Best Deathbed Poems
Deathbed Poetry – Jesus of Nazareth – 10-9-25. “It is finished!” An elegiac has three parts – grief, praise and comfort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deathbed Poetry - Jesus of Nazareth “It is Finished!”
Only splinters cradle your bloodied face
Shouted curses drown your last words of blessing
Helpless tears, washed in the blood and water of your side,
Mix with the filth of tangled betrayals
Your seamless dignity faces the cruelty of dice
Gamblers with eternity
Raise gall to lips that spoke their creation
The sunless day grieves
Blind to the perfect prophecy’s fulfillment
All creation bows – wracked with grief
As angels hover over your sinless hands
Heaven trembles – earth erupts – temples shudder.
“It is Finished!” Yet, Love always survives.
When you spread out your pierced hands
Between Eternity and earth
Superstitions and spells flee in vertigo
The last vile breath of time possessed darkness
Screams in writhing whimpers at your gaze
Stumbling into an unresolved infinity
You transcend our rags of shame to raiments
On torrents of your new grace
Holy delight laughs as midnight claims its last echo
In your hands irony transcends to victory
Our tears to triumph in your new Genesis
Where mysteries of a garden materialize.
“It is finished!” And Love always survives.
Eden’s heart-wrenching elegies of regret
Resolve in a timeless time signature
Chrisms of frankincense erase deep scars
With the anointed balm of forgiveness,
Abandoned ashes gather into endless effervescence
When tempests expire over still waters
And lilies bloom in weeded pastures
Our new lungs sing out aromatic splendor
In refrains of Eden heard again
Joy takes root in the beatitudes of the manger’s Rose
Grace overpowers putrid bondage
As glory's pierced hands
Mend the shredded threads of our brokenness.
“It is finished!” Yes! Love always survives.
Lying in bed..
In my deathbed
Don't have much time..
I am filled..
with nostalgia..
Memories of which I will always cherish..
Within my deepest thoughts
I imagine I am a child again
the child inside me..
Such joyful memories ..
Memories of running so freely in the grass..
Holding hands with my playmates..
Sharing secrets
Laughter..
The innocence of it all..
Years progressing..
From childhood..
To adolescent
To adulthood..
Being a curious teen..
Having major crushes ..
My first kiss
My first love..
Living as an adult..
Major responsibilities occurs..
Finding the love of my life..
Marrying the love of my life
Having children..
Living a blessed life..
Years progress..
Often wondering..
How my body is frail..
How these wrinkles..
Gave me character
How my health deteriorated..
Within a blink of an eye..
Now I have reached my final stage..
Sadly I am..
Slowing waiting for my own demise..
How shall it feel ?
Shall I embrace the unknown ?
My beautiful family is gone..
They all have made their final departure..
Before myself..
I have lived a long and full life..
I feel alone now..
Alone in my deathbed..
Awaiting my transition..
Perhaps when one door closes..
Another door opens..
Going from one state of being
To another..
Energy cannot be destroyed..
It only changes form..
I do not fear death..
It is dying I fear..
Fear of the old door..
Entering into a new door..
Which is fear of the unknown..
This past week I lost two good friends. The one friend I lost to cancer. The poor guy
suffered horribly. All through his ordeal his wife was by his bedside. I began to reflect
on this and I tried to put myself in his place. What would I say? What would I think
knowing I was about to die? Shortly after I composed this sonnet.
Weep no tears for me at this time and place.
A thousand eyes change not my destiny.
All living things must die eventually
Except my love for you, which I embrace.
Feel not sad for me looking at my face
Although it's old and wrinkled you can see
A budding rose should age so gracefully.
My time grows near my love; in any case
Your life goes on nevertheless my love.
So wipe those eyes dry of life's mournful dew
And think not this time undeserving of.
Life had been kind, more so, finding you.
