Live Frequently Instead of Long
Dead again: that's what I realized, that I'm dead — again!
How many lives must I live? I was the following in previous lives:
A butcher
A baker
A candlestick maker
A Tom
A Dick
A Harry
A woman
A man
A hermaphrodite
A saint
A sinner
A loser
A winner
A mother
A father
A son
A daughter
A fetus, but I don't know what I did after that.
I am currently living a previous life during my current lifetime: I am dead in this lifetime, but I am alive from a previous life. I am living life huge and familiar, but I am most assuredly confused.
I'm living several lives at once, each skewed by a few years.
I lived a future life in a previous life, and that has only firmed up my resolve to live vicariously through my other lives, of which one is right now. I think. Ask me later.
Dead Again
Born from pain
Drenched in blood
Small and helpless
With eyes wide shut
Seeking things that knew me not
Walking paths, and getting lost
Craving a rush to feel alive
Falling hard, it's time to survive
Rewind the clock, heal once more
Stand back up, arm up for the war
Bruised and scarred, no time to stop
Life itself is a fulltime job
Once again, in a loop stuck
Praying hard for some luck
But yet again, the fall is fateful
Impatient and tired, going ungrateful
I saw the light, I ran in vain
For the millionth time, I'm dead again
i will die for my resurrection
before acceptance there is denial, anger, bargaining, and sadness
before the second coming, there is pestilence, war, famine, and death
wound precedes stitches, blood precedes bandage
casualties before peace treaties, battles before victories
this must end before that can begin, you must leave and allow me to love again
heartbreak buys a house that love will call home, truth breaks in furniture that wisdom will recline upon
a deluge is cried before a rainbow is painted, the tree decays before we replant it
Dead Again
When years have passed since you died
and there's no one left to mourn
when your body has rotted in the dirt
and you're left forlorn,
when your life is never spoken of,
left off of the family tree,
when there's not a trace left of you,
or name, or memory,
when you have been forgotten,
then, and only then,
do you know what it's like
to be dead again.
Dead or alive, that is the question.
She was dreadfully tired. Of pulling splinters from fingers and washing mud from hair. Of bells ringing in the night, of muffled screams echoing. Of all the dead who wouldn't stay dead. It seemed far too common this past year for what should have been corpses to crawl up from their grave after they'd already been buried. Terrified out of their wits and worse for wear but still very much alive. Shame on her for thinking that cemeteries were meant to be quiet and peaceful. After forty years in this business with the last five being alone since Imogen's dear Alfred passed, god rest his soul, she reckoned she'd seen it all. That was until one Dr. Wesley took up residence in their town at the beginning of the year and became the only official doctor they had. Before they'd all relied on the two midwives who lived together on the outskirts of town and their herbal concoctions, which Imogen greatly preferred compared to the strange man. Not to say she was opposed to the moderns sciences, no sir, she was merely opposed to this one mans take on the modern medical sciences. Imogen greatly doubted he could spell science let alone practice it.
There's only so many times a man can misdiagnose a person dead whilst they are still alive before he should stop doing it altogether in her opinion. Not that the rest of the town would care what the old widow who lives in the cemetery thinks on the doctor. Imogen knows they're suspicious folk who reckon she'd enjoy more customers to bury. Foolish people don't realize one way or another they'll end up in the cemetery eventually. Some more than once due to this idiotic Dr. Wesley. Which was extra unnecessary work for her. It was a good thing they'd started setting up bells people could ring from inside the coffins if they weren't truly dead after hearing stories from the city. It saved quiet a few unfortunate folks.
Like little Alice who'd had a terrible fever and hadn't awoken, poor dear dripping snot and tears had nearly given her a heart attack when she'd come back from the dirt. Old Mister Fredricks surprised her more with managing to climb out than him not truly being dead. The old man slept like a corpse and nothing on this green Earth could wake him until his choose to do so, not even his own funeral. The Lady Bethany rang her bell madly and popped out with righteous fury that ended with a couple arrests before the day was out. Josh Brookins the silly boy took the prank too far and his mother whooped his behind for it once she was done crying over him. Samuel Mills had needed help getting from the dirt and her back ached from the extra work she'd put it through. The reunions with friends and family were sweet to watch, yet not sweet enough for Imogen to want anymore accidental living burials.
