I knew he was dying
I thought maybe a few weeks left
So still and so quiet
This man whose laugh made us all laugh
The man who always had ideas
Where to go, what to do for a laugh
Always a laugh
Sharer of adventures
Partner in crime
For thirty-six crazy years
Dying before my eyes and
Taking much of my life with him

He'd had a massive stroke a year earlier
They said he'd die then
But he defied them and recovered a lot
Proper conversations and learning to walk
Then they discovered that he had cancer
And here we were five weeks later
"How long are you gonna be in here?" I asked
He turned his head and looked hard at me
"I die next week," he said
As though he had an appointment

He got three days, not a week
I cried seeing him dying
But I was relieved for him when he did
Now my old friend is gone
And it's a duller world without him

                                       By Phil Roberts

try to imagine
your own death

at first
your mind just balks
at the idea

but once you concentrate
you may get puzzled
at the endless opportunities
you have
  of dying

warming to the subject now
images start flitting through your mind
like you were flipping TV channels

you see yourself dead
  with a trickling bullet wound
  in some dark street
  victim of street crime unpredictable

or have a vision
of a scene of accident
where white-clad helpers
carry a distorted body
to a waiting van
in vain

or you are in a clinic
rigged to electronic gear
the nurses look discouraged
slowing beeps
flattening curves on monitors
and you feel darkness creeping in

or you blow-dry your hair
with the old dryer
and the bathroom floor
is just a little bit
too wet

a plane falls from the sky
in a fireball

a stone gives on the mountain path

you ski into whiteness

the railing breaks

lightening flashes

a snake bites

what.... -

all of a sudden
  options explode
your mind reels from the truth
that death is all around
in infinite variety
and may be yours

now

or a second later

imagine

In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?

In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still

Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool

I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform

In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half

As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want

Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud

I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer

With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown

Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore

As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part

                               *                          *

While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!

He wakes in the morning
More tired than when he went to bed
He makes his coffee with too much milk
The TV news is pretty much the same as yesterday
Just the faces and names may change
The rain pours outside his window
Washing the colour from the day
And he is reminded of a phrase he heard
So often in the mills
A catchphrase of despair
"If this is living, roll on death"

                                             By Phil Roberts

You threw me away just like I threw away time, on a boy who tricked me to think he was mine but in the end got betrayed.

Thought it would be easier,
Keeping everything less
Less thinking
Less talking
Less engaging
Less moving
It makes me less weary,
Less lonely
But also
Less happy
Less warm
And less alive

At first, a matter less seems fine
but as I go on it makes me more...

More dead....

She asks me if I would like to come in now
She asks me if I have been waiting a long time
She asks me to take a seat
She asks me if I would like a glass of water
I rarely turn down free stuff, so I say “okay”
She asks me about my degree
She asks me about how I’m coping in this cold weather
I’m good at small talk and can drag it out until the real issue is forgotten
She asks me how I’ve been this week
She asks me if I have seen my doctor recently
She asks me to grab a tissue from the box opposite her
allergies, I promise.
She asks me why I came to see her
She asks me to slow down a bit
So I do
and she sits
and she listens
so I breathe
I breathe again, but deeper this time
I am exposed, but not afraid
I begin.

On the first hour of my first day
in the front trench I fell;

'Get up,' bawled Sergeant Major,
'and stand eye to eye with hell,

and look ye on the plucky dead
whose chests swell out with pride';

but t'was the rats that swelled them
as they plucked them from inside..