

I’m fine.

Pretending everyday.

I’m fine.

It’s normal to wake in tears.

I’m fine.

Haven’t had a break in years.

I’m fine.

Trying to find that level ground.

I’m fine.

Wondering who I hope will stick around.

I’m fine.

Cause that’s the me you want to see.

I’m fine.

But she’s the she I no longer care to be.

I’m fine.

Losing something which never was.

I’m fine.

Just keep going, cause that’s what one does.

I’m fine.

Trying each day to set things right.

I’m fine.

But waking most days too tired to fight.

I’m fine.

Wondering if death came before dawn.

I’m fine.

And if Mom is alive, how to stay kind.

I’m fine.

Cause every day it’s just the same.

I’m fine.

The same recording on endless play.

I’m fine.

While the rest of the world gets on with its day.

I’m fine.

As hair by hair, my years now show.

As lines overtake my burrowed brow.

As my strength builds, then suddenly goes.

As the walls of my home begin to close.

As each day’s remnants turns to dust.

As I do each day what I know I must.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Death, the Kingbird, and I

Death rapped on our window at dawn

so I leapt from bed and out the door

to shoo it away.

But there, below the window,

in the morning shade of the Mulberry tree

a Western Kingbird lay.

Damn it, I cried aloud to death,

I’ve tried to keep you at bay.

How many window decals do I need

to keep them all away?

You silly thing, I said to the bird,

and scooped to pick her up.

Stunned and afraid

she fluttered her wings,

flipping helplessly in the dust.

With soothing words, i tried again.

cupping hands around my little friend.

Who showed little life.

Who looked near the end.

But I was not interested in welcoming death,

so finding a box and trying my best,

I set the bird down in a soft, cotton nest.

A gentle stroke upon her head

and down her narrow bill.

Her wide, black eyes, now closed.

Her gray and yellow feathers, still.

Death, I see, is stopping by.

So I leave the Kingbird,

– and this mourning scene –

to have a good, long cry.

For the bird,

For the world.

For me.

For death hovers over this house.

It simply can’t be helped

with a 90 year old mother about.

Although uninvited, it came for a visit.

Not much to be done

except to face it.

I returned to the box

with the poor, little bird.

And, once again, I cursed aloud.

Reaching down for one final stroke,

suddenly the Kingbird woke,

and flew in a flash

to a neighboring tree,

leaving me

and death

behind today.