ASRAEL

The Angel of Death slinks out from the darkness,

Casting the shadow of his great black wings

Over his victims and blotting out their light.

He does not wait for them to become still and stiff,

But feeds on their agony while they yet writhe.

The Angel of Death came to prey on children,

Back in the days when doctors made house calls.

He brought smallpox and polio and his other minions

And left behind wailing parents.

He still makes house calls these days--

But not so often.

The Angel of Death has come for me.

He knocks on my door, softly, gently, timidly--mockingly.

He knows he has the power to tear it from its hinges.

I will open the door and wrestle with him.

I know a trick or two myself.

The Angel of Death has me in his grip

With his corrupting fingers deep inside my bones.

But I will fight him joyously and win--yes, win.

Even if his hideous strength defeats me and

I see his gloating face before my eyes

In that last moment as he snaps my spine,

Even then, I will have

The last laugh.

The Angel of Death is doomed.

The light of science burns away his darkness.

Hiding his face behind his great black wing

He cringes back from our scorching gaze.

When the day arrives--it will arrive--

That all the shadows of our ignorance are lit,

Where will you hide then, O Asrael?

Ron Merrill

GHOSTS

You see him on the street, a tall man

Just a little stooped, who looks quite normal

Casually he strolls, another tanned

Californian in an open collar, quite informal.

He plays his round of golf, and goes out for a drink.

He laughs and kids around, and you would scarcely think

That he's a ghost.

Anyone would think that he's a real person

Until one day he disappears.

She wanders through the mall, a woman shopping

Like a thousand others, who never stare

But just pass by her without stopping

Scarce noticing the hat that hides her missing hair.

She goes into a store and tries on a new dress.

She smiles into the mirror, and you would never guess

That she's a ghost.

Anyone would think that she's a real person

Until one day she disappears.

We pass among you daily, mortals, yet you do not see.

We are invisible to you, as is the daily sight

Of morning sun cascading through green leaves, but we

Thirst for the life you hurry past, and drink the light.

We feel the things you have no time to feel,

We who have less time than you, the real,

We who are ghosts.

Anyone would think that we are real people;

Perhaps we are--and you're the ghosts.

Ron Merrill

TO MY DREAMS

We sit, the last Men, at a table

In a cave of ice; the sun's gone dead.

We hear reports from scientists who seek

The energy for life. The last report:

Failure. The walls close in and crush us.

Well, crush me then! And I'll awake.

And in the afternoon I'll sit and bask

Beneath the California sun.

Up the dark street I walk, my laboring heart

Beating on the hill. A black car passes,

Stops behind me. I turn and see

A man in black get out. My hands come up--

Too late. Unfairly fast, he is inside

My defense. I feel the impact of his body, see

The flash of steel approach my throat.

Well, slash me then! And I'll awake.

Today I'll drive along the daylit streets

To bookstores, unafraid.

I'm running, running through the nighttime town,

Racing my brother home.

On all fours, tireless on the silent streets,

Nothing to bar my course.

And then behind me comes a white hound speeding,

The hound that took my brother.

I'm not yet home, cannot escape; I turn to bay.

Well, rend me then! And I'll awake.

And at the breakfast table I will jest,

My children laughing.

You may kill me every night;

But when you kill me, I'll awake. And if

(Just if, I am not beaten yet!)

My waking self must sink

Into the endless sleep,

I will not dream.

Ron Merrill

GOEDEL-SAN

The rule demands five

A middle line with seven

Then five more; OK.

THE FOURTH GIFT

If you will not sing

O beautiful nightingale

I'll tickle your ass.

TARDINESS

One brown leaf lingers

On the winter-withered branch

To descend in spring.

INOCHI

Outside my window

While shaving in the morning,

Pink clouds of sunrise.

IMPUDENCE

Sonnets are easy,

Too easy, the poet says;

I prefer haiku.

TO AN EDITOR

Call me a pedant, but I really can't let

"Gauntlet" be printed where I wrote "gantlet".

I throw down the gauntlet, as everyone knows,

When copy editors murder my prose.

"Gauntlet" or "gantlet"--the difference does matter.

Learn it--lest you be run through the latter.

A FRANK ADMISSION

I like to rhyme

From tyme to tyme.

But I'm no poet

And I noet.

IN THE HOSPITAL

I know this hospital, for I remember

Sitting by your bed, watching the monitor

They used to check the baby in your belly.

But it was your pain I saw reflected

When the sliding pen rose up the graph.

The woman down the hall was shrieking,

But not you, your silent courage endless

Hour after hour till our baby's wail

Assailed our joyous ears.

That was on the third floor; now I lie here

On the fifth, the cancer ward. The pain is mine:

The needles and the knives, the gasping bowels,

The shaking chills, and most of all the fear.

Alone, at night, the darkness and the muffled sounds

As next door a dead body is wheeled out.

The woman down the hall is shrieking,

But not me; not yet. My own delivery

Will not be joyous. When you sit by my bed

As I pass into the Void, can I go silently?

MY DEATH POEM

The noblest pine

Cannot touch the stars;

But to joyously strive

I was content.

Stand alone, my companion;

I am cut down too soon.

But our saplings grow in the sun;

I am content.

Ronald Eugene Merrill

1947 -