A lifelong companion envied above
By angels and cherubs alike. Adieu!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His language was colloquial~
the tongue of the field hand,
the woman hanging laundry in the wind,
the child chasing butterflies in the tall summer grass.
He heard their music,
the unpolished truth
in the rhythm of their days,
and created poems of roads less traveled, of snow and shadow.
He spoke softly like the wind
blowing through New England’s sugar maples,
the rustling of leaves that told of sap and seasons,
of roots gripping the stubborn earth.
He wrote of that patch of old snow stubborn, denying spring,
a metaphor worn smooth
yet still holding the chill
of a deeper understanding.
He knew this place,
the bite of wind,
the quiet conversation of the earth,
spoken in monotone.
His blank verse wasn't blank at all,
but an empty canvas stretched taut,
ready for the brushstrokes
of a farmer's hand, a lover's lament, a child's bewilderment.
His poetic technique
not just of form but of feeling~
the heart beating its own iambic pulse
in quiet New England afternoons.
He wrote with humble gratuity
not seeking grand pronouncements,
but the whisper of a leaf,
the argument a woodpile makes with winter.
Life, Frost seemed to say,
was not a theorem to be proven,
but a landscape in which to live,
each image he created a doorway, left slightly ajar.
Note:Robert Frost's last words are reported to have been, "I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." This quote, often paraphrased, reflects the themes of choice and individuality that permeate his poetry. However, it's worth noting that these words are attributed to his legacy rather than being an exact recounting of his final utterance, as he passed away on January 29, 1963. (duckai.com)
And even after all that time had passed;
my moon had set above another sun,
it seems my heart was still at odds with past;
my tongue at war with words I left unsung.
This bed of ardor caught between my teeth,
will thus remain, and even grow post haste,
where all the while, there's nothing I'll bequeath
excepting flowers scent, above my waste.
And so it goes with every vacant beast,
as twenty-twenty sees - I should have done!
I should have said; I should have been, at least
a man awake to seed his endless sun.
And as the night descends upon my thought,
remember son these words that, I lived not.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 11 09
I lay in this bed, puttering close to death
Wonder when I shall draw my last breath
A long and great life it certainly has been
I have no hair, move in wheelchair, yet I grin
Grinning at memories and days full of glee
Soaring past on my mount- whizzing by as a banshee
That horse, always my truest love, concerned thereof
before all else she was my miraculous dove.
Many a year together our pleasure- just us alone
Till my daughter born- then the seeds were sown
She loves my mare as I once did, legacy passes
Grown in hours of life, breathed in by spring grasses.
My beast, my child upon my hopeful heart now it shall be
They shall run with my memory- may they both be free.
poem date 6/1/2012
Form Sonnet
Theme Hopeful Heart
For the 3 forms, 3 themes contest
by Francine Roberts
Her diminished and shading features
As if shrouded within a cocoon or now masked
Graduations of colour that death was successively imposing on her motionless features
Dimming her bouquet of red flowers that seem to float away from her
A deathbed needs no blankets
no warmth, or soft or kin
for he'll never come back out again, once that he's tucked in
A deathbed has no kindness,
no glows or sweet perfume
for Death steals all of this away and in it's place leaves bitter gloom
A deathbed keeps no safety
no feel of family near
no one need be close, they've already left in tears.
A deathbed holds no comfort
no memories of lifetime past
the clock has stopped, and slowly rusts the rough and settling brass
A deathbed cures no illness
no bedrest helps at all
nothing does cure a death, into final rest he falls
A deathbed yearns for no one
silence is best fit
only the pitter-patting tears, and mournful candles that are lit
a deathbed holds but sadness
just misery my friend
but one day soon, you'll lay down too, and all of it will end.
We'll dread
If we're on our deathbed
We'll cry
For we're going to die
That sin
It's a turmoil within
So pale
To feel so very frail
In hours
I'll give you a flower
Suppose
I'll give you a red rose
Last breath
So taste the kiss of death
Track: The Lost Boys - Cry Little Sister
Track: Slipknot - Psychosocial
I'm awake, Yes! I see the Sun!
