Existential Poetry - Dealing with Mortality, Thinking About Things

    Driving back home, I see a guy

    He reminded me of a man--

    That I was friends with the last few years

    Who was alive on this earth till Sunday morning

    Not so, now

    I'm sorry, that is blunt

    I'm sorry, that is real

    This is life, then comes death

    Edgar Allen Poe was haunted by it

    And continues to perpetuate across our minds and spheres and tomes

    Shelves of yesteryear present with us still

    

    Death

    The word does not say it all. And,

     Death connotates what once was living, 

    Which is a good thing.

    But death is there. It is a constant, a reminder, a friend and an enemy.

    It is the other side of the coin.

    

    The reminders and remembrances come from all directions.

    There are many more dead than there are living.

    Newborns come, and come, gratefully, but the dead steadily move on.

    And up.

    And down.

    Some disintegrate, either fast or slow.

    Not trying to be morbid,

    Just want to explain.

    Understand.

    Analyze. Figure out.

    The most times unknowable and mysterious.

    The immortal comes from mortal, many hope.

    Even Buddhists.

    Even pagans.

    The monotheistic or celestial religions have their heavens.

   But many Jewish folks have lost their faith in the afterlife, I have observed.

    This is too bad.

    

    The God of Abraham and Isaac do not promise death as a finality.

    Nor do the Buddha and all the Hindu gods and goddesses.

    Not sure about the Shinto, or even Taoists.

    So, what am I saying? 

    Shakespeare was not sure, and spoke of it through Hamlet and many others.

    Harold Bloom, the literature guru, rhapsodied of it,

    At least through his critical loves and languishing tastes

    We will all meet him again, perhaps.

    And see Kurt Vonnegut in heaven.

    For now, we have the now and living.

    The survivor recuperates in the hospital,

    A few roads away.