Smiling at Death
Death is not negotiating conditions -
not willing to make a mistake -
cares not for reason, logic or inquisition
and is not even able to bend or break.
It does not quarrel, (for lack of need).
It takes all things in time,
as calculated as graphs we read
when explicating meaning from a rhyme,
or referencing how cleverly Keats
equated truth to beauty in just a line.
Death shall bring a unity,
so perfect and so complete,
that hands won’t be just hands at all,
but hands themselves will be feet,
and sour in all its glory to date,
will synthesize with every sweet;
as black will be the same as white,
so cold will merge with heat.
So, what will you do in the meantime?
Yes, what will you do with your life?
Will you take hold of a husband perhaps,
or will you be enamored with a wife?
Yes, what will you do with tomorrow,
and all the tomorrows to come,
before all choirs and carnival cadence,
have calmed near a funeral drum,
where all that you were has gone missing
in the midst of the congregation’s hum?
I don’t know what
to tell you my friend,
I chose to take hold
of this pen.
To live by the word
all my passion,
to scribe of the wolves
in their dens,
to temper my anger
in the name of compassion,
time and again and again,
to write that which
begs me to write it,
or writes itself under my hand.
I have a kinship with Death now,
we’re partners, the two of us here.
He gets my body, my dreams and my pride,
my soul, however, passes through clear,
and once it settles deep inside,
I promise to hollar and cheer,
run right into God’s waiting embrace,
devoid of regret without any fear,
and when I see his gentle face
I’ll know where home has been these years.
As if in lieu of giving answers
he posits a life-long quiz,
keeping me loving and wary,
reminding how binding Time is.
If a friend is someone you can count on,
well, Death’s just as good as old Will.
If a friend is a reason to party dressed up,
well... Death’s got plenty of “time to kill”.
He may not be the best man at my wedding,
but he will be there ensuring I pay his bill.
Death sees to it I’m comfy in my bedding,
for as long as Life has given me to chill.
'Twixt final cessation and now right here,
I’ll whisper through ink of the trees,
of whipporwheels and ninja gear,
of stardust constituting the breeze,
of talking tigers and hidden fears,
of sounds that mean the world to bees,
as symphonies satiate human ears,
and silver sunsets settle on seas.
Death, patient slayer of all known things;
great equalizer of each band of hue,
I’ll rhyme all the time about climate,
for that’s what I’m meaning to do.
You show me a mountain I promise I’ll climb it,
(and boy, I sure hope you will too),
so all the poets who care enough to rhyme it,
can congregate and laugh along with you.
So, for now I’m all right in my canyon.
I’m doing just fine in my skin;
I’ll live for as long as I possibly can,
then someday will empty my everything, friend.
As long as I’m alive I’m always winning,
and so I seal my victory in this home,
forever more my message defines my person;
I shift my essence into this very poem.
These words are now my living, breathing reason,
entrenched within the text’s triumphant dome.
This is my time now inside, ongoing,
though Death will still be waiting at the end,
when all the matter glued together and flowing
splits in ways so deep it cannot mend,
such that every word we’ve ever written,
along with every brain they’ve filtered thin,
will disappear as do sweet, timid kittens,
once the neighbor’s doberman’s broken in.
So, tell Dear Death it can have its day;
there’s simply no debating it anyway...
but live such that along your many miles,
you take the time to toss Death little smiles.
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