The last time

I saw my friend Sherry

was about a week

before she died.

I’d known her for over

20 years

and she was wealthy

and good-looking

and generous over all those years.

A true friend

and someone

I knew I could rely on

and who I hope felt the same

towards me.

She was still

partly all of those

things

that last time

I saw her.

But she was mostly

aware that

she was going to die

very soon

and she was ready.

Her explanation

of the suicide cocktail pills

she had

was a bit confused

and confusing.

One moment she said she’d need

to swallow 1500,

and was unsure if she could manage

but few minutes later

she thought maybe she’d

only need 15 or so?

She wasn’t real clear

on what it would take

or when, or even if

she was going to take them

but since her cancer

was incurable

and had been found,

initially

in her brain

she wanted to be sure

not to wait too long.

She wanted to have the option

of leaving under her own terms

because

it would be the last

small bit of freedom

and power she’d have.

I told her

that if she needed any help

I’d be willing to assist her.

Her choosing the time to leave

when no other choices were left to her

didn’t seem to me then,

and doesn’t seem to me now,

like suicide—

more like simple acceptance.

At my offer to help her,

she smiled

and seemed to understand.

And I think she appreciated it.

I knew and know

a lot of shit

about Sherry

that most people

don’t and won’t

ever know,

because I’ll never tell.

I can assure all that

she was a classy

dame

from a strange

background,

but she’d transcended all that

through guts and smarts and good looks

and as her time to die

approached

she was not going to let

her illness defeat her—

Destroy,

well, yes, there’s not much

one can do about that,

but defeat?

Nope,

wasn’t going to happen.

Her old friend

Donald, who

had set-up this

final get-together

for the three of us,

was shaken

and sad

and turning to Jesus

and God to help him.

But Sherry and I,

looking square into

one another’s eyes,

knew,

in our bones and hearts

that there isn’t any

God

out there

helping ,

or ignoring us for that matter.

And that in the end

you’re on your own.

That’s just the way it is.

The last few moments with Sherry,

she looked at me

and smiled

and the clarity in her

big brown eyes

said more than

any of the words

we had exchanged.

It was the same clarity

I’d seen in my mother’s eyes

the last time I saw her,

before her brain cancer

killed her too.

A clarity of self-knowledge,

acceptance,

and the desire

to enjoy, as much as

their difficult circumstances allowed,

their final breaths.

I don’t know whether Sherry

took her death cocktail or not.

But two weeks later

she was dead.

So,

goodbye Sherry,

my dear old friend,

I’m glad that

in the end

I could hear you

whisper to me

without words,

a final loving message:

“Relax,

you’re going

to die one day too”.

I know darlin’. I know.

*Image courtesy of Deborah Cole

Superlatives

I’ve observed

That as people approach death,

Experiencing it as imminent,

Everything they consider

Takes on a

Superlative value:

The greatest

Song, movie, book, meal

Sex, dream, conversation,

EVERY thing,

The greatest EVER.

Either god has it set-up

To make us wait ’til

The very end

To get to feel the best

Or death has a way

Of playing with us

By whispering in our ear

That

Poltergeist

Is the greatest movie ever made

And that now, knowing this,

You can die

A happy man.

There Are Days

And I’m afraid this

May be one of them.

When I want nothing

More

From my fellow man

Than to be

Left

The fuck alone.

On such days

It might be wise

Of you

NOT

To thank me

For my patience.

There comes

a part of grieving

that is not so much

acceptance of what’s been lost

as it is owning the emotions

of dealing with it all.

I turned 69 years old

less than a month ago,

and our calendar

had just turned over

to this new year when,

if I’m lucky enough,

I’ll become a septuagenarian.

The fight for the future

is not my fight any longer.

I’m going to sit

or take a walk

in the sunshine

and watch the trees

wave softly in the breeze

and think about

vodka, scotch or wine

for Happy Hour.

And save my money

and spend my money

and eventually

get sick and die

or just

die.

Good luck to you

my younger brothers

and sisters.

I mean it, best of luck.

My dog just wandered

down and sat next to me.

He’s old now too.

He sees me as a

dog-cookie dispenser

and not much else.

And fact is,

he’s right.

And this is fine by me.

*When I intitially posted this I mistakenly attributed its source to my collection WHO KNEW?! It is actually in the collection ant god to the rescue.

…Mikey accidentally

dealt 4 cards to

two of the players

and 3 cards to

the rest of us,

which wasn’t noticed

until the end of the hand

when one of the guys

with 4 cards

and me with 3 cards

were left and the betting

was finished.

The guy with 4 cards,

naturally, had a far better chance

of making a winning hand

than I had.

And indeed, he won.

But the 4 cards vs 3 cards wasn’t noticed until then.

