by Jay Frankston
Death doesn’t come at a convenient time
like a period at the end of a sentence,
the amen at the end of a prayer,
or the bell at the end of class.
It drops in on you unexpectedly
while you are eating or watching a movie,
an unwelcome guest
for which there was no seat at the table,
a power outage that turns off all your lights
and ends your existence on this plane
to the dismay of those who loved you
and wanted to have another chance to tell you.
Death doesn’t walk a straight line
or stand mute like a sol id brick wall.
It zigzags and dances at your wake
allowing you a brief glimpse of the mourners
assembled in celebration of your life
before taking you across the rainbow
to eternity.
Death doesn’t mourn or grieve,
no tears of sorrow from the great beyon d.
The reaper separates the wheat from the chaff
freeing your soul from its earthbound shackle
and letting you soar free and undefined.
Death doesn’t recall your moments of joy or sadness.
Nor does it place your life on a scale
to sing your praises or be moan your failures.
It opens the pores of your being
to allow your essence to mix with the ether.
Jay Frankston
wlp@mcn.orgg
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Jay Frankston was raised in Paris, France, and came to the U.S. in 1942. He became a lawyer and practiced on his own in New York for nearly twenty years, reaching the top of his profession, sculpting and writing at the same time. In 1972 he gave up law and New York and moved himself and his family to Northern California where he became a teacher and continued to sculpt and write. He is the author of several books and of a true tale entitled "A Christmas Story", which was published in New York, condensed in Reader's Digest, and translated into 15 languages. His latest work is a novel entitled "El Sereno" which was 10 years in the making, took 2 trips to Madrid, Spain, and has an authentic historial background of Spanish events from 1918 to 1973.
Last updated June 03, 2011