Long Deathbed Poems
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The doubter finds a way of not believing
Convinced they've seen the worst in man
For how can there be, one higher than me
When we've seen the world's pain and misery
They tend to focus on the sadness and the narrow
Hate to live life by anothers rule
You can't make them believe, but if they looked they could see
His miracles are all the proof that they would need
The skeptic feels lost somewhere in the middle
Questioning the very answers they hold true
They may have seen His works first hand, but the duality of man
Is what keeps them searching further for the truth
They're just a step away from crossing towards the light
Where forgiveness frees and eyes gain new sight
This is the place where most men stand, somewhere upon this fence
So in your soul may His fire ignite
The believer, may sometimes be the hardest
Cause the devil puts temptation in the way
For how can one believe, in what you cannot see
Is what they'll say as they try to deceive
The doubter, the skeptic, and the believer
If you look they're one in the same
The progressions not easy from doubter to believer
But they all share in the shame and the blame
For some it may come on their deathbed
For others with the birth of a child
Though the road may be long and arduous
He will carry you in life's last mile
If you believe, don't chastise the others
If you're a skeptic, I hope that you can find your way
But if you remain a doubter, I pray that you change
Even if it's on your last day
The skeptic, the doubter, and the believer
If you look they're one in the same
The progressions not easy from skeptic to believer
But they all share in the shame and the blame
Please ask yourself if you are wrong
What will be the price that you'll pay
If you believe, you may get lucky and see
That there's life that lives past the grave
The other day I saw the most pathetic thing I think I shall ever see!
It was so macabre and shocking that it piqued my curiosity!
Seems this old miser died having atoned for his many transgressions,
But was adamant about taking with him all his earthly possessions!
He had derided that well-known saw, "you can't take it with you",
And asserted, "Them's my things that took a lifetime to accrue!"
Even on his deathbed as he breathed his last and ceased to function,
He fretted about his stuff as the priest administered extreme unction!
In the funeral procession behind the hearse was a huge U-Haul truck,
Containing his suits and shoes, booze and gold plus all his other ruck!
Oft' I've pondered about that old tightwad and his ultimate fate,
And how St Peter handled the matter when he greeted him at the Gate!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
In unlettered eyes too language there is,
World would read, hope-mixed mirage too there is.
In breath of death breathlessness too there is,
Wish to live by paying wage too there is.
There’s peace when you proceed to read poem,
The buzz and bustle of stage too there is.
True, every age has churned out a villain,
Carriage if, man’s old baggage too there is.
Benign blessings in two eyes, not in third,
In Shiva’s sage, fiery rage too there is.
Welcome O friends and foes at my deathbed,
No more rage at this age in me there is.
If Ghazals enjoy a-not-before edge,
Old styles of pens, their marriage too there is.
_________________________________________
Ghazal |04.09.2023|
Poet’s note: Based on a Gujarati ghazal by Raish Maneear:
The quote, "Now comes the mystery,"
American clergyman and social reformer
Henry Ward Beecher, 1813-1887.
"His final words reflect a philosophical and contemplative
attitude toward death and the afterlife.” Google
His deathbed holds the endless mystery
of where or what will truly happen next;
not what he'd learned from books or history
or what he taught at church as sacred text.
But from his deepest feeling there within,
he knew that death is not the simple end.
And so, his hopeful soul stayed clear of sin;
God's power, love, and mercy did defend.
Surely, he knew that Heaven was his goal-
perhaps imagined it a certain way;
But as a preacher, it is quite a toll
to understand what's real beyond his stay.
He knew the sacred mystery death holds-
but not the where or when of victory.
But at that last-breath moment, it unfolds;
his deathbed quote, “Now comes the mystery,”
This house has been set ablaze; ashes rain like snow,
covering what has become my deathbed.
A weighted blanket of ruins lies heavy upon my chest.
Laboured breaths and the taste of soot coat the back of my throat,
stifling oxygen from reaching the whites of enervated eyes.
Blue-tinted lips incoherently whisper, flirting with my demons,
living in purgatorial gloaming
whilst my spirit hovers between diminishing light and shadows.
Reality blurs, amalgamating with hallucinations
where demons dance in a macabre ballet,
reenacting repressed sorrows,
torturing an undead heart to the brink of insanity.
With each twirl, each act, tales of desperation are etched onto flesh.
Riverlets of blood stain the sheets bright red,
as tourniquets are nowhere to be found.
There is no way to halt the flow;
emotional instability will be my bloodletting.
Every second ticks by a little quicker
until each heartbeat grows fainter.
A clenched jaw relents,
eyes roll backwards,
and a damaged soul is severed from its mortal coil,
yet its fate is left undetermined,
flailing in the in-between forevermore.
"Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani"
I know feeble feathers can't make a hill quiver.
I know no beast can stand against an elephant.
Once, I made the monarchs and monarchies shiver.
Why, then, like a lamb, do I let wolves be triumphant?
I know I could have taken the bull by the horns.
My body is broken now. My blood has been shed.
My head is poked with a crown made of iron thorns.
A cross, made by me once, has become my deathbed.
I'm fixed on the cross. My heart and mind get stirred.
The power of powerlessness puts my soul to the test.
Existence seems as though endlessly gone absurd.
I scream and screech. My turmoil turns into tempest.
I've borne the human pains in my body and soul.
Pains of my passion make my incarnation whole.
