Death Rider

Painting by Eugene Joseph Verboeckhoven


Death Rider

1.
Death and man.

Death and armadillos
and deer, racoons, possums, rats,
cats, dogs, and one coyote,
all lying in rigor, with limbs splayed
awkwardly, lying patiently,
waiting for the ravenous raven
and peregrine to drop down
lightly next to them, needing to dip
their beaks and talons into the still
warm flesh of the roadkill entree.

Death can out-wait us all,
standing, sitting, crouching feral
and lethal just behind us, like
a gray edge on our shadow.

But Death does not have a skull’s face,
or a demon’s, or a devil’s, hell no,
often it looks like Robert Redford
on the classic Twilight Zone,
a fair-haired youth dressed like
a policeman, greeting us with a smile,
holding out a warm hand of greeting.

Death is just a doorway,
the Grand Transition rivaling birth,
another journey, prep work for rebirth.

Do not fear Death, for it does not
ride a pale horse--it is the steed itself,
muscled white and beautiful, like the
unicorns of legend, nostrils flaring,
withers writhing with anticipation,
waiting for you to leap onto its
wide back, grab a handful of silky mane,
and will it into a gallop, and you
ride that equusian rocket deep
into the billowing brilliance,
creating a sonic boom
as you pierce the veil.

2.
Death
and man.
Death and armadillos

and
deer, racoons,
possums, rats, cats,

dogs,
and one
coyote, all lying

in
rigor, with limbs
splayed awkwardly, lying

patiently,
waiting for
the ravenous raven

and
peregrine to
drop down lightly

next
to them,
needing to dip

their
beaks and
talons into the

still
warm flesh
of the roadkill
entree.

Death
can out-
wait us all,

standing,
sitting, crouching
feral and lethal

just
behind us,
like a gray

edge
on our
shadow. But Death

does
not have
a skull’s face,

or
a demon’s,
or a devil’s,

hell
no, often
it looks like

Robert
Redford on
the classic Twilight

Zone,
a fair-
haired youth dressed

like
a policeman,
greeting us with

a
smile, holding
out a warm

hand
of greeting.
Death is just

a
doorway, the
Grand Transition rivaling

birth,
another journey,
prep work for

rebirth.
Do not
fear Death, for

it
does not
ride a pale

horse--
it is
the steed itself,

muscled
white and
beautiful, like the

unicorns
of legend,
nostrils flaring, withers

writhing
with anticipation,
waiting for you

to
leap onto
its wide back,

grab
a handful
of silky mane,

and
will it
into a gallop,

and
you ride
that equusian rocket

deep
into the
billowing brilliance, creating

a
sonic boom
as you pierce the veil.

Glenn Buttkus August 2010