My Death Collection

Haiku Quintets and Microstories

for Thinking Mortals

Dan Dana

Edition:  2026.1

Five Palms Press

Sarasota, Florida

© Dan Dana 2026

All text was authored by Dan Dana.  No text was generated by AI.  Photos and images not otherwise attributed were created by the author.  Certain images were generated by AI, designated “Image by AI.”

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Contents:

· Dedications

· Introduction

· PART 1: Haiku Quintets

· PART 2: Microstories (prose poems)

· About Dan

· Other Books

Within each Part, selections are unordered and uncategorized, thereby being conducive to aimless riffling.  Browse boldly. Let your mind wander. Follow it there. Repeat.

E-book readers may use Kindle’s search and bookmarking functions for navigation.

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Dedications

· To my fellow mortals, that you may think about your own end-of-life with eyes wide open

· To my survivors, in due time, that you may understand my choices

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Introduction

I stand at the portal of my ninth decade of conscious existence, celebrating my awesomely lucky life, prepared to share with you some rather intimate thoughts about the conclusion of that existence, both mine specifically and yours generally.  If you have accumulated sufficient seniority, in years and in life experience, to thoughtfully consider the topic of this book, you might belong to the cohort of thinking mortals who are willing to compare and contrast your own thoughts with mine.  I dedicate this book to you.  I welcome civil, thoughtful debate where differences may appear.

This curated collection of haiku quintets and 50-word microstories, selected from my wider body of minimalist poetic writing, offers glimpses under death's kilt where many dare not look. Topics include end-of-life-choice, antinatalism, faithlessness, and secular humanism as a worldview.

In case you’re wondering, I am a fundamentally happy person. I enjoy living. I have friends and family who enrich my journey. Sharing home-life with my wife and best friend in our comfy perch overlooking Sarasota Bay is a daily joy.  I have traveled widely, and enough.  No ambition nor bucket list drives me.  I watch world events, rather despairingly, but lack agency to set them right.  I amuse myself by writing minimalist bits, imagining that you might read them with a smile or a glimmer of self-recognition. 

Belonging by accident of birth to a privileged demographic, I have received advantages unavailable to fate's unfortunates and faultless victims, for whose suffering I mourn.

Born in 1945 and living long enough to witness the apparent collapse of democracy in my homeland, my lifespan may be rightly called humanity's Golden Age. No previous era in the history of our species has offered such manna, even to royal elites. I am in reasonably good health—barring some unforeseen accident or diagnosis, I'll linger several more years. My life is good, for which I am deeply grateful.

So, you ask, why this existential fascination with death? Reflecting on the approaching conclusion of one's life with full awareness, eschewing the false comfort of supernaturalistic crutches, here most relevantly the promise of conscious afterlife following physical death, is a feature of the secular science-based cosmological perspective that I strive to achieve. In these early centuries of scientific discovery, I sigh in awe of my insignificantly miniscule, yet unique, moment of consciousness in the infinite, yet-to-be-fully-comprehended universe. What a privilege!

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PART 1:  Haiku Quintets

I strive to pack maximum meaning into the 17 syllables of the classical Japanese haiku form developed 400 years ago—a poem of three unrhymed lines divided into 5, 7, and 5 syllables. But diverging from tradition, and committing other poetic heresies as well, my poems each consist of five haiku—thus a "haiku quintet"—comprising a single narrative theme and amounting to 85 syllables. A photo or image illustrates and completes the finished piece. I dub this novel art form "poetic impressionism by curious wordcraft." Apologies to Basho for my unorthodoxy.