Small fortune already spent
to maintain 2009 Hyundai Sonata
(pray cuz I love genii, or even mirthful
teletubby heaven sent)
compromising financial means to pay rent,
telecommunications service provider (Verizon),
electric company (PECO), sparking pent
up rage against the machine money meant
to buffer panic attacks
springing up like Jack in the box
yet, yours truly feels his soul got lent
to the devil, impossible mission
peace of mind out of reach for this gent
and the misses forced in poor house
alms reached out
imploring cosmic consciousness
me equal decent
fellow asking please
dole out at least one red cent
with quite a few right sided zeros
before decimal point
to relieve soul searing ailment.
Nor can yours truly afford
a new preowned vehicle
perhaps dismal circumstances
will witness me pedaling
preschool sized tricycle
generating stares aplenty quizzical
bystanders, especially kids
pointing out overgrown practical
joker, many grownups
look twice dismissing optical
illusion concluding meshugganah
mister man maniacal,
nonetheless entire crowd
coon sitters me hysterical.
Thus hoop fully explains zit
all regarding why I writ
silly poem about me,
a pedal pushing panhandler twit
(jab only fore sake of poem),
who wheely did quit
the madcap rat race
cold turkey working for nonprofit
named Matthew Scott Harris,
he sports fifty shades of gray matter
boasting memory equalling one kilobit
more than adequate as Herman's hermit
petsmart exuding blissful esprit
de corp sometimes volunteering
with Smokey as his fiery bandit.
If ja happen to espy
older pencil necked geek
most popular within
of enclave Battle Creek,
cuz, constitutes major producer
comprising breakfast cereal of champions
just toss legal tender into sleek,
the only pot I got to piss'n
actually a family heirloom antique
sold to me on grandfather's deathbed.
My little child was like a butterfly.
She was fond of butterflies as well.
This was why I called her: butterfly.
She ran to me commanding me to tell her stories.
I obeyed as she had been the apple of my eye.
‘Tell me stories’, this was how she commanded me once..
‘What?’
‘Tell me stories'.
I felt it was as though asking Bheeshma Pitamaha at his deathbed of nails to utter the 'Gita'!
He could. Could I?
Flesh mine was, of course, weak.
Spirit- Was mine strong?
I was drowning in cancer.
Well, I asked her then:
‘Stories on what?’
‘On butterflies.’
I was absolutely perplexed.
I thought then: was it, in actual fact, a coincidence?
Was it not my dream, once, to talk about butterflies?
'I should speak out', I thought.
I felt in the interiors of my heart that it was a call of the time, or, rather, a demand of the time.
Hence, I decided to put a temporary halt to my grand finale: Death.
Amidst unbearable pain, I did make words from my throat to hail.
To all those who were on the watch of my health, my words sounded as though the last song of a dying nightingale.
I started my story.
Indeed, I did not know then that it was she who was a better storyteller and poet, and philosopher than me.
‘Once upon a time, there was a butterfly…’'
Then I saw her 'flying after' a beautiful butterfly that rushed therein and dazzled away like a dazzling of lightning.
She came back after a while, panting, puffing.
She asked me, ‘what had happened to that butterfly?’
Might be due to the annoyance of her disrupting the very outset of my story, yet, of course, not out of malice or contempt, I told her abruptly, ’she's no more.’
She was shocked! Cheerless!
She seemed as though feeling absolutely sorry for the creature.
It was hence she exclaimed:
‘Butterflies have a comparatively shorter life span. Why don't you tell me stories of butterflies that have longer lives? Or, why don't you give longer life to butterflies in your stories, at least?’
I fell silent.
30 January 2023
It all began in the summer of 1876, in which Brother Clive Werthings had returned from
feeding the sow. He walked through the kitchen door and into the morning light shining in from the window. With great distress he uttered the following:
“The eyes of the pigs came alive!
Their dead eyes and ordinary pig faces
We’re preaching to me! Squealing
Away with you, away with you! They shouted!
I swatted them with my hands
And as my hand swung towards their pinkish flesh
My fingers turned to hooves!
My arms shrunk to the size of their front legs!
It was blurry, muddy, and I could not think straight
And so I started to pray and I forgave God for all the things
I swore against him if he’d just release me now…
Brother Werthings took a deep sigh as his family of on-lookers watched breathlessly.
He had been to the asylum once, his mother thought in communal privacy with the others.
And now this, she thought. She watched him finish:
“And then he did. He released me.
The next moment I was on my feet
Staring at the stupid pigs.
I simply turned around and
Walked back into the house.
A new man.
Brother Werthings took a profound step forward, consequently out of the ray of sunlight coming in from the window. He then repeated in the shadow:
“I am a new man now.”
The family lived on, living out their lives: a proud ship, slowly rotting in the vast sea. And years from now, one looking out, or looking in, could never know the full truth regarding the validity of Brother Werthings’ statements.
Though on his deathbed, struck by tuberculosis, he demanded on his
tombstone be chiseled:
Clive Werthings
1847-1897
The Eyes Of The Pigs Came Alive!
Line of inquiry:
“death approaches but we have no regret ~
when God questions us, we will stand erect."
Though ailing on my deathbed, someday I will be
no claim to fame and glory will I seek for me.
No title of greatness nor prize of stardom won
for nothing truly remarkable in life have I done.
I shall not whimper if death hovers, nor shed a tear.
It is not my lack humility or a merciless God I fear.
Aware of my faults; He knows I've things to regret
No angelic halo circles my head, nor divine coronet.
If near death, I should feel His presence in command,
I'd prostrate myself before Him, for I dare not stand.
Down on my knees in praise, is where I'd belong
I'm but a grain of sand, a human who's done wrong.
No questions does God need ask. He knows my heart.
Faith in Him is my bulwark, my haven, my rampart.
I am not a worthy soul to look upon my Creator's face,
On the verge of death, I'll rely on His mercy and grace.