Emily (part 2.2)
From the outreach of my hand
I can feel you
From my eyes I want to
Bewitch you
From look in my eye I want you
Only because I fell
In love with you
From the shore of the Atlantic
To shore of Lake Erie
I row a boat to get you
Take you in my arms
Kiss you until you cry out
Love me
The sky opens up with the sun
It time for us to have some fun
Walking the beach
Snuggles under cover
Swimming nude together
Living a loving life
Got you under my skin
You let me in
Every so softly I sung
From East Coast to the west Coast
My find will outdo the rest
She has beauty from out and in
Love the feeling of her skin
We kiss and hug and love
she is my lady
Emily
God,
I don’t always understand Your plan,
and sometimes I question where You are
when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
But You have seen every tear I’ve cried,
heard every prayer I couldn’t finish,
and stayed beside me
even when I couldn’t feel You there.
I’ve asked You, “Why me?”
when maybe I should have asked,
“Why not me, if You’re preparing me
for something greater?”
So tonight, I’ll trust You
with the pieces I can’t put back together.
I’ll trust You with the people I’ve lost,
the pain I still carry,
and the future I’m afraid to face.
God,
if I forget that You are near,
remind me.
If I lose hope,
hold me.
And if I ever feel like
I’m walking through the darkness alone,
let me remember
that even there,
You are walking beside me.
My name is Emily,
a word my heart has learned to hold.
Not just a name spoken softly,
but a story God began before I was born.
For before the world ever knew me,
He knew every letter of my name.
He knew my laughter, my tears,
the prayers I would whisper when no one else could hear.
Emily, a name given to me by people,
but a life given to me by God.
And maybe that is the beauty of a name:
it is not simply what we are called,
but a reminder that we are known.
Known by the One who made the stars,
who counts every tear I cry,
who sees every hidden battle
and still calls me His.
So when I hear the name Emily,
I do not just hear who I am.
I hear the name of someone
God created with purpose.
And I pray that one day,
when my story has been fully written,
my name will remind the world
not of everything I was,
but of everything God did through me.
For my name is Emily,
but my truest identity is this:
I am known.
I am loved.
I am His.
That lady oh so beautiful
hard to believe she is mine
We talked so long and now
we will finally meet
I am not leaving your side
ever again
Petite and oh so neat
like candy she is sweet
She is my Emily.....
mmmmmm
Camela
oh she lights my desires
like a California fire
burning endless
in my mind
oh she is an amazing lady
playing my desires
lights my fire
in her mind
oh she is a loving lady
like a lovely isle
away from it all
in our minds
chorus
oh the candle burns
oh love seeps in
oh peace sleep begins
following all in line
“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 —
Emily, let me ask you something
The life that you needed.
Why did you love a poor guy?
Lives dead. Our children. Hmm
You don’t cry. Your children are dead
I am sad. Disappointed. Field my life
A life, a poor existence, walk on and off
Emily. Here is the question. Answer it.
What did you want from a general worker?
Hmm. You were a hired woman against me.
English Mata Hari. Emily. Hmm. I forgive you.
A millionaire woman ate the life of a poor man.
Hmm. Nothing happened. I drop your hand.
Best of the best
Hmm.
Goodbye
Passed
Love
Find him
St. Andrew's Church
Kingsbury
A thousand-year-old cemetery
Emily, the time is goodbye
Loved you, walked in your land, the killed heart
I loved you. I needed you, woman. A destroyed love
The time is gone. Our lives are gone. Our children are
Yes. You killed them. All of them are great. Hopes. Was all.
I respect you, Emily.
I loved you
Your life
Drop
Drop
My life
This is nothing for you
Just forget me
Clear, clear
My life of you
Emily
Emily
Never forget
Please
A life
Lived
for yours
Drop your memory
Drop my life of you
But
I
Loved
You
Only.
You.
Forget
Vilmos
Bye
Time
It’s
His Love
Not yours
Bye
Emily
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.
a dishonest man steals identities - an honest man steels himself
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