i tried hard to be a beta, with the deep breathing & walking meditation, soft steps, thoughts of love, be the buddha, what would jesus do, turn the other cheek, my religion is kindness, of course i believe all those things, but underneath i’m still the alpha, the guy who walks in a room & thinks, no, not thinks, knows, deep down, that death is nothing to fear, meaning, fear doesn’t exist, subterranean alpha, so hidden i hardly feel it lurking in my plasma, my dna, my surface is placid, but when push comes to shove i’m no piggy, closer to the lord of the flies, endless abyss of ego, or lack of ego, no self, not scared of losing self, alpha, it’s not a physical thing, no need for hulking muscle mass, it just is, bury me in mantras & i laugh, thanks for the peaceful sayings, but i’m still the alpha.
Tag: Death
When The Hospice Bed Arrives
a metal bed frame rolls into the living room, & without wanting to, my mind goes there, are we the 20th room? the 200th? how much death has this bed frame held? the mattress starts to inflate, then i’m shown the oxygen machine, 7-foot plastic tube, with inserts for the nose, depending on the journey this might mix with morphine
the warriors play on the tv, microwave beeps, & the dogs eat their dinner, just another night at home waiting for the inevitable, passing of time, life leaving, of course there is much more, massaging of temples, feet, hands, kisses to cheeks, forehead, tears, lots of tears, for others it might be sudden, but our hospice bed slows it all down, minutes mean everything.
The End Of November
journey toward winter solstice, lost light, weak orb only wins in the morning, by early afternoon the disappearing begins, darkness, a time to hide, in a book, a bed, by a window looking at snowflakes falling, the white ground rising to meet wind and swaying pine trees, howling silence, nature’s portrait of death, the end of something, and now i understand january 1st, i used to always wonder, why not call september the beginning like in judaism? but i get it, the minutes added each day, climbing back into the sun, waiting for spring to heal the earth, but for now we rest.
Last Words Of Ambrose Bierce
as to me, i leave here tomorrow for an unknown destination-ambrose bierce 1913, old writers never die, they just fade away, at least that’s how wikipedia says it happened, but what do we really know? stories replicate stories, screens duplicate screens, people pretend to know, and someone, somewhere, used to know something, bierce disappeared in mexico, that has been proven, but not by screens, rather, letters, paper, parchment, something that was held, not just screen seen, everyone has their secrets, even with all the camera phones, tracking cookies, and incessant internet, we all still get to have a little bit of bierce mystery, we all end up in an unknown destination, eventually.
The Screen Reaper
The screen reaper has taken all the books away. The ones we used to read by the fireplace, or on the rug, or in bed, or underneath a tree. The screen reaper doesn’t care about your memories or narrative works assembled on page after page, plots, characters, all those stories shaped in your head. No, instead it offers the everything/nothing, of videos, tv shows, movies, colorful clothes draped on dancing bodies, never-ending updates, snap maps, instagram images, and tiktok temptations. The screen reaper wants it all, all of you, your eyes, brain, mind, and time.
And most of us never fight back, we open the computer, clutch the clicker, scroll with our very own fingers, authors of our demise. The screen reaper has taken all the books away, and yet we let it stay, perhaps forever, it will be this way.
Sunset
ebbing light attracts us to the edge
of time, of earth, of day, of youth
the end of everything
the in-between, dusk, that word
a gateway into the unknown
we snap photos, pose with friends
try to capture something always lost
that we can never quite hold
Remembering Doris Grumbach: 1918-2022
Photo Credit: The New York Times
I corresponded with Doris and loved her memoirs. She sent me signed books. This is the post I wrote about her a couple of years ago: https://danielwpolk.org/2020/06/30/letter-from-doris-grumbach/
A link to her books: https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/authorpage/doris-grumbach.html
Sonny Rollins Is Alive
when enough times passes
we begin to think they
are all dead
those jazz musicians
who cradled gold
instruments, lung life air
pulsating into
penetrating through everything
with their reverberating
notes of truth
it all ends
but his saxophone sound
is still here
and perhaps
will be
forever
Pet Goldfish
i suppose everyone
had a goldfish
from the pet
store or school
fair, glistening orange
in plastic bag
captured bit of
rippling nature, and
we tried to
keep it alive
with flakes and
water changes, but
after a few
months it died
and what did
we learn? how
to understand loss
that toilet flush
goodbye, what is
life? what is
death? it meant
nothing, and everything
COVID-19 Passes The Vietnam War
and when the virus
constricted air from over
58,220 lungs, no one
came to the door
informing us of death’s
arrival, no uniformed soldier’s
solemn words to comfort
ventilator’s failure to save
lives, this war of
no bullets, no answers
to the endless quest
for vaccine’s hopeful solace
we look to blame
those who cannot contain
this invisble reaper, as
if this were one
person’s fault, as if
we could just drop
a nuke and make
it all go away
instead we walk by
black granite names, mourning
the many more, expiring
with each passing day
Daniel W. Polk 