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My Obituary

(An early draft)

migrant of the mind

who could not resist asking,

“what’s life all about?”

avid collector

of worldly experience

—his gallery’s full

career was a drill

to probe the psyche’s secrets,

daring to dig deep

dismantler of myths,

sought to fathom our true place

in this vast cosmos

educator strove

to leave world a smarter place,

then returned to dust

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A Completed Life

acorn became oak,

top leaf touches endless sky,

fulfilling its task

the race has been run,

finishing about mid-pack

in good-enough time

this quintet’s now done,

eighty-five trim syllables

of experience

checked off bucket list

aboard this trip’s one-way train,

the rest is surplus

been there, done all that,

wrote tee-shirt for the grandkids

—a completed life

#  #  #

Control

I’m not one of those

who must have things my own way

when others differ

friends think what they think

without objection from me,

I’m no arbiter

back in career days

I led but did not command;

I was a soft boss

I don’t drive the bus,

I’m just along for the ride,

watching scenery

in my ninth decade,

I only wish to control

how and when I die

Contemplating ancestry and descendancy at Mayflower Park, Southampton, England

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Cruise to Nowhere

the journey itself

is the true destination,

a cruise to nowhere

“just enjoy the trip”

—wise elders counsel this truth:

that’s all there can be

but this crammed album,

proving I’ve been there, done that,

reveals my hubris

 my vain memoir wrests

today from tomorrow’s clutch

to breach death’s bulwark

this swift cruise proceeds

toward its looming terminus,

coming into view

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Antique

“I’ve lived long enough”*

she said with a soft chuckle,

shocking my young ears

“but you’re an antique,

a precious object to keep

in a treasure box!”

every inch of time

must be tacked on to life’s trip,

to make it endless!

at eighty I see

I’m more than your object; I’m

sovereign Self’s subject

I’m the antique now,

poet of end-of-life choice,

I hear you, Aunt Note

* Quoted c. 1982, Aunt Notie (1885-1984).  Photo c. 1905

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Last Times

there will come a time

when every time’s the last time

in this one lifetime

to see, hear, be here

—sometimes I’ll know it’s my last,

but most I will not:

to watch the sun set,

taste this wine, to drift asleep,

to wake this morning,

to look in your eyes,

hold your hand, feel your warmth,

kiss your face, make love

will I want to know,

to be aware that this time

is my final time?

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That I Might Be Known by You

one verse sowed the seed,

pregnant thoughts germinated

in fertile moments

coarse grains of raw sand

growing in my aging shell

promised shining pearls

swelling over time

until my littered shelves sagged

under weighty words

scattered bygone bits

wrote this sequel to my life

on memory’s page

that I might be known

 by you, in maturity,

around evening’s fire

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The Patriarch

my turn is coming,

as generations pass on,

to be Clan Elder*

I am “Uncle Dan”

to dozens who share our genes,

and “Papi” to two

I remember Dad,

a living, breathing person

—I’ll soon be the last*

spanning parents’ age:

three eventful centuries

from Civil War times

I embody tales,

unique family stories,

that will end with me

* If I survive my two older siblings

The future patriarch, 1948

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What Can I Do?

is democracy

today’s fragile Titanic,

doomed to history?

can I do nothing

but witness our dream’s sinking

on screens, passively?

as decks slip beneath,

I can watch each go under

in growing alarm

I can join protests,

waving eloquent placards

in fierce defiance

my children’s children

may honor my resistance,

but wish I’d done more

Image by AI

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What’s That Word?

damn!  I can’t recall,

though I say it quite often,

just minutes ago!

I know what it means

and can tell all about it,

I’ve known it for years

old people get it,

but surely not me, quite yet

—I’m only eighty

so damned frustrating,

taunting me without mercy,

barely out of reach

oh well, I give up,

I’ll ask someone younger, like

my wife what’s-her-name

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Crossing

my crossing began

before aging’s sharp focus

showed cracks in the ice

in time, I entered

the frozen river’s full breadth,

stepping floe to floe

my youthful blindfold

hid the widening fissures

beneath heedless feet

from elders’ safe shore,

looking back, I see hazards,

and floating corpses

of faultless fellows

—how did I escape their fate?

from here, I marvel

Image by AI

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Terra Octo

I’m a wanderer

entering a foreign land,

my passport’s been stamped

friends who went before

report menacing weather,

warn of new hazards

beyond Octo’s shore,

per life’s self-guided tour map,

lies Terra Novem

some old boats like mine

founder on steepening seas

—better have a plan

my plan: stay on watch

to wrest the helm from blind fate

for the final leg

Image by AI

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Window of Opportunity

my years have been rich,

humanity’s golden age

has been my fortune

days still bring pleasure,

along with my fair share of

seniors’ aches and pains

it’s my right to choose

final exit’s time and place,

when I’ve lived enough

but today’s window

won’t stay open forever

—delay risks bad death

I may have to leave

some good time on the table,

as the fog creeps in

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Center Mast

I’m in life with you

this past quarter century;

you’re my center mast

you’re in life with me

aboard our fragile vessel;

