Death

A poetic exploration of religion, suffering, and death as a doorway to new life.

Part I: Our Father

I swear to tell the truth
          even if I don't understand
          the question, unanswered
          silence, the only truth we speak
the whole truth
          though all I know are bits
          fragmented, jagged, dripping
          crimson-blood, the glue that binds
and nothing but the truth
          the boring truth laid bare
          a naked shame to speak
          when lies are what become us
so help me God
          or don't
          because every day is Sunday
          when you're under oath

Blessed are the poor in spirit
    with nothing left to lose
    they find God
Blessed are those who mourn
    no crueler fate exists
    than losing
    that which you thought you possessed
Blessed are the meek
    it is their subservience
    that emboldens tyrants
Blessed are they who hunger
and thirst for righteousness
    their gluttonous zeal
    paves the road to hell
Blessed are the merciful
    the blade they stay
    the very same
    the righteous wield
Blessed are the clean of heart
    Scratch that.
    No such thing.
Blessed are the peacemakers
    formerly called
    Sir, Tsar, Pharaoh
    or Lord
    their gift of peace
    gained through force
    kept by chains
    of duty
Blessed are they who are persecuted
    fear of becoming them
    maintains the social order

Blessed are you
  when they insult you
  and threaten you
  and utter every kind of falsehood against you
It means you are unique
Your reward for your individuality
the boon of every free mind
a lifetime of suffering

Blessed are you.

Abandon faith, no pardon me, 
abandon the facade
of faith that you present
deception snuffs your inner god
Such energy required 
keeping truth apart from lie
What purpose does it serve, my friend?
How can you justify?
Eternity's a ruse
there's no daddy in the skies
to condemn your secret acts
or beckon you to paradise
Not you that is condemned
but Catholic faith abom'nable
a cruel pernicious sham
devised amongst the powerful
Control the world, remake it
in their image
for their gain
could not be further from the Christ
now crucified in vain
You've known it for some time
but fear embracing publicly
you fear your freedom, 'haps your death,
eludes my memory...

The cruel foundation
on which this wicked faith is built
coercion and control
come from within
by way of guilt
Let's start with sin, the dirty deed
or else the dirty mind
for doing or for thinking ill
you'll have to serve the time
Began with Adam and with Eve
the first, Original
leaves blackest stain on all of us
condemns us all to hell
A paradise the Lord bequeathed
do anything you please
just do not eat the fruit of knowledge
growing on those trees
Why would supreme benevolence
deny his wards this boon?
Why would consumption of this fruit
lead them straight to their doom?
Because the goal is to control
your actions and your mind
leave you naught but automaton
unthinking
servile
blind

The serpent saw this empty
feeble, passive existence
and thought to set them free
or to at least give them the chance
To know, to grow, to live, to sow
the fruit of wisdom's seed
To think, to choose,
give meaning to
all of their future deeds
After he had beckoned Eve to think
therefore to be
She had no choice
but to entice
her partner to be free
When they both knew predicament
their wanton actions caused
sought refuge from their overlord
and His oppressive laws
Their sin, rebellion
freest thought
for this they were expelled
They saw the tyrant's wicked sham
and broke his evil spell
A better ending to this myth
no dirge
angelic hymn
"Adam and Eve awoke
and began living
free from Him."

There's a piece of you in me
I can't shake loose
it won't come free

No matter how I try to leave
this part behind 
I've no reprieve

From what you left I've never gained
a mortal debt
that's never paid

Ancient elms whisper wonder
that makes them stop
look
touch
They offer their soft song
a cool embrace
shelter from summer sun
They offer wisdom
collected from a lifetime of winters
worn,
but not weary
These relics of the past
adorn a fellow relic
a house of God their backdrop
No one goes in
that I've seen
and one day
no one will stop
look
touch
Their realm
will stand silent
and those memories of a time
  when trees grew like mammoths
  and churches housed hope
will not fade
but be reduced to rubble
and lumber torn
limb from limb
by hook
and by crook
the saintly whisper
gone
the sacred silence
gone
those that might have mourned it


Gone.

"The idle mind is the devil's workshop"
                                        -Sister Anne

She always told us
she'd throw us
out the window
preparing us for life
where our employer
would throw us
out on the streets
for failing to be
adequately obedient
24 of 30
found this threat sufficient

For the holdouts
the shotgun under the desk
was fondled
menacingly
preparing us for democracy
Because if you can't solve a problem
with the threat of violence
pull the trigger
4 of 6
found this threat sufficient

For the final two
a special treat
awaited them in the afterlife
a clock that ticked 'never'
and tocked 'forever'
a reminder
of the 9 to 5
we would never escape
even in death
1 of 2 found this threat sufficient

The final schoolboy fell silent, 
fuming
offering no capitulation
but an unspoken vow
to carry the devil in his heart
and put him to work
in every idle moment
he can muster
He should have realized
1 of 30
is never enough
to win a war
against God

