I love the honesty, the simplicity, and the conversational tone, Chuck! I imagine when we feel ourselves approaching death, the fancy language drops away and we do in fact just want to be held and kissed and loved. Beautiful.
I read a post a while back about hoping that death feels like when you're little and your parents put you to bed during a party and you feel snug and safe and can hear laughter from the next room. This reminds me a bit of that.
I love this! The first two lines - “I’m not afraid of dying / I do it every day” pulled me right in. The idea of failing to live being a scarier thing than dying reminds me of a poem (“Time Piece”) that I read from Andrea Gibson yesterday with these gorgeous lines - “bitterness is the easiest way / to leave the world having had only / a near-life experience.”
What an amazing poem, alive, deep and humble. I, like Lisa, love the beginning: "I'm not afraid of dying, I do it every day, I am afraid of leaving." A. this resonates strongly with me. Dying is a part of the cycle--but the leaving behind, of people, things left to be done, love that gets better, healign happening...Your poem captures these so beautifully. Whether your poems are short, medium or long, they always reach for me and bring me in. Thank you.
Like everyone has said, the first two lines, "I'm not afraid of dying; I do it every day," is so true! Death is not some final end, but pieces along the way. Just as life is not a one time birth, but all the experiences we encounter. Life is fluid and so is death.
I love how you tease this out, A -- the difference between simply dying and all the departures and discontinuations that are unfortunately part of that package deal.
Oh wow, I felt this, deeply. The litany of "undones" is powerful, and I think you've tapped into a universal ache here, an ache we don't talk about enough, the anticipatory grief of things left "un_________".
What an incredible dream and what an incredible poem! I love the image of you using all your "finest moves" to try to evade death, only - after many lives and deaths - to discover death as a companion, death as beautiful. I wonder how the world would be different if we all deeply remembered that we will die (and rather soon) and if we all decided to be okay with that.
What a tremendous poem, beautiful and brilliant. I love the flow of your dream and how it culminates in an understanding that death is not enemy or foe, but a companion there when time brings us home. I love the ending: "This life, where I stopped running. Death ceased chasing. We stood looking deeply into each other’s eyes. This time I saw something new.
He never was a curse, but an exquisite gift instead. A deep understanding arose. We exist now as companions. Death by my side. I never knew death could be so beautiful.:
A whoppiung "wow" and heart flash. I sense your ancestors surrounding your dream, bringing it to life, helping bring you to your seeing of the beauty. Wonderfully and creatively done!
Love this, Julie. Emily Dickinson had nothing on you in penning her soirees with Death! Death as a gift and a companion, rather than something to be feared and fled, is deeply comforting.
Whew boy, it's been hard for me to make it to the comment pages punctually these last few weeks. I feel like I've been missing out a bit on the camaraderie -- boo! I hope to get back on track soon.
.
Selfishly posting my mortality poem before I've had a second to read anyone else's poems, eek!
I love this poem so much, and I love your trees, and it makes me feel less than loving toward their judge.
Also, I think we need to All Rise and recite the following pledge: "I pledge allegiance to the whims of my own muse and the needs of my body and soul, even when that means posting a poem 'late' or not at all and even when that means 'failing' to comment on others' poems, which is actually not a failure at all, because only when I honor my original allegiance (to muse and body and soul) can I truly, deeply honor anything at all."
"Pick the beetling, heart-rotted status quo or erasure" - oh what a metaphor for so many situations and so many people. I felt this in my bones. Also the idea of straining to hear any hint of a sweet song of change, from any quarter. And, in the spirit of confession, I often post my stuff before reading anyone besides Lisa's prompt poem!
First I want to say I don't feel it is selfish at all to post your poem before reading others. With that said, I loved loved this Rebekah, my sentiments too! Yes to "all rise." I get it! Let that change happen!