I’m your center mast

weathering squalls of

existential aloneness,

crossing time’s deep sea,

trimming graying sails,

keeping our good ship afloat,

steering ‘round dark shoals

we shall stay the course

‘til the first of us debarks,

and center mast falls

Image by AI

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The Trade

now’s Now is peachy:

feel fine, few worries, dear friends,

life is good, so far

squinting, I foresee

my future Now creeping toward

a slippery slope:

pain outweighs pleasure,

health enters certain decline,

red line looms ahead

fate proffers a trade:

more time sliding toward death’s maw,

for timeless Nothing?

I’m my own broker:

no law, church, doctor, nor herd

shall usurp my choice

Image by AI

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I Am a Bee

my haiku aren’t mine,

I’m simply a conveyance

across time and space

from thinkers whose thoughts

stirred Plato, Sagan, and Mom,

then became “my own”

from far ancestors

who invented fire and wheel,

who gestured in caves

hence, from my readers,

you who grok these muted words,

then share the pollen

‘til all thinking ends

in Earth’s silent far future,

I’m simply a bee

Photo:  Friends of David Attenborough

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What Matters?

Earth is just a speck

of spinning rock and water

in the cosmic void

I am just a speck

of consciousness on Earth’s plane

with eight billion more

we matter to us,

as I matter to myself,

against all reason

you matter to me,

your infinite suffering,

tho’ it’s not my own

beyond this logic,

our caring for each other

must be what matters

Photo: The “pale blue dot” (Earth) taken from four billion miles away by the Voyager 1 spacecraft (NASA)

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Why I Write What I Write

a scribe friend asked me:

“why do you write what you write?

why this and not that?”

~ it interests me

~ I know something about it

~ it may help others

~ to leave a small piece

of my mind behind for you

when my body dies

~ to hedge against death

so something of me will last

a few years after

~ so that you might smile,

lingering over these words:

“so THAT’s who he was!”

#  #  #

Pain and the Food Chain

we all need to eat,

more to the point, carnivores

—if no food, no life

larger predators

eat the smaller ones alive,

frantic to escape

even bugs feel pain,

as do all along the chain

from slug to apex

pain is Nature’s tool

to ensure species’ success

—we’re pawns in life’s game

it’s a cruel world

—antinatalists ask: is

pleasure worth the pain?

#  #  #

Legacy

hundreds of haiku,

roadkill along life’s highway

 these rich eighty years:

~ how to make love work,

~ to face death eyes wide open,

~ how and why we’re here

what worth is writing

if these nuggets die with me,

to serve none but one?

one day I’ll expire,

life’s horizon shall be breached,

but words may live on

in readers’ lived lives

—to no greater legacy

could I dare aspire

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The Right Side of History

I want to be on

the right side of history

when it is written

my words live in print,

on offer to the wide world,

though seldom noted:

~ climate will kill us

~ America’s star will fall

~ religion is myth

~ no, life is NOT good

~ only science leads to truth

~ love is the answer

some years(?) left to write

‘tiI I slip away, unseen,

my words remaining

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Memory

I can’t remember,

or do I no longer know?

—effect is the same

the name of a friend,

a movie I’m told I saw,

our lunch date today

I once could recall

such things with little effort

with my younger brain

memory’s decline’s

creeping in on cat paws in

the room where I live

in worried silence

I sense her presence near me

—do I hear her purr?

