The world doesn’t end when the sun burns out,
or the missiles fly,
or the virus can’t be cured,
not for most of us.
It ends when you answer the door
to find two highway patrol officers
who will not talk to you
until your husband comes.
It ends when you go to the crib
& see he’s not breathing
or feel the babe inside you
no longer kicking,
her heart no longer beating.
It ends
when we cannot find hope,
or see a future,
or any way forward.
The world ends,
but with a comma, not a period.
It waits—it must wait,
who knows how long,
to be reborn.
About the Creator
Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock
Retired Ordained Elder in The United Methodist Church having served for a total of 30 years in Missouri, South Dakota & Kansas.
Born in Watertown, SD on 9/26/1959. Married to Sandra Jellison-Knock on 1/24/1986. One son, Keenan, deceased.
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Obsidian Is Alive
I live in a realm of darkness and curiosity, where the very ground conceals secrets and riddles, the answers to which are well beyond my reach. The cavern beneath Mount Etna is a maze of contorted rock and hidden riches, where daylight never shines, and the shadows of torches and the ghostly phosphorescence of cinnabar are the only illumination sources. I am fascinated by the cavern's beauty: the stalagmites, vast columns of rock that ascend from the ground like titans and are studded with gleaming adornments and stones, capturing sunlight and creating a treasure-trove of wealth and fascination. One stalagmite, however, stands out: a gigantic monolith of completely unreflective obsidian that glows blackly, swallowing light and color. I am drawn to it by a magnetic-like force; though Clement tells me it will boil to the touch, I am not frightened. Indeed, when I put my palm upon it, I am startled by the device's warmth; it is red-hot, pulsating with unseen living energy. Clement explains it is a conductor, a turning device that draws and converts all force it contacts.
By Owen Belen3 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Reading this, hoping not to be indelicate but words once written will be read again and again. Just like wars bring them to the door, so does life. Yet in finding the strength to face tomorrow, one has won the right to live as time soothes and heals. Sad, Beautiful poetry.
This is superbly written and so so sad, really. I am too stuck on the images of those people dead, to catch your reclaimed hope of rebirth at the end. But I know you’re right; even if it takes a long pause, the world will restart… “The world ends, but with a comma, not a period.” The hopeful version of, or reponse to: “This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper.” 👏👏👏❤️