I got angry and yelled

and made a big fuss.

After this mess was all

rather unsatisfactorily settled

by my sense of it,

Mikey and I argued

back and forth,

rather good-naturedly

but with an edge

of combativeness

until finally

we stopped

bringing it up.

I suspect there are

several giant

points of ethics,

epistemology,

character and personality

traits and disorders

available for a smart

enough poet to examine

in this fiasco

but unfortunately,

or fortunately for you,

that poet ain’t me.

Also available in a blog/prose format at

https://medium.com/p/add94384a04c/edit

…of ignorance

is information and facts

and the willingness

to entertain new

or different ideas.

The enemy of happiness

is deeply held passionate rage

based on nonsense

and avoidance of

facts and reason.

Some people are angry

all the time

and look for justification

to explain their unhappiness.

The enemy is out there

and

in here.

The poet’s job

is to say the thing

that must be said,

unafraid of bullets or bayonets

and confident beyond

the meaning of the words.

In the darkness of early morning,

long before the sun rises,

the world asleep,

we awaken, blink our eyes

and know

truth as we hear it,

know, without doubt,

when truth is somehow real.

History nods to us from

a thousand years ahead,

and from today

and from a thousand years ago.

The enemy is always here

always close, watching and waiting:

ignorance or wisdom?

We have to choose.

In My Dream…

…I was somehow very wise

and experienced

and confident in my

notions about how

to counsel

a young guy

looking for wisdom.

He spoke to me

saying how compassionate

and positive I was.

I smiled and

answered,

“No, I have plenty of

skepticism at times.”

At which point a young woman

walking by us

interrupted with a comment

about how negative I could be,

but then she quickly realized

that I’d already owned that

and apologized and retreated.

I started to scold her

but then realized she had,

after all, apologized,

so I quickly forgave her.

I sat back as the young man,

who probably was my younger self,

moved on.

And I realized,

I’m an old guy now

and kind of a guru

and mentor to these

younger writers and seekers.

I woke up

and thought,

“What the hell was that all about?”

I fell back asleep

and was inundated by

nightmares

of an apocalyptic end of all life.

Awakening from that

I realized,

“Well now,

that feels a bit more

like it.”

At the Desert Museum

in Tucson,

perfect weather,

70 degrees and a light breeze.

The animals in their safe enclosures

all seem calm and relaxed,

javelinas,

a pacing coyote,

birds of prey.

I walk along the dusty path.

Signage suggests

to keep a look-out

for venomous creatures

in this

“Natural habitat and

desert environment.”

I realize that

I don’t feel any pull to do anything

other than what I’m doing,

to be anywhere else,

and even better

to be anyone other than who I am.

I’ve spent an entire lifetime

getting to where I can walk along,

just me and a few hidden killers,

and feel

relaxed and happy

and most of all

contented.

*Check-out blog/prose versions of more of my work at: https://ttrueman.medium.com/

Used to be

almost profanity to me.

To say it, feel it,

think about it,

and to accept it

implied a giving-up.

But that’s changed

over the years.

I still dream grand schemes

of immortality

and greatness,

total happiness,

fame and fortune;

but time and age

have created a wide space in me

for satisfaction and contentment

in the moments/things/the time

I have left.

And in

relishing the present

when that moment

is not full of pain.

And even when pain is present

I have the ability

to sustain my recollection

of those soft, gentle moments

that make being alive

worth the trouble:

a well-cooked steak,

a happy hour full of laughter,

a breeze blowing lightly

through the mesquite tree

just outside the big window.

One day maybe

I’ll unravel whether these moments

provide contentment

or contentment provides these moments.

But for now,

whichever way that trail runs,

I’m just glad to be on it

After having a few months of problems signing into Prose, I gave up for awhile. But I'm happy to be back with my fellow Prose friends and writers. I have also been posting versions of my work (many poems altered into short prose/blog type of presentations) on Medium.com, another excellent site. But I hope to use my Prose postings to present my work in its original poetic form, and to enjoy all of your writings, old friends and new.

Thanks especially much to those of you who have continued to support my work, bu reading and commenting, nice to see you again! xoxo

Terry Trueman

The number of people

I never have to see again

or spend time with again,

and the number of places

I’ll never have to visit

or revisit

and the minutes and hours I’ll

never have to feel

easing or galloping

away from me

while I’m doing

shit I don’t want to do,

all of this

feels like the

increase,

the rising up

and leaving me

finally, free.

I always loved that line

“freedom’s just another word

for nothing left to lose”

and it turns out this is true,

but more purely simple

and glorious than

you can ever understand

before being free

of the things

you didn’t even realize

were dragging you down.

*From my new book WHO KNEW?! available for free in PDF