Photo by Susana Mosteiro

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This Side of the Glass

in here, warm, dry, safe,

few discomforts perturb me

—out there, tempests rage

on nightly news’ screens

I watch untold suffering

through reporters’ eyes

bombs strike hospitals,

hostages in stark terror

bleed in dark tunnels

poor migrants duped by

smugglers promising false hope

die in the desert

from my sheltered perch,

I glimpse the world’s horrors from

this side of the glass

#  #  #

With Eyes Wide Open

you and I seek love

yearning to touch and be touched

to see and be seen

you and I will die

breaching our lone horizon

to be no longer

you and I wonder

who am I in the cosmos?

is this all there is?

we are both poets

seeking our own perfect words

where none can be found

you and I can share

this trek to oblivion

with eyes wide open

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Struthof

soaring overhead,

white dove’s feathered innocence

at a safe remove

watching “pieces” crawl

up icy steps for roll call,

then falter and die

smelling stench of death,

of their shit, of rotting flesh,

of chimney’s vile fumes

shaming my own kind,

“Honor and Homeland” calls us

to fight obscene wars

no dove’s innocence—

nationalism is poison,

humanity’s curse

Photo: Shadow selfie between double barbed wire fence surrounding prison where 22,000 victims of nationalism died 1941-1944, Natzwiller-Struthof, Nazi-occupied France, 22 September 2022

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My Relief Generation

nearing the hand-off

of my lap with the baton

your turn has begun

our story’s passed on

distant past to far future

one life at a time

shrouded in folklore

memory’s fleeting half-life

decays to nothing

save this slim box of

Papi’s memory snippets

for your relievers

as future unfurls

preserve your lap’s key moments

—the relay goes on

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A Father’s Day Regret

why did my Dad choose

to become an attorney?

I will never know

what pioneer tales

did my grandparents tell him?

I will never know

what was home-life like

in their crude prairie cabin?

I will never know

did Bleeding Kansas*

and Blacks fleeing north** touch him?

I will never know

did he think about

writing his own life story?

apparently not

* Civil violence over slavery in Kansas (1854-1859)

** Post-emancipation migration of former slaves throughout the 1870’s, many to Kansas

J. W. Dana (1874-1955), photo circa 1900, native Kansan

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Thingamajigs

whatchamacallits

are useful tools at your job

when you can find them

and thingamajigs

are helpful around the house

but often get lost

a sharp doohickey

should always be kept nearby

but where did mine go?

doodads and widgets

are perfectly fine gizmos

but none are in reach

everything you need

is on the tip of your tongue

handy as can be!

#  #  #

In Your Hands Now

take Martin, my joy,

we’ve made music together

since my Woodstock year

picking and strumming

with friends and in reverie

my hands shaped her sound

your deft touch will form

next half-century’s moments

—you’re her new escort

in groups and solo

you’ll make magic together

long beyond my years

what a trip we’ve shared!

Seamus, take this worn baton,

she’s in your hands now

Martin D-28 (1969-2021), gifted on his 21^st birthday

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A Nulled Child Speaks

I was contraceived,

spared a life of misery,

I’ll not beget more

poor Yoruba mom

forced by culture to give birth,

denied her due choice

she dreamed of freedom,

schooling, opportunity,

her stolen birthrights

but choice was restored,

countless unchosen lives were

averted today

a condom secured

the end of endless cycles

of faultless victims

Image source:  Africa on-line

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My Race Against Time

this healthy old man

should survive the COVID bug,

but still, there's a chance

this haiku e-book

may be my life’s legacy,

if finished in time

we social-distance,

we face-mask responsibly,

our friend pool is small

rushing to complete,

and forward to publisher,

‘fore fate strikes me dead

Florida hotspot

not the best hiding place now,

I race against time

Photo:  selfie while composing this haiku, 28 July 2020

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Tet 1968

was I even there?

memories succumbed to age,

or suppressed by fear?

three stuporous nights

minigun fireworks traced sky

choppers pounded air

silent tunnel maze

beneath my senseless slumber

Viet Cong cooked rice

mortars shook death’s door

fickle fate skipped my bunker

by pure random chance

today I wonder

this surreal lifetime later,

was I even there?

Setting:  Cu Chi Vietnam, January 31, 1968 

Photo:  Inside a Viet Cong tunnel beneath Cu Chi on return visit, May 1, 2015

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We Are Accidental People

some million years past,
our concestor's mom conceived;

one sperm got there first

bested his brothers,

every human since descends

—but what if other?

what history then?

whole other population,

wars, leaders, prophets

that quirk’s chance result:
what is now would not have been,

same earth, other peeps

if other sperm won,
I would not be writing this,

nor you reading it

Image:  Houston Museum of Natural Science.  Our grandmother (100,000 generations ago). Fossil reconstruction from likely period of the most recent common ancestor (concestor) of all humans alive today.

