An uncomfortable subject

Death

The Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium monthly symposium is a collation of work by authors, poets, and artists on a particular topic. This month it is death. It covers a wide range of approaches to a subject usually considered not polite for general conversation.

Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium #11

I contributed four poems: one funny/creepy, one on aging, one on remembering the past, and one on losing your spouse. You can find them in the symposium.

But I reproduce them here. Because of recent events, this subject has been on my mind.

Time Piece

Frail crepe skin on my hands,
my face the moon,
scape of pocks and warts.
Hooded eyes time-faded 
peer out at aged flesh. 

A girl peers out, dismayed
by the change. No way!
Once auburn hair is white
Her eyes, milky gray,
scarce take in the sight.
. 
Just yesterday we made our vows.
I remember next the sleepless nights 
that quickly spun into toddler howls
and school, shopping, sibling fights,
endless carpool rides.

Where did my forties go?
And my fifties? Surely I would know
When I turned sixty. But I don't.
Years fly by and unseen, I become
my mother.

Maybe it was the years of care
for aging relatives, who passed
too often. Now friends disappear. 
As I shrink, I find I am the last
to remember the history we lived.

When young we never imagine
that the elders will someday be us.
Next time you call us Sweetie
or Pops, remember the person 
looking back at you is your future.

The monks were encouraged to meditate
on a phrase we'd do well to remember.
Memento mori, remember you must die. 
We don't know when or how our end, or
if our families can come. 
In case you can't say goodbye
Tell them often you love them
And show them.

 
 
Memento Mori

Not nothing, not anything, not.
Invisible enemy, edging close
An unexpected accident. 
He sinks beneath the waves
of death’s surprise embrace.

Times we see it coming
Knowing it will overtake
No matter what we try.
Times we don’t see it coming
it still happens. Surprise!

It happened September eleven
flying home from a lengthy trip.
Upon takeoff from Shannon
His plane crashed. The airship
barely sank, most survived--
all but seven.

Generations passed without mention
of him. I was the last to meet him
before that fateful day, we 
forgot the past, his story,
and all he did when with us.

Time blurs our memories.
Only faded photographs
Remain for us still here.
One day, I pull the photos out.
The children crowd near. 

Soft voices say “Who was he?”
I answer, “Your great grandpapa”
He stares at us, unblinking, 
as if he guessed his audience,
And dares us to keep thinking,
and tell his story once again.

It only takes one generation
for history to be lost, forever.

Death’s Harbinger

A gray tabby cat named Seth 
with a scythe-shaped 
spot on his chest 
lived at a nursing home. 
None knew whence he'd come.
He ignored the living,
but warmed up 
to those near death.

The nurses noticed it first. 
They thought that Seth was cursed,
for when Seth curled up 
on a patient’s bed
the next day 
the patient was dead.

Some people did not believe it. 
Maybe Seth was attracted to heat.
Sick residents give off 
more heat, they said. 
Maybe Seth liked warmth, 
Not the dead.

A doctor thought he'd prove it, 
and put a heating pad 
at an old man’s feet.
Seth took his seat.
What a shock they had--
in the morning 
the old man was dead.

On that same night, 
the night nurse swore 
she had heard Seth growl
at an ungodly hour. 
A gray man in a cowl
stood at the door.
Seth began to howl.

The nurse ran away.
The shadow man bowed, 
He tipped his scythe, 
Seth meowed, 
then the shadow man 
covered the old man 
in an invisible shroud.

“It’s a nursing home! 
People die all the time!”
Cried the doc. 
“I’ll prove you wrong. 
It won’t take long. 

I’ll let Seth sleep with me. 
In the morning you’ll see.
I’ll be fine,” he said, 
then pushed Seth off
the dead man’s bed.

The next day the doc 
did not appear.
With mounting fear 
they went to his place.
They found the doc dead 
with a scratch on his face
along with a look of dread.

A cat that chooses who dies?
This I’ll say about Seth: 
all the patients selected
smiled when they died. 
But the doctor never expected.
The shadow man to arrive.

But he did.
 
Mortality

I’ve prepared for this
My whole life. 
Why then 
dismay and fear,
on the diagnosis.

Not mine. Never mine.
I would gladly shed 
this mortal flesh, 
a fading ghost 
among the living. 

I would not have to witness
his passing, 
a consolation. 
Not mine the pain of loss 
no, mine the surrender.

Will we race to the
finish line? 
Will we play out 
the tender scene 
of spouses holding hands
from separate beds?

At least heaven’s wait 
for him 
will not be long,
or he for me. 
Death shall lead us, 
hand in hand
		into eternity.