There is no day no ray of dawn,
nor yet the dimmest hope,
where every joy of life is gone
as man’s content to mope.
Though I may suffer every pain
in bowel, head and heart,
where is the point or any gain
in letting peace depart?
Yes Death may ever stand near me
to read my every thought,
where each day is a blessing free,
I'm happy with my lot.
Just Let him wait and bide his time,
I would not him arouse,
contentedly I write my rhyme
as ever he allows.
Comments
your poem
Death is such a popular theme around here, a poetry site, like flowers are to painters. Each of us must write our own poem(s) to or about death. It is of course very personal, as Thomas put, "after the first death, there is no other." So it is difficult ro really comment here.
The only time I every saw the word "mope" in poetry/lyrics is from the Damn Yankees, the Hope song. As a result it is kinda a comic word to me:
You gotta have hope
mus'nt sit around and mope
But I think the idea of the song is as good a comment as any: You gotta have hope.
Must be an American thing
Over on this side of the pond mope is a perfectly respectable word in daily usage. The expression "stop moping about" is one that is common here. The poem itself was written a few years ago now, when my life expectancy could be measured in a very few months. Since then I have had a double bypass operation which changed things for the better.
Waiting
At three o’clock, malt whisky (ten years old),
Napoleon brandy follows (warm and gentle),
to ease away concern a mind may hold,
about the planned assault upon “God’s temple.”
An apogee to years of aggravation
(a body wracked by rampant throbs and aches);
four different ailments blend to cause frustration,
while giddiness, fatigue are nature’s brakes.
What lies ahead, is long and lingering pain,
the road sign-posted, death just round the bend;
no trace of fear but numbness in the brain,
the Reaper nearly welcomed as a friend.
The killer can be cancelled at a stroke,
then other treatments tested over time;
let surgeons try to lift the heavy yoke,
to hesitate prolongs the pantomime.
They pry apart the bars that guard the chest
and cut their way around the beating heart,
then bind with steel a bruised and broken breast
and wheel me out when happy with their part.
There is no cure for rheumatoid arthritis,
psoriasis, or even sinusitus;
but “lords of life” embark with dedication,
perform a double bypass operation.
Really
dry, monotonous, by rote, and without the slightest adventure in it.
Am I to surmise
this effort did not greatly appeal to you. If so, please don't beat about the bush, just say what's on your mind.