I hear mom, calling me breakfast is ready.
I step out, common'neighbors let's have fun
Roll our sleeves,delve into the world's beauty.
Hi there Scavenger sir,you need my help?
Smile,efface that face of languor and woe
Teacher,our shepherd,our lore thanks to you,
perhaps,you'll pour my empty cup hereafter,adieu.
Profoundest gratitude,apology I offer you all
Feign that doom is phantom and savor,
"the now",by-and-by,hot,winter or fall,
Alas! existence is evanescent akin to vapor.
Sanctify the begriming blood that churns within my decomposing channels.
Douse my life in the distilled downpour of the holy.
Spike my transgressions to the cross.
Let them hemorrhage in crucifixion.
I can no longer carry the burden of iniquity.
Let my soul spread wings and soar away into the nirvanas.
Keep me from blackening in the magma of Gehenna.
Relieve me of eternal desertion in the onyx abyss.
I cannot tolerate to face Lucifer upon his throne.
Pull me away from the heat of the blaze.
Lay me down on the silky luxury of the cloud.
Absolve my sins.
Liberate my ghost.
Forgive me.
No.
Remembrance for a choker in my deathbed
(Read-only version, a knick-knack too)
Precious finger, the witnessing one, Count
The forehead of a pious one, leaving a mark
Glowing along days and nights, prayer mats, in trying times
And prayers at dusk. Prayers valid till the sternest hairline dawn.
I touched his forehead, long past after the soul is gone.
He was the only one in my life, the only one of his capable kind.
He was the stubbornest hand holding me and mom inside an elevator
He was scrutinizing the sky to let me fly, however superficial it may sound.
I got wiser through all these years. I earned wisdom.
In turning grayer hair colors too, underneath the head scarf.
You will see my purple there, but I will label it as a purple heart.
Torn tears are in sheets of Facial tissues, also, in mourning mistakes, never to be known.
Just for my persuasive temptation, for the next one,
How many harms roads are there along the enlightenment highway in one full Cloverleaf, the old one?
A bed half eaten by termites
She lay on, like her ancestors
Before her, ripe of age
A leaf that had been dried
Between pages yellowed with age
Threatening to fall apart
At the slightest feel.
Her eyes no longer
Windows to her soul
The black holes they were
From which nothing escaped.
She breathed day and night
To the dismay of her children
Who stood by her bedside
Doing nothing but helplessly sigh
Even the tattered blanket
Seemed to mock her
When pulled over her head
Let her scrawny feet peep out
The wait seemed endless
Making all wonder
Was it death refusing to claim her?
Or her refusing to quit?
Life on a death bed
Bending boughs of flaxen curls
Loose tendrils frame and swirl
In the wind and rain
Liquid snakes stain
Your cheeks
Black streaks
A masterpiece in mixed media of life and death
White moonlight lights the ball of your face
Your face a sculpture in pain
A study of Nocturne in Black and Gold
You are a location
Ambiguous emotion set against line and form
Bleak tones a sense of void
You claimed once that the rain was made to obscure the tears of humanity
Collectively we could
I could touch you
Your flesh cold and waxy
A dab of heat here and there
just under the surface
a palpable purpose proving me you live
Your bones bend as scantling timber,
Your balsa-wood heart verily
Snaps
At the sweet nothingness
Of words
Air simply reverberating
Some imbued meaning
You’ve staked so much on
That ride in the air
On sonic waves
To oscillating fimbria
That gives hope
To life.
A death just imposed by the invisible cullers
myself catching tracing graduations the colours
the artist in me myself instinctively tracing
work a share miseries to inspiration making
graduations of deaths colours on her lovely face
lost my anchor heart lost no longer in her embrace
a rationale left with me just slashing poor word strokes
lovely Dorothy gently softly escapes her yokes
by submission
I must hold her for one last embrace