I enjoyed walking through your cemetery with you, seeing it through your lens (a delightful and whimsical lens it is :)). I took a walk through one of "my" cemeteries here today, and this is what emerged:
There are too many wonderful words and images here for me to attempt to quote them! Thank you for taking us with you into both of the outer landscape of these cemeteries as well as the two very different inner landscapes that your walks there can inspire. Something about the opening image of the 18th century to the right and the 19th century to the left made me start imagining a graveyard as a time machine, where if you know just the right trick - the necessary position of the moon, where to stand and whether to turn or tap your feet or wiggle your nose - you travel back to meet the cemetery's inhabitants on the terrain of their own time.
I love this idea of stepping back into the landscape of the era. It reminds me of something that would have happened on an episode of Fantasy Island (speaking of landscapes of an era!).
Oh wow, Keith, this feels so true -- our pervious, then impervious natures. I can't get over "You will fasten your eyes / like tent pegs / to the bright blue above / and draw long breaths of life / deep into your center." So good!
Thanks, Rebekah - I love how you've characterized human nature as pervious and impervious. Yes, that feels true and accounts for the nuanced ways in which we experience and are experienced on any given day.
Keith loved this journey through the graveyard. It reminded me of the ones back in Connecticut. Those old graveyards with stones that had "weather-worn dates and anachronistic names." Loved that! Anyways they fascinated me as a kid. I also really liked "(but never)" and "(but not gone)", this brought so much poignancy to this poem.
This started out much longer until it became obvious to me I didn't need to list the names of all my family members that had passed away :) So I cut it back down to the following:
You managed with so few words to conjure such sweetness and liveliness - "birth days that led to birthdays" - and then such sadness - "until the tide began to turn and take us with it one by one." This is just beautiful, Karri! It makes me want to wrap your whole family in a hug.
This captures so well the bittersweetness of the life-death loop. "Birth days that led to birthdays" - love this clever line. And reserving "one by one" as it's own line really highlighted the finality of leaving. Beautiful!
I relate to, "Until the tide began to turn and take us with it, one by one." I see this unfolding in my life. The ocean tides do not cease, neither does death.
What a beautiful full-circle poem, Karri. I can't decide if the ending feels more haunting or enchanting -- it's somewhere in the middle for me. I really feel the richness of your family story here, even without all the names!
The spareness here speaks volumes, Karri. That tide is truly almost palpable. I've seen it with extended family and it's something I think I'm already grieving, though I've yet to experience it myself.
I love a cemetery - especially an old one! Such peace can be found there. I found that peace in your words as well. As well as a glint of humor in those angels wiggling their welcome!
I've always loved cemeteries. When I was a kid and we would visit them for funerals, my mom always made a point of saying how much she loved for us to play there, because the people buried there would love to hear our joy and have us dancing around. It didn't need to just be solemn, even if it was often very sorrowful. So your poem about walking through a cemetery today just made me smile. I love that you didn't take it too seriously. I love the names that stood out to you and how you incorporated them into the end.
Wow. Thank you so much for pulling me into the depth of your reflections and feelings. On my recent cemetery walk, I definitely noticed the distinctions between rich and poor and men and women, but it didn't even pause to think about who wasn't buried there or named there. I love how big and wide your heart is, Larry. I want to take this awareness with me next time I enter a cemetery (and everywhere else I go).
KINDRED PONDERS
Ready or not, it's gonna happen.
I should be good to go by now,
but, yeah,
honestly,
I am nervous.
I can't stop wondering
what it's gonna be like.
on the other side.
It's supposed to be
everything I ever wanted.
i've heard stories about going thru this long tunnel
with a bright light at the end.
I just want to meet my mommy.
I just want to meet my Jesus.
to be held
with real arms.
and kissed.
and loved.
That's all I really want.
(inspired by a good friday youth group script, author unknown)
I love the honesty, the simplicity, and the conversational tone, Chuck! I imagine when we feel ourselves approaching death, the fancy language drops away and we do in fact just want to be held and kissed and loved. Beautiful.
When death comes, everything gets simple. What do we truly want, LOVE! Thanks Chuck, love this.
I read a post a while back about hoping that death feels like when you're little and your parents put you to bed during a party and you feel snug and safe and can hear laughter from the next room. This reminds me a bit of that.
That painting is a nice one.
(I think i need a new paint brush)
I think your brush is just fine, Chuck.
sometimes it feels like I'm trying to paint with a hammer. 🔨.
