DEATH Poem: Ode To A Dying Man, by Sophia Newcomb

I bargained with Death from my doorstep
It was a summer’s afternoon
It was too nice a day, I said, to waste away
Six feet under the ground
Death straightened their suit and tie, and said with a sigh,
that they’d already taken the long way round.
Then, there’s a storm coming on. Something in the breeze.
A whisper in the wind that puts a soul ill at ease.
I need to go get my lover, my kids, my dog.
I’ll tarry just enough
That the old specter loses the scent
Their carrion hounds will twist and turn
But won’t get the best of me.
So I plead with death, for just an hour or more
For the sake of those I hold dear, the world’ll bat down their doors,
And leave them shaken, cold,
Without my loving arms to welcome them home.
So, Death,
O’ Death.
You Solitary Sower of Sorrow!
How can I go and leave them behind? How can they ever move on?
“They can and they will” Death said without much ado. “Life is a good seamstress. She’ll take their time, and mend their broken hearts. The ache will dull and life will grow. Like flowers rising out of the snow.”
Next, I tried to keep Death from the appointed hour.
To whittle away their precious day
With glasses of cool drink to ward off the heat,
Potions of the vine so sweet, surely they could even make Death feel alive.
And stories and songs tried and true, that not even gods could resist.
The poets had done it before
Scherazade and Orfeo,
Delaying Death in their quest night after night
Line after line,
Perhaps I would be the next in that ancient tradition
Slowing Death’s fateful hand.
Alas. They were a clever old crow, so sure they’d know, the mortal mind and all its schemes.
Yes. Death didn’t mince words. Didn’t waste time.
Never once hanging up their hat and sitting for a spell,
Jabbering on like jays porchside till the sun came down.
And train to Judgement only lead one way.
Death waits for no man
The debt always came due,
Death–as constant and tranquil, and immune to my cries,
as a cool shade, on a summer afternoon.
Who was Death anyway,
With their wandering soles, collecting souls
That wail and mourn,
Offering wealth, power, fame,
For a for an hour, a day,
More and more of the sweet elixir of life
“Please! All my wealth for my life–!
If I can’t take it with me, then I’ll leave it all behind!”
But never a kind word.
A thankless job. A lonely road.
Just one more foresaken mile.

Author: poetryfest

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