#  #  #

Mack’s Vision

my sage age-peer friend

worried five decades ago,

foresaw grim future:

war, poverty, strife,

environmental collapse,

failed democracy

no child should suffer,

generations yet unborn

—opt out fatherhood?

but Mack’s wife had dreams:

family hearth, happy home

—mom’s vision prevailed

“selfish genes” won debate,

fate’s sealed, progeny’s in store

—grandfather of four

Image:  pngtree

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Chicxulub Asteroid

big day for Earth-life

sixty-six million years past,

brought mass extinction

mountain-size* space rock

thirty times a bullet’s speed*

smashed Yucatan’s shore

global firestorms raged,

tough birds, wee mammals eked out,

evolution worked

big dinos perished,

pre-chicken raptors survived,

and our parent shrews

lucky us, or not?

antinatalists ponder:

when’s the next big day?

* Six miles wide, 40,000 miles per hour

Image source: New Scientist

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Lucky Life

1945 – 20??

born at World War’s end,

lived ‘til democracy died(?)

lifespan’s perfect fit

escaped ancients’ pain,

exceeded royals’ pleasure,

skipped predators’ lunch

goods and services,

luxuries beyond belief

with middle class means

great while it lasted,

lucky place and lucky time,

I’m a lucky duck

fortunes turning dark

as human story unfurls,

I mourn future’s child

Image by AI. There but for fate went I.

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Legacies Die Too

death’s specter nears,

I’ve kicked my can down the road

two generations

years or decades more?

I may live another day,

but brute fact remains:

my checklist of done-that’s,

once carefully curated,

must fade from time’s plan

vain fantasies dwell

in mortals’ void afterlife,

memoir’s futile myth

legacies die, too,

I sigh in meek surrender

—‘til my next haiku

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Being Dead*

no darkness, no light,

nothing at all forever,

no past, no future

time after I die

will not pass—same timelessness

as before my birth

here will not be there,

who I was will be no more,

no me, no not-me

no regret, no loss,

no loneliness, no sadness,

no fear, no gladness

no pain, no pleasure,

no now, no then, no being,

just pure nothingness

* This description becomes obvious once religious belief (supernaturalism) is discarded.

#  #  #

My Deathbed

I’ll die in this bed

if my life ends as I hope:

a calm, peaceful death

days are not numbered,

circumstances not yet known,

blind corners remain

my legacy’s cast:

books known to all I’ve loved and

read by all who care

when pain exceeds joy,

may no law trespass this right:

my death is my choice

in life-partner’s hand

we walk this road together,

love shared to its end

#  #  #

My Sell-by Date

when will I have reached

memory’s slippery slope?

are there clear signposts?

point of no return,

death’s door of choice shuttered tight,

exit’s key is lost

as sell-by date nears

or if hers precedes my own,

we may share the plunge

I forget friends’ names,

new games’ rules befuddle me,

I repeat myself,

I like “the old way,”

I reveal more than I should,

as in this haiku

#  #  #

The Crime of Killing Time

quarantine fillers*

empty tasks devoid of worth

staving off boredom

life’s stark finitude

nonrenewable resource

spent one day per day

youth’s bottomless cup

unconcerned by careless spills

blinded by plenty

elders’ clearer sight

murky depth comes into view

we savor each drop

tilting once-full cup,

heeding crime of killing time,

I sip slowly now

* Composed during COVID-19 pandemic quarantine (2020)

#  #  #

Slippery Slope

on tongue’s tender tip

names of known people and things

stubbornly resist

my urgent summons

in daily conversations

at senior moments

friends say, “yeah, me too”

but their words seem to appear

when called to duty!

how did your brains work,

oh pioneer ancestors,

as age beset you?

were you forgetful?

did you sense, with worried mind,

that slippery slope?

