A Plea

“I can’t breathe,”

She said. Or, at least, tried to say.

I wish I was more distraught,

But I can’t bring myself to be.

They’re words, which elicit feelings,

A plea to elicit an action;

Sentiment with a morbid gravitas.

And I,

A quickly dimming light

At the end of a tunnel,

Hold her this way

Not knowing what I can do.

“Forgive me, I love you,”

I whispered, or at least tried to whisper.

For the dead have deaf ears,

And even the sincerest sentiments

Are lost in the silence.


A Beating Heart

There are times

I feel as if I were your beating heart,

Constant, steady, but worn down.

And lately, it seems

Like you’ve slit your wrists,

Deep, with a blade of little consequence.

Blood, Life, pumps from me,

Traveling to your extremities

And is lost in this rhythmic continuation.

I give and I give,

With my efforts only securing

Our grim fate.

I falter, I fail,

And without knowing why,

We fade out of time,

And into oblivion.

Light in the Dark

Staring skyward,
I was carried from a church.
The clouds gave way
To a vinyl roof
Of a morbid hearse,
And a rumbling engine.
I left the textile refuge,
Gazing again upon the heavens,
My future home.
A priest came to look me over,
He spoke in such a manner,
He changed my heart.
He spoke as if I were alive
just before my funeral,
And I saw the light in the dark.
Soon the people arrived,
Soon the sun set,
Soon the darkness came,
And I saw the light in the dark.

by Josh Glasson



There are nights I marvel at existence,
How much the field of depth can be pronounced,
How my mind seems so diverse in personalities,
And with the singing voice of Sleep a mere whisper,
I intently listen for her chorus.

I will die not knowing everything,
Leaving something undone,
Leaving some sentence unfinished.
An idea, a blink of an eye, casually missed,
But a momentary torment, none the less.

My work seems… No, not blocked,
But filled with insecurity.
Who am I to take away a man’s last day?
Who am I
To end his story at such a desired time?

It is the meaning that escapes me,
On nights like this,
Of the value of this marvelous existence.
Which can sometimes be found
In the telling of a simple man’s last days.



I’m not afraid of my death…

There are countless theories
and no end to the queries
that the idea ‘death’ can induce.
Whether in heaven or hell,
or a new body to dwell,
this spirit may find a new use.
Or the electrons in my mind,
a new medium will find,
and together what life they’ll produce.
Regardless of this ending,
I find my heart spending
living moments with hope profuse.

…But I fear the end of existence.

In billions of years, one may find
that all electrons will no longer exist,
the human race will no longer persist,
there will be no new soul or mind.
Everything that once was me,
no longer shall be,
and all shall be left behind.
This, my feared ending,
with nonexistence impending
keeps my dreams and my thoughts resigned.

Light for a Pipe-Dream

Light for a Pipe-Dream

Today I awoke and looked out my window,
The sun glistened between wind and tree.
I gazed at the beauty, the life that moved,
I thought of weeding, settling for “We’ll see…”

I made a breakfast fit for a royal nobleman,
Piled dishes careless, drank some green tea.
I finished my Pillsbury Croissant, scattering crumbs
I thought of cleaning, settling for “We’ll see…”

I lounged on my couch, reading the newspaper,
Pictures torn and worn as pages fly free
Seeing as it was Yesterday’s forgotten news
I thought of Today, settling for “We’ll see…”

I ate a lunch that reminded me of old days,
piled dishes even higher, drank Earl Grey tea.
I looked out and watched a rain cloud move overhead
I thought of Rain, settling for “We’ll see…”

I sat on my porch as the rain came and stayed,
I heard thunder, the sound rumbled through me,
I never got wet as I watched my lively friends soak,
I thought of my past, settling for “We’ll see…”

As the clouds carried on, I stood and gazed about
My walker in hand, I felt a shudder through me,
I looked down what appeared to be a mile of stairs
I looked at both steps, settling for “We’ll see…”

I went inside and looked at the dead clocks,
Always on 8 O’clock, the perfect time for tea,
Or the perfect time of dusk for reading the news
I thought of fixing them, settling for “I’ll see…”

I made dinner, and put my dishes atop the mound
They fell far, shattered, and among the debris
I saw they were my wife’s favorite plates
I thought of mending them, settling for “I’ll see…”

I read the paper, one last time, before the sun left
I burned it and watched it rise up the chimney
I watched the remains, which seem to dance in the air
I thought of tomorrow’s, settling for “I’ll see…”

I decided to pray before I left my chair and table
I saw my wife’s gorgeous eyes look inside me
I saw her face for one last time before I slept
I thought of death, settling for “I’ll see…”

I returned to my chambers and recounted my day,
“The Weeds in the garden were all left untouched,
Dust rules the mantle and my unused desk,
Today seemed to have been one of many today’s…

The Rain came and washed all those today’s away,
Leaving my past behind me and my future ahead,
These steps set me free from this mortal bondage,
And fixed my soul as only nature’s Love can.

This mending of a decrepit spirit seemed impossible
And yet now tomorrow seems like a brighter day,
Even while death knocks on my door, Love is here,
Death flips a two headed coin, and it’s my call.”

With a gentle smile, I crawl into an empty bed,
Tonight I’ve made plans, and I’m not one to be late,
I nod off to sleep and leave my body behind,
I think of returning, settling for “We’ll see…”

Cancer Sticks and Magic Tricks

I am a cigarette smoker.  It’s not something I enjoy doing and I’d like to quit eventually, it’s just much easier said than done.  But we will get there.  Anyway, I wrote this poem before I started smoking to remind myself why I would never start smoking.  I never seem to listen to good advice.

Cancer Sticks and Magic Tricks
When I turned eight years old,
My mother hired a magician
Because the clown from years before
Had died of lung cancer.

My friends and I saw card tricks
And were amazed for a time,
But the “ooh’s and ahh’s” didn’t compare
to the echo of laughter from years before.

Before I knew it, the show was over.
I celebrated the rest of my birthdays
with friends and families, over cake,
Ice cream, and the occasional giggle.

My parents had smoked, and so did I.
Over the years I felt it coat my lungs,
Like how a clown’s spit coats the inside
Of a freshly made balloon animal.

At thirty-seven I got lung cancer.

I can see my wife lecturing me
On the awful effects of smoking.
I, ever-nodding in my own little world,
Plan my daughter’s next birthday.

I look at my wife and ask,
“Who’s a good clown these days?”
From my hospital bed, I ask myself,
“Who’s the clown now?”