I think I would enjoy chainsaw woodcarving.🤔.
Chuck, it is a growing art form here in Norhern New England!
I feel encouraged by the rawness of your honesty, Chuck. Me totally too.
So very sweet; brought a tear to my eye!
Very nice, Chuck, You paint with your words and your living.
I wrote this one over a year ago, and it's in one of my very first posts here on Substack, so I thought I'd share it today:
I'm not afraid of dying;
I do it every day
I am afraid of leaving;
of business unfinished
knowledge unlearned
thoughts unuttered
words unread
moments unnoticed
love unexpressed
time unspent
life unlived
I love this! The first two lines - “I’m not afraid of dying / I do it every day” pulled me right in. The idea of failing to live being a scarier thing than dying reminds me of a poem (“Time Piece”) that I read from Andrea Gibson yesterday with these gorgeous lines - “bitterness is the easiest way / to leave the world having had only / a near-life experience.”
I love Andrea Gibson's work! The fact that any aspect of my own reminded you of it feels like such an honour.
What an amazing poem, alive, deep and humble. I, like Lisa, love the beginning: "I'm not afraid of dying, I do it every day, I am afraid of leaving." A. this resonates strongly with me. Dying is a part of the cycle--but the leaving behind, of people, things left to be done, love that gets better, healign happening...Your poem captures these so beautifully. Whether your poems are short, medium or long, they always reach for me and bring me in. Thank you.
Like everyone has said, the first two lines, "I'm not afraid of dying; I do it every day," is so true! Death is not some final end, but pieces along the way. Just as life is not a one time birth, but all the experiences we encounter. Life is fluid and so is death.
I love how you tease this out, A -- the difference between simply dying and all the departures and discontinuations that are unfortunately part of that package deal.
Oh wow, I felt this, deeply. The litany of "undones" is powerful, and I think you've tapped into a universal ache here, an ache we don't talk about enough, the anticipatory grief of things left "un_________".
Such truth in these words.
I was going to share a poem I wrote a while back, but then last night I had a dream. So it became a poem.
.
I had a dream last night…
.
Death was chasing after me.
I used all my finest moves.
Took advantage of the many
hiding places, I was aware of.
Truly, I did my best to evade him.
Yet death found me anyways.
I knew it when I looked into his eyes.
.
But this was not an end,
for it started up again, then again.
Repeating and repeating,
lifetime after lifetime.
Until…
.
This life, where I stopped running.
Death ceased chasing.
We stood looking deeply into
each other’s eyes.
This time I saw something new.
He never was a curse,
but an exquisite gift instead.
A deep understanding arose.
We exist now as companions.
Death by my side.
.
I never knew death could be so beautiful.
What an incredible dream and what an incredible poem! I love the image of you using all your "finest moves" to try to evade death, only - after many lives and deaths - to discover death as a companion, death as beautiful. I wonder how the world would be different if we all deeply remembered that we will die (and rather soon) and if we all decided to be okay with that.
What a tremendous poem, beautiful and brilliant. I love the flow of your dream and how it culminates in an understanding that death is not enemy or foe, but a companion there when time brings us home. I love the ending: "This life, where I stopped running. Death ceased chasing. We stood looking deeply into each other’s eyes. This time I saw something new.
He never was a curse, but an exquisite gift instead. A deep understanding arose. We exist now as companions. Death by my side. I never knew death could be so beautiful.:
A whoppiung "wow" and heart flash. I sense your ancestors surrounding your dream, bringing it to life, helping bring you to your seeing of the beauty. Wonderfully and creatively done!
Beautiful, Julie.
Love this, Julie. Emily Dickinson had nothing on you in penning her soirees with Death! Death as a gift and a companion, rather than something to be feared and fled, is deeply comforting.
What a gift of a dream to be shown this!
Whew boy, it's been hard for me to make it to the comment pages punctually these last few weeks. I feel like I've been missing out a bit on the camaraderie -- boo! I hope to get back on track soon.
.
Selfishly posting my mortality poem before I've had a second to read anyone else's poems, eek!