#  #  #

 How Is Life Good?

bomb-crushed Gazans scream

hostages wail for release

last hope fades to black

Ukrainians die

like Putin’s captured conscripts

blending blood with mud

hordes pound border wall

fleeing homelands’ misery

so near, door slams shut

in this pain-drenched world

some victims grace our news screens,

but most never do

please tell me again,

believers in loving gods,

just how is life good?

Ground zero,  Hiroshima, Japan (2003)

#  #  #

Alzheimer’s Dream

we were traveling

got separated somehow

I asked directions

but took a wrong turn

forgot where he said to go

I’m getting worried

I am so confused

this place is unfamiliar

I can’t find my phone

where could she have gone?

I hope she’s looking for me

I want to be home

suddenly, I wake,

relieved it was just a dream

—or premonition?

#  #  #

Cyborg

my heart skips some beats,

not in a romantic way,

as aging proceeds

born nearly perfect,

but years take their cruel toll

—it’s time for repairs

my Linq snitched on me,

told my cardiologist

I need more implants

stuffed with devices,

my body’s just partly mine

—I’m a cyborg now

my new prognosis:

I may now live forever!

—thanks, Dr Eckart

Parts of the new me (l-r): Linq cardiac monitor, Watchman stroke prevention device, pacemaker

#  #  #

The Most Moral Choice

most living things die

by being eaten alive

by a predator

“selfish genes” don’t care

about our personal throes,

only our species

pain evolved to serve

the survival of our breed

at each one’s expense

what is life’s virtue

if its price is agony

of sentient beings?

our most moral choice:

bring no new life to the world,

prevent suffering

Image: Tamil Antinatalism

#  #  #

Descendancy

I fathered one child,

she birthed two more lovely lives

—when will my line end?

unless we die off,

my descendants may witness

planet’s final days

my heirs will suffer

Earth’s certain calamities

through millennia

untold extinctions

will spawn subspecies of us

—life will find a way

countless known unknowns

await the hapless creatures

I caused to exist

Image by AI

#  #  #

Glidepath

descending apace,

no refueling allowed,

no airport’s ahead

at my window seat

between clouds of denial

I glimpse rising ground

writing haiku is

free inflight entertainment,

a fun distraction

if life is well planned

remaining time and money

end on the same day

a painless crash, I hope

enjoy the rest of this trip

—a terminal flight

#  #  #

Have I Made a Difference?

most mortals hope to

leave the world a better place

as their exit nears

my career’s focus

was teaching peacemaking skills

for both work and home

I often wonder

where and when those talking tools

made a difference:

in lands I’ve not seen?

in languages I don’t speak?

in lives not yet lived?

now, I write haiku,

a frivolous exercise

—but instructive, too?

Teaching conflict resolution at University of Hartford, 1979

#  #  #

A Decision Deferred

failing socially,

failing academically,

failing with women

my future looked bleak,

happiness felt beyond reach,

I despaired of hope

a flash of insight

one day brightened my dark sky

—I could end my life!

I’d found a way out

of my doom’s dreary prison

—I was free to choose!

so … do it today?

there’s no rush, I decided

—and there still isn’t

Setting: Freshman year, University of Missouri (1963-64) Photo: Return visit to campus with Susan (2019)

#  #  #

I Forgot to Ask

Grandpa, where were you

when the First World War broke out?

I forgot to ask

Grandma, tell me tales

about your mother’s mother

I forgot to ask

Dad, what games did you

play with your siblings at home?

I forgot to ask

Mom, what did you like

about Dad when you first met?

I forgot to ask

kids, I’m getting old

anything you’d like to know?

don’t forget to ask

My mom on her final birthday (2008, age 90)

#  #  #

My Bucket List

yup, been there, done that

I have sailed Earth’s seven seas

I’ve climbed Rockies’ peaks

untold adventures

stored in my memory bank

life’s been great … still is

old age marches forth

contentment replaces thrills

pleasure’s in small things

gazing on the bay

admiring other men’s boats

glad they are not mine

to live happily

doing bits of good each day

—that’s my bucket list

#  #  #

Five Seconds Left to Live

five seconds to live:

asleep, the usual dreams

not a care, all’s well

four seconds to live:

I’m falling! … is this a dream?

panic jolts slumber

three seconds to live:

deafening roar, chaos roars

what