to dwell in physical form
neglects our inner being
to breathe in essence of self
never owned by anyone
the drabbest of birds
sings a lullaby of hope
whereas the ostentatious
will try to drown out the truth
as hope is the last to die
its song
will be there for all
who wish to hear it
hope perches in the soul
folding its wings
around our fluttering hearts
Inspired by: ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers’, by Emily Dickinson
“I must go in, the fog is rising.”
~Emily Dickinson
I must go in, the fog is rising,
outside my door the world is fading
and I won't see the sun arriving
to color morning sky awaiting.
It's been said life lasts an hour only,
days pass by as if a charcoal painting
left out in weather and so lonely,
leaving simple shadows in the waning.
Death does not kindly stop for me,
suddenly does it appear like night,
or perhaps like fog arising slowly~
and I must enter in to find the light.
The first lines in stanza two and three were inspired by Dickinson poems
Deathbed Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Daniel Henry Rodgers
Contest Judged: 11/1/2025 6:35:00 AM
( 3rd place )
Written: October 10, 2025
"I must go in, the fog is rising." ~ Emily Dickinson
The fog moves gently through the field,
touching each blade as if to say goodbye.
It leans against her windowpane,
a quiet guest come to lead her home.
Outside, the birds have gone quiet.
The air holds its breath;
She gazes once more at her fading garden,
where colors drift into soft gray peace.
Her lips part only to release a sigh,
the sound of something setting free.
No struggle, only the stillness
that comes when light meets rest.
And when the fog has lifted,
the room keeps her calm behind…
a hush, a whisper,
a bloom of white where her spirit passed.
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
Death has ushered me into a new Home—
The Bloom has opened—wide—
No Chamber here for sorrow—
But endless Rooms—inside—
A quiet hush of Petals—
Unfurl upon the Air—
As if the Soul were Gardened—
By Hands divinely fair.
The Walls are made of Silence—
Yet Music drifts between—
An unseen Choir attending—
What once the Grave had seen.
I lay my old attire—
Upon the Dust below—
And walk into the Meadow—
Where the everlasting—grows.
The Bloom has opened—fully—
And bids me—enter so—
Goodnight to all my family --
I can now release my soul.
So little Room — I occupied —
When Breath — withdrew from Me —
The House — enlarged — to wilderness —
And left — Infinity —
The Chair — appeared too vast — for One —
The Bed — a vacant Sea —
The Mirror — kept a hollow Face —
Where once — I used to be —
The Garden — could not find my step —
The Sparrow — ceased — to call —
The Window — bore a foreign Sun —
And Shadows — claimed the Wall —
So small a Claim — upon the Earth —
I scarcely seemed — to own —
Yet Absence — proves — how large a Space —
Is missing — when I'm gone —
Faith is the thing with callow feet—
That tiptoes on thin air—
It keeps no calendar or creed—
Yet finds me unaware.
It does not knock—it does not plead—
But settles in the soul—
A hush, more firm than any church—
A bell without a toll.
It drinks the dew from shadowed grass—
It sings beneath the snow—
And when the sky forgets to speak—
It’s all the voice I know.
It walks where reason fears to go—
A guest without a name—
And when I fall, it does not scold—
But lifts me just the same—
As if it wore a wounded wing—
Yet soared despite the flames .
after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson
Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.
We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.
We passed the house where I once strove
to play and know no sorrow.
We passed a creek whisking ashes downstream—
something I was hesitant to let it borrow.
Or, rather, it passed us—
the mist in the air quivering with a dog's final breath—
for only I began to falter
on our beaten and lonely path.
We paused before some foothills that seemed
serene, yet all too demanding.
The soon-to-be graves were scarcely visible here—
urns in my arms notwithstanding.
Since then, it has been decades, and yet
it still feels shorter than the day
Death first took my warm hand in his own
and his comforting coldness became mine for eternity.
Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst'
In my university days, you burned in me
As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration.
As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see
And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation.
Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago,
Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul.
Your poetry is like a whispered secret still aglow
As a recluse, you hid yourself. From the crowd you stole.
Your poems give a glimpse into the workings of your heart
Your thoughts, bold and subtle speaks directly to me.
As I think of you, through my mind, emotions of awe dart.
Staying aloof, you watched nature and animals closely.
In your poems, you elevated the mundane to the sublime.
‘If I could Stop one Heart from Breaking’_
This poem, stays immortal in all time.
Your musings on life and nature are breathtaking.
Dear Emily, you shouldn’t have hidden your light,
Like a lamp under the bushel. Sad, your poems you buried,
Abhorrent of publicity, but posthumously came into limelight.
Now across oceans and tides, they are avidly ferried.
I have a problem with my eyes
Being bigger than my brain.
I mean I have a weakness
Of owning more books than water makes rain.
I purchase them by the dozen
Whenever they’re on sale,
At the local bookstore I buy them galore
Smiling inside without hesitation or fail.
No subject too large or near too small
As I stack them high on shelves and walls
In bedrooms, closets
And out in the hall.
They’re down in the basement and the attic as well,
I admit I’m addicted to even the smell
Of an Emily Dickinson, Thoreau or Frost,
Or MK Rawlings, whatever the cost.
I love a good mystery
But history’s my fav
While God, religion, and good grammar
I always crave.
The problem I have is reading them all
Cover to cover whenever they call,
Morning or evening, midnight or midday
Surrounded by books and all that they say
Keeps my mind moving and grooving along
And points to some places I’ll go when I’m gone.
The day when the angels come ‘round up my soul
I’ll think of these books as silver and gold.
And leave them to someone who
Might even see
Between all the pages
A man like me.
A little eye not made by man,
all woman seem to have.
Available to none but honey bees.
Clinging to the rose are butterflies.
If only screens were made of wax back then.
And then tomorrow comes.
I hear a voice inside my head that says.
Honey sweet cornbread is made each day.
Emily Dickinson was her name
To her – poetry wasn’t a game
She lived & loved through verse & rhyme
Her words will flow through all of time.
She wrote of storms, and winds, and wild March skies,
Sunsets and dawns, gardens and lawns,
And birds, and bees, and butterflies.
The first robin of Spring gave her reason for hope
Beyond crowning of monarch, or birthday of pope.
And she wrote of the seasons with a delicate flair,
Like the leaves turning red in Fall's altered air.
Her human friends were trusted, though few,
But companions enough for the world she knew.
She wrote often of death's quiet dignity,
Never with rancor or morbidity,
But always with awareness of her own mortality.
Crowned poet,
posthumous Queen
of the private world,
you explored
every subtlety of the soul
and mapped the wonder
of existence
to its last drawn breath.
What price did you pay
deep in your alabaster chambers,
charting the course
of a nameless presence
stretched across eternity,
giving it a home
in the exquisite vessel
of your words.
~~~ ~~ ~~
( ) { } ( )
( ) { } { }
~~ ~~~~ ~~~
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.