.
The trees had their day in court,
but the judge was a saw.
His ruling made the local paper,
and looked mean in print, like
how dare you stupid trees?
.
If I’d been called as a witness,
I would have said:
.
It’s a volatile situation, Your Honor,
you’re right about that.
When the flames come, they will stand
shoulder to shoulder, and their heads
will burn as one.
.
But what choice do they have?
Pick the beetling, heart-rotted
status quo, or erasure. That’s it.
.
I saw what you did to the west.
It’s blasted and bare. Survivors picked
at random, held apart. They are not
themselves. They are limbless and brittle,
canting in an all-new wind.
To resurrect the forest, any one of them
would combust.
.
Your Honor, the plaintiffs are still
here. It’s March, and they are hopeful.
They are raising their fungal flags,
shaking out their witches’ brooms.
They are waiting for their birds.
.
They are straining to hear
the first notes -- from the south,
from the east, from any warbling pocket
of this planet -- that sound like
change.
.
All rise.
I love this poem so much, and I love your trees, and it makes me feel less than loving toward their judge.
Also, I think we need to All Rise and recite the following pledge: "I pledge allegiance to the whims of my own muse and the needs of my body and soul, even when that means posting a poem 'late' or not at all and even when that means 'failing' to comment on others' poems, which is actually not a failure at all, because only when I honor my original allegiance (to muse and body and soul) can I truly, deeply honor anything at all."
"Pick the beetling, heart-rotted status quo or erasure" - oh what a metaphor for so many situations and so many people. I felt this in my bones. Also the idea of straining to hear any hint of a sweet song of change, from any quarter. And, in the spirit of confession, I often post my stuff before reading anyone besides Lisa's prompt poem!
First I want to say I don't feel it is selfish at all to post your poem before reading others. With that said, I loved loved this Rebekah, my sentiments too! Yes to "all rise." I get it! Let that change happen!
I don't even know what to say, Rebekah. This is incredible.
I enjoyed walking through your cemetery with you, seeing it through your lens (a delightful and whimsical lens it is :)). I took a walk through one of "my" cemeteries here today, and this is what emerged:
As you climb Village Hill,
you might find yourself
turning into one of two
cemeteries and then
backtracking into one of two
centuries.
18th to the right,
19th to the left.
Some days, particularly
peacefully pensive days,
you will be curious about
all those bodies with
all those stories.
You will be generous,
ungrudging with your time.
You will stop and squint
at weather-worn dates and
anachronistic names,
thrilling at the mystery,
revising the history as you
strain it patiently
through the filter of imagination.
Other days, particularly
impossibly sunny, bright days,
you will speed along,
closed and indifferent,
barely noticing
the slip nor crunch
of gravel beneath you.
You will fasten your eyes
like tent pegs
to the bright blue above
and draw long breaths of life
deep into your center,
because the intimacy of
connecting with souls you always
(but never) knew perforates you.
Because you’re not open
to accepting that one day
you will be gone
(but not gone), too.
There are too many wonderful words and images here for me to attempt to quote them! Thank you for taking us with you into both of the outer landscape of these cemeteries as well as the two very different inner landscapes that your walks there can inspire. Something about the opening image of the 18th century to the right and the 19th century to the left made me start imagining a graveyard as a time machine, where if you know just the right trick - the necessary position of the moon, where to stand and whether to turn or tap your feet or wiggle your nose - you travel back to meet the cemetery's inhabitants on the terrain of their own time.
I love this idea of stepping back into the landscape of the era. It reminds me of something that would have happened on an episode of Fantasy Island (speaking of landscapes of an era!).
Oh wow, Keith, this feels so true -- our pervious, then impervious natures. I can't get over "You will fasten your eyes / like tent pegs / to the bright blue above / and draw long breaths of life / deep into your center." So good!
Agreed! What incredible lines!
Thanks, Rebekah - I love how you've characterized human nature as pervious and impervious. Yes, that feels true and accounts for the nuanced ways in which we experience and are experienced on any given day.