No one else questioned the doctor apart from Imogen and the Midwives, always giving too vague answers for her liking. Shuffling about like some stuttering schoolchild. There can only be so many miracles before one has to question whether or not these people simply weren't dead when buried and he just couldn't tell. The man wouldn't know a hand from a foot.
So when old Mister Fredricks was dragged back once more into her cemetery in the early hours of the morning she sighed with all the exhaustion in her weary bones. They'd wrapped him in a sheet and she pulled it back to study his face carefully. He was rather pale but that could be from his old age and poor health rather than pallor mortis setting in.
"He's dead again?" Imogen asked sourly, brows furrowed tightly as she looked to the living people in the room. The three young men shuffled awkwardly on their feet, avoiding her sharp gaze. "We'll put him in the same spot then, maybe he'll stay there this time. Go fetch one of the midwives before we do. I don't want to have to bury him a third time if he decides he's done with his dirt nap. Go quickly boy." She ordered, waving a hand sharply at the youngest man, Thomas who had the longest legs.
"Yes Ma'am!" He shouted, rushing out the door. She crossed her arms and turned to the remaining two. The taller of the two was Mister Fredricks grandson Joseph the other man was Adam, his new brother-in-law who'd married Joseph's older sister Lucy this past Spring. Only Joseph would meet her eye, red framing his brown eyes.
"Now I'm going to go have breakfast since my morning was interrupted. Watch him. Your cousin should be back soon enough with the Midwife. Come tell me if he starts to stink. If he wakes just take him and leave. Don't need to hassle me no more if he isn't dead." She said, slipping out the door to head to the henhouse out back. Shaking her head to herself with a sigh.
"How many times can one man die but not be dead, really? Surely not more than twice." Imogen pondered, contemplating retirement. If Mister Fredricks turned out to not be dead again then Imogen might really end up strangling that doctor. Although Mister Fredricks might get to it himself if he does awake.
So much for cemeteries being peaceful.
Dead Again
I never could have thought
that my whole reason for holding on,
would be what finally ends up killing me
in the end.
Dead again.
A spontaneous pain
to shatter every sense that survived in me.
Incinerating any foolish hope, I still secretly carried.
What a mellow irony to the passing of my
existence here.
And on my last written page,
I let what remains of my heart
find a resting place
between the faded lines of this
crumpled paper.
I close my journal one final time.
Death’s thoughts on a friend
the first time
she was young
and for a moment
we talked
about nothing
but flowers
two years more
she told me
her name's jean
and that she
hated outfits
with the color yellow
I lost track
until she
popped up
and said that
she was tired
of seeing me
another time
she said that
she would make
sure she would
not see me
until the end
a year after
her distraught
I told her
we can't stop
and that she
keeps dying
her second time
before her last
she told me
"Death I know
It's a curse
I will end"
Her last time
way too young
she did
Memories Like Marsh Bubbles Rise
What becomes of her heap
When the wind carries off
All the fresh dew and seeds...
Trading holes with what's not...
Through the cold and hard ice...
And the fresh eyes of spring...
She was buried from sight...
Cast adrift from all things...
In this place of dead roads
Where the sap from past griefs
Rides the rivers and tracks...
Passing furrows and reefs...
What becomes of her heap?...
Will she modify time?...
Watching convoys of snakes
Slithering past the lines...
What attributes to taste
When your grey lips breed dust
And the clouds leave a stain
That demands a paint brush...
At this bottomless deep
Where both hands slash at dark...
She will hang like a wreath
Over stems, and root bark...
What becomes of her heap
When the wind carries off
All the fresh dew and seeds...
Trading holes with what's not...
12/16/23
Bunny Villaire
Edit #2