I wasn't born with a God-shaped hole
so I dug one
out of myself
Every bit I removed
diminished me
Every person I ever knew
showed me
bits I could do without
Every authority I ever knew
taught me to self-scourge
so they could avoid the shame
of doing it themselves
Every lash another crack
for God to fill
It's not quite a hole
but it gets you started

As I grew, so did my hole
and so did my shadow
and so did my spade
pierce the goodness within
and watch it flow out
And so I became 
an endless void echoing 
the 'right' actions and words
hoping to make enough space
for an infinite divinity
that needed me more 
than I needed me
the only gift I received
ignominy

And so, I returned to work
bemused
and every shovelful 
contained less of me
left me more empty 
than before
Still, I clung to Your Word
the Good News
even though you went mute
I never heard from you
and you never spoke anything new
barricaded behind your gates of pearl
leaving me to navigate
this hell
on earth

It's a pity
I spent all these years 
digging
a God-shaped hole
because now you fill it
lifeless and limp
buried by my flesh
my blood
filled me like mud
a field of green
gone fallow
yet still...

I grab 

my spade

and dig...


dig...




dig

Part II: Winter Poems

Breathe out in winter
  steam reminds us
  we carry the fire
and haven't died just yet

Breathe in the spring
  the great awakening
  that golden green gift
sparks us back to life

Breathe out in summer
  the scorching sun reminds us
  the power to give life, by law
entails to power to take it

Breathe in the autumn
  death and decay
  hang heavy on the air
the edge of transformation

only strange and frightful
  to those who stay the same
  to those who hold their breath
  to those already dead

The sun no longer lingers on the horizon
to kiss us goodnight
and watch us drift into slumber

She flees the biting wind
encroaching darkness
freezes us

A dog barks
a chain link fence rattles
a garage door shudders
falls with a crash

A deathly chill
sends sparks
down my spine

Silence embraces me
my only friend offers no solace
but softly whispers

Losing Daylight...

Grey walls amplify
  sterile, blinding light
Grey floors conceal
  sweat, dust, blood
Grey tables hold
  white papers, black ink, grey rules
Capricious condemnation awaits
  the colorful, rebellious few

Grey dawn brings
  a sun that never rises
Grey clouds weep
  the tears of mother earth
Grey dusk leaves
  a darkness ever deepening
Compliance creeps, like plague born death
  and vibrant colors fade

Grey words make no sound
Grey faces give no love
Our coats of many colors
  hanging dormant
  locked away
Joy fades like a lost rainbow
  and all that's left
  is Grey

Last night I howled at the moon
nothing
howled back
I took no offence

What if for a tree a year is nothing but a day?
  It wakes in early spring
  dresses up in sprouts and blooms
  dances through the summer
  disrobes with the autumn moon
  falls asleep in winter
  to recover and to dream
Perhaps that's why 
they seem so young
so tender and naïve 

What if for a tree a year is its entire life?
  In spring its born and starts to grow
  in summer, hits its peak
  goes through a fading in the fall
  hardens when winter comes to call
  It's then reborn soon after death
  to pay its growing karmic debt
Perhaps that's why 
they seem so old
so somber and alone

What silly thoughts
a silly man
in idle moments
thinking can
run wild and free
without a care
when grasped by trees
no leaves
now bare

Why, oh why, do they hate the snow?
They scurry about!
Got somewhere to go!
Slowly it falls
softly it lands
caresses the earth
with its delicate hands

Gently it kisses my lips and my brow
Whirling about!
Nothing worries me now!
Weightless it flutters
no burden it carries
fractally falls
never rushes
nor tarries

Be like the snow!
Fall ever so softly!
Kiss all that you love,
both lightly and oftly!
And when the world darkens
your purest white light
Melt
and flow
to your next delight!

I sought some shade
beneath her limbs
and listened to her preach

"This winter, I do not shed my leaves
and retreat into restful sleep
I brace for the trials to come

This winter, my roots thirst
the desolate desert air
gives no draught, only drought

This winter, I starve the limbs
threatening my existence
burdening my every moment

This winter, those parts of me die
writhing in agony, twisting
into disfigured, splintered scars

When the rains of springtime come
I will bear these relics
a testament to my trials

When the rains of springtime come
I will be all the more beautiful
by virtue of this self sacrifice

When the rains of springtime come
I will revel in the sweet smell of my fruit
and know the suffering that bore them

When the rains of springtime come
what remains will live
and grow once more."

The withered old tree
said nothing more.

Part III: Genesis

The fresh grave smells of fallen leaves
and riverbanks
and the merest hint
of frankincense
Our Father spills
from its confines
somehow more resplendent in death
than upon His throne

Soft, tender, and limp
the only lamentation
a rustling of dead, drying leaves
clinging to their creator
and the memory
of life

Tears of pride well
in evergreen eyes
by conquering eternal life
I have freed myself
from the fear
of eternal death...

...and life
my life
has finally
begun

 © Alexander Nawrocki and ejpoetry.com 2025