Keith loved this journey through the graveyard. It reminded me of the ones back in Connecticut. Those old graveyards with stones that had "weather-worn dates and anachronistic names." Loved that! Anyways they fascinated me as a kid. I also really liked "(but never)" and "(but not gone)", this brought so much poignancy to this poem.
Thanks, Julie. Yes, the old graveyards here fascinate me, still. The older one looks like it came straight off the pages of Edgar Allan Poe!
The parentheses here are everything, Keith. And the idea of revising history by straining it "through the filter of imagination" is just wonderful.
This started out much longer until it became obvious to me I didn't need to list the names of all my family members that had passed away :) So I cut it back down to the following:
Our patriarch had passed
But we continued to grow.
The next two decades
Were nothing but
Life adding to life.
Birth days that led
To birthdays
Holidays and every days
Three dozen strong.
Until the tide began to turn
And take us with it
One by one.
You managed with so few words to conjure such sweetness and liveliness - "birth days that led to birthdays" - and then such sadness - "until the tide began to turn and take us with it one by one." This is just beautiful, Karri! It makes me want to wrap your whole family in a hug.
This captures so well the bittersweetness of the life-death loop. "Birth days that led to birthdays" - love this clever line. And reserving "one by one" as it's own line really highlighted the finality of leaving. Beautiful!
I relate to, "Until the tide began to turn and take us with it, one by one." I see this unfolding in my life. The ocean tides do not cease, neither does death.
What a beautiful full-circle poem, Karri. I can't decide if the ending feels more haunting or enchanting -- it's somewhere in the middle for me. I really feel the richness of your family story here, even without all the names!
The spareness here speaks volumes, Karri. That tide is truly almost palpable. I've seen it with extended family and it's something I think I'm already grieving, though I've yet to experience it myself.
Karri, I like the sweetness and tenderness of this, the clear eyed recognition of the temporal nature of our lives. The length feels just right.
I love a cemetery - especially an old one! Such peace can be found there. I found that peace in your words as well. As well as a glint of humor in those angels wiggling their welcome!
Thank you, Karri! And I'm with you on the love of old cemeteries.
I've always loved cemeteries. When I was a kid and we would visit them for funerals, my mom always made a point of saying how much she loved for us to play there, because the people buried there would love to hear our joy and have us dancing around. It didn't need to just be solemn, even if it was often very sorrowful. So your poem about walking through a cemetery today just made me smile. I love that you didn't take it too seriously. I love the names that stood out to you and how you incorporated them into the end.
Thank you, A! I love your mom’s perspective so much! And what a beautiful distinction - that sorrowful doesn’t have to mean solemn.
Thank you Lisa, for such a creative and provocative prompt. You shine such light, through and tnjroiugh the shadows.
Here in northern New England, it is hard not to take a walk and not run into some small burial ground. This poem was spurred by those small places,
Grounded
In this corner of the northern Atlantic coast,
we have so many small burial grounds.
ancient stones marking lives and generations,
testimony to a time when we stayed put more often.
I look at the headstones, some readable,
others worn by time and weather.
I think about all of the unnamed ones.
those deemed not worthy of recognition.
by the powers of the age.
The first peoples settling and wandering;
Those enslaved who formed a foundation
of a community that may never have existed.
Indentured servants, women whose voices are still
Silenced.
Children whose lives were a flickering flame.
The poor farms, the disposables, the left behind
thrown together like the dump pits that
Poison our waters.
I’m not sure whether to be grateful
to be one of those who will be named,
or whether to be in the place
where no one knows your name.
I yearn for a clearer testimony,
a more noble and humble way of seeing
all of those whose lives are lost to the stories
told over the centuries.
As the snow falls this morning,
I sing a song for all that were, are and will be.
The wind spirit carries it home.
Life is a mystery.
Wow. Thank you so much for pulling me into the depth of your reflections and feelings. On my recent cemetery walk, I definitely noticed the distinctions between rich and poor and men and women, but it didn't even pause to think about who wasn't buried there or named there. I love how big and wide your heart is, Larry. I want to take this awareness with me next time I enter a cemetery (and everywhere else I go).
Thank you Lisa, for your kind words and ceaseless inspiration!