In times of impending demise, in your mind, you might see your life being replayed. Sometimes it’s in fast forward, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes both at once. Life flashes in random order, constantly cycling in and out like an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. You’d think that with all those moments stuck on a playback loop that one would walk away with perfect recall of all the events. Not true. You can remember things like the first time you pooped in your diaper and that piece of Bazooka Joe bubble gum you pocketed when you were ten years old. Every detail, no matter how small or insignificant will come flooding back. But what the heck just went down—draws a complete blank.
when death feels certain,
life flashes by in seconds—
don’t regret the show
Tag: death
~Flip or Flop~
if you see me sitting around
with my head tilted down
face wrinkled in a frown
hands shielding my face
just trying to figure out
if I can survive in this place
if I can finish this race
I know. I got it
change will come
and change will go
for better or worse
we won’t know
until we’ll either
suffer through hell
or find Heaven’s grace
if we’re to be celebrated
as conquering heroes
or banned in disgrace
the true story
will not be told
until those very last
words unfold
and in the end
they are rejected
or embraced
~She’s Been Here Before~
Once green and firm,
she danced,
on the boughs edge.
Whirling and dipping,
through the breezes,
of changing seasons.
She basked,
in hot summer suns.
Rejoicing in the adulation,
heaped upon her,
as she selfishly,
provided shade,
and shelter
to all who sought it.
Asking for nothing,
needing no one.
Autumn days,
stroked her ego,
into maturity.
transforming her,
into the envy of
artists and poets,
sages and prophets,
wise men and clerics.
But the chill of winter’s age,
dried and wrinkled her,
she fell,
dying.
Until all that remains,
of her once majestic existence,
is a final crumbling gasp,
under the heels of,
marching boots.
~ Will I Be Remembered…
I only hope that someday the words
I bleed into each poem and rhyme
Will bequeath such a legacy that
it’s able to bridge the gap of time
Perhaps the future might honor me
for these simple words I leave behind
Or will these poems rust and splinter
into scraps penned from a withered mind
Monday Morning Blues…
John stood at the window of his fifth floor office and smiled at the traffic on the street below. All those cars speeding past with their Monday morning drivers jockeying for a position nearer to the front of the line. Only to have to slam on their brakes again as the light on the corner of Grand St. turned red. In their eagerness to get to the jobs they hated, they’d start inching forward with each second that passed until the light would turn green and they could stomp on the accelerator to go another ¼ mile before screeching to a stop again on Jefferson.
He turned his attention to a group of little kids in the park across the street. Amused at how they clutched their mother’s fingers with one hand while they tried to toss bread crumbs from the other. Then they would quickly back away and peer out from behind the legs of their protector as the ducks and pigeons scurried forward to snatch them up. Jumping up and down with joy they would point their fingers and giggle at the fascination of it all.
“You know, it really doesn’t take much to make people happy. I sure wish you would have learned that lesson years ago.” John said, as he turned around to look at his lifeless body slumped over the desk. Its face buried in the quarterly reports that just had to be finished. It was still wearing the same suit he had worn to work on Friday.
Jerry Brotherton 