Tag Archives: Death

SUNRISE

Photo by Louise Annarino

The sky alights as do I.

Sun fills the fibers from head to toe.

Sun awakens so I must go.

I must go follow the sun it seems

or languish within startling dreams.

I prefer reality to map my way out of night.

I prefer a mind and heart filled with light.

Shadows always fall behind me.

Darkness  no longer blinds me

though I am on unfamiliar paths

and the light will not last.

For a few hours, at least, 

I progress past the breach

where it would be easy to fall

onto hopes covered by a pall.

Light guides my way 

for another day.

It no longer matters if I know

exactly where I am meant to go.

I simply take delight

that it is not yet night.

This, then, is the destination

for each soul and every nation.

Be in the here. Be in the now.

Let this be our solemn vow.

As difficult as it is to follow the sun,

humanity’s journey has just begun.

There will always be another night.

Sunrise always returns to give us light.

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HALLOWEEN

Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com

I want some tombstones,

though not my own;

the fake ones which fool

little ghosts, faeries, and ghouls

who ply their trade at my front door,

calling “trick or treat” and more,

as I did so on long ago nights.

I still recall the creepy frights

from neighborhood kids who screamed

and jumped out of dark corners with eyes that gleamed,

laughing with glee at my horrified screech and shout.

That is what Halloween was all about.

Halloween used to be the time when death’s screen

was removed from our young eyes

and we could discover with fearsome surprise

that none of us would ever

live forever.

I want some tombstones in my yard

to remind little beggars from near and far

that life is short and is to be treasured

beyond any sweetness candy can measure.

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LIFE

Photo by Eva Bronzini on Pexels.com

This is all I know.

First, you come.

Then, you go.

This is all.

I know.

I know.

It is all I can know.

Yet something shows

from hidden places 

up and below.

Something unbidden

that hints at more, longer;

that feels better, stronger.

Where does more come from?

Where does more go?

Where did I come from?

Where shall I go?

It is never enough 

this life that I know.

This is all?

Can this be so?

I want to know.

I want to know.

I want to know.

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ETERNAL GARDEN

After the heaving winds of Winter

blow across the face of Earth

dropping heavy rains in ceaseless floods,

the blazing winds of Summer force heat waves

upon plains and forests and fire up

an atmosphere of heat and drought. 

The plants in my garden are anchored

beyond the sound of my pleading voice

begging them to live , if not for me,

then for every butterfly and bee

as if Earth might survive

by some miracle, as have I;

beyond cancer scares and chronic ME,

and fibromyalgia that brings me to my knees.

Yet, like Earth I continue to survive 

and even thrive.

No future generations of my DNA

will I leave behind, but seeds

that blow on restless winds and bury their heads

in fertile soil across the garden I have spread,

and breed new life in a new garden

long after I am gone.

This may be my only immortality.

Or, perhaps there is more

in a place yet unseen but hoped for in my dreams,

built on faith and fed by love

Felt in such ecstasy of our union,

its solidarity a true communion

where we explore the truth that

we are not alone, anymore.

The whole world, not merely Earth

is ours to explore,

building hopeful memories to outlast

the fear of loneliness from the past.

Our loving connection gives such strength

even death cannot break the bonds

of love and life meant to survive an eternity.

We are in this together, you and I.

One thing I know for sure;

like the garden, our love will never die.

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HOLY SATURDAY

Photo by Jose Aragones on Pexels.com

Holy Saturday is here.

The quietest day of the year.

The feel of the tomb presses near.

All whom we treasure most dear

tremble in solemn fear,

waiting uncertain, near tears,

for all to be made clear.

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GARBAGE PICK-UP DAY

Up and down the street 

garbage cans line the curb

waiting for the garbage truck

and men to pick them up,

to clear the debris left 

from those trying to stay alive, 

and leave something behind 

before they die.

Garbage cans on streets and alleys

are on public thoroughfares,

public vessels that can be opened wide

to anyone who cares to look inside

at trash that can disclose truths

hidden inside plastic bags of deceit

filled with their discarded 

food containers, chicken bones,

greasy rags and purchase receipts.

All else goes onto compost piles,

or gets recycled into bins 

for later pick-up, by different men, 

in different trucks, on different days.

Is this how death works?

Are we trash to be decayed

until we become dust

picked up by interstellar winds

and returned to the stars

waiting to be consumed by black holes?

Or, are we picked up 

by different trucks to be recycled

into new lives, like a glass bottle or shipping box

to be used anew in some new way?

Or do we become compost for a new garden

in a galaxy far-far-away where lovely flowers grow?

The truth is that no one knows.

So we build stories of future glories

as we place our selves by the curb

afraid to live and use up all we are. 

We, imperfect people all,

too often place ourselves in the trash can

and simply wait to be picked up.

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THE FROST OF WAR

Photo by Megan Ruth on Pexels.com

Brazen bronze seedbeds

accosted by frozen brown bombs,

following an early frost,

when flowers freeze before

leaves and people fall,

their lively colors trapped

still vibrant and glowing,

as if they are not dead after all.

Broken boards and barren stalls

line the barns left as fallow

as the fields where bombs have fallen.

Images so serene and spare

burn the sockets in despair

that life so precious

no longer has a place

among this not-so-human race.

The season of death and dying

has descended and too many dreams

have been up-ended.

Bursts of air throw up clods of dirt

upon the nations of the earth

burying every sound of mirth

amidst the screams of lasting horror.

And yet we know that Spring will come

after this winter of solemn sorrow.

The best we can do is hope

for a better tomorrow.

So it has ever been

and hopefully,

so it shall be

if only we

can survive

the winter

and war’s demise.

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ETERNITY

Angelo Annarino, Sr., Louise Abbruzzi, Angela Abbruzzi Annarino

Sunshine pours through the window,

flows over the kitchen sink 

and onto the table where I write

with fleeting glimpses of loved ones

passing through from day to night.

Gone forever.

Perhaps never

to be seen again.

Death is certain.

Eternity is not.

God could not have written

a better plot.

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TWO YEAR OLD’S LAMENT

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Shot.”

“Mom shot.”

“Dad shot.”

Dad lying atop

my tiny body.

Dad blocked

the shot

and the new word

death taught.

The new word

killed Mom.

Killed Dad.

Killed Family.

Killed us all.

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

Repeat it with me

over and over and over.

Mom shot.

Dad shot.

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

words no two year old

should know.

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

Shot,shot,shot,shot!

Shot.

Shot.

Shot.

Shot.

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WHY ?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We carry our load down the road.

What for? Where? Why?

After awhile, our feet simply move on their own.

No direction necessary for places unknown.

No reason necessary to carry

what is placed in our hands and across our backs.

Our only focus now is to stay on track.

We could not look back if we tried.

The load would shift and slide.

Past effort would all be wasted.

We tack on a smile only pasted

from memories of those we pass on our way.

We trudge on day after day.

Still the question lingers, “But, why?”

No religion, nor ideology, nor philosophy given

has truly answered that question. Curiosity riven.

We simply carry our loads.

Then, we die.

So then, why ask “Why”?

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