A Letter to God

Dear God, 

If I were Roman Catholic I would go to Confession and apologize for my sins - for ditching religious school which was stupid — (the religious school and not the ditching of it) and for not getting confirmed (a ceremony making absolutely no sense whatsoever) but mostly for the sin of not even trying to believe in You.  ..

I am trying so hard to believe in You now, as unbelievable as You seem to be. 

But You are my only hope now for getting out of this life.  

And getting out of this life is what I want more than anything!  

I wake up early each morning — with the pain occasioned by the unbelievable stupidity of the doctors who could not even keep track of their own so-called expertise!  

Especially that total jerk doctor Timothy Flood who told me that my retina condition was because I was on Prolia!    

That FLOOD of misinformation from a so-called specialist physician who couldn’t even couldn’t even get that great big medical word “osteoporosis” out of his stinking little mouth is totally deserving of the painful Fires of Hell just for that!    

But now there is nothing to do about that pain those dumb words left me with!  

And nothing short of death to get me out of the rotten situation I am in now. 

They call this “Luxury Senior Living.”   Well —  You can give that “luxury” to someone else. 

I just want out of here,  and death — sweet death — would be the only way.

Please God, even though I’m Jewish (and haven’t been such a great Jew either) what will it take for You to stop punishing me?   Haven’t I paid enough?  You know where to find me.  Please get me out of here!  

Sincerely — 

Joan

4/17/2024

A Collection of Death Poems

 I'm gong through this website now -  but here it is for your to enjoy!

https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/death/ 

While Fighting Off Senility

While fighting off senility, 

To best of my ability, 

It may sound like banality, 

To say that rationality,

Is something that I seem to lack,

My skull is like an empty sack!

Thoughts follow scattered, unknown trails,  

Like a train run off the rails! 

They wander off to who knows where?

Then pop up sometimes, here or there!

An idiot’s tale of sound and fury? 

Macbeth spoke well.  So what’s my hurry?   

JDL 26 April 2023

THE SILVER SWAN BY ORLANDO GIBBONS

 The Silver Swan BY ORLANDO GIBBONS. 

The silver swan, who living had no note, 

When death approached, unlocked her silent throat; 

Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, 

Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more: 

“Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes; 

More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”

                                            ###

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvl9cZMzi5

Orlando Gibbons (bapt. 25 December 1583 – 5 June 1625) was an English composer and keyboard player who was one of the last masters of the English Virginalist School and English Madrigal School. The best known member of a musical family dynasty, by the 1610s he was the leading composer and organist in England, with a career cut short by his sudden death in 1625. As a result, Gibbons's oeuvre was not as large as that of his contemporaries, like the elder William Byrd,^[2] but he made considerable contributions to many genres of his time. He is often seen as a transitional figure from the Renaissance to the Baroque periods.

     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orlando_Gibbons

                                                                       ###

TheSilverSwanrlandoGibbons

The Silver Swan by Orlando Gibbons

The Silver Swan

BY ORLANDO GIBBONS

The silver swan, who living had no note, 

When death approached, unlocked her silent throat; 

Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, 

Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more: 

“Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes; 

More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”

December 25, 1583 – June 5, 1625

Orlando Gibbons (born 1583, Oxford, Oxfordshire, Eng. —died June 5, 1625, Canterbury, Kent) was an organist and composer, one of the last great figures of the English polyphonic school.

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Orlando-Gibbons

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50405/the-silver-swan

Two Performances:  

1.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8kUlKE10-E

2.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvl9cZMzi5o

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The Death of Arthur from Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Idylls of the King -- Morte D'Arthur, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seëst—if indeed I go— (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. ### at March 08, 2024 Email This BlogThis! Share to Twitter Share to Facebook Share to Pinterest No comments: Post a Comment Newer Post Older Post Home Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

A Song for March, 2024

Here's my little sing-song rondo-- 

I now have sold my lovely condo!

And bit by bit I'm getting by, 

So now it's time for me to die!

It's what I pray for every night, 

That I'll be gone before it's light!

Dear Lord, I lay me down to sleep, 

My soul and body You may keep!

                         ###

The Bard said it Best

As I deal with these painful days,  the pain resulting from several fractured vertebrae, the horrible, inaccurate, unprofessional comments of Dr. Deluge, the retina doctor, who told me my retinal condition was "because I was on Prolia" leading me to delay a Prolia shot  - with horrible results, my mind turns to Hamlet.   

He had to make a difficult choice and here are his comments (as supplied by William Shakespeare.)   

I live with the same dilemma each and every painful day!    

Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the question”

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.

at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56965/speech-to-be-or-not-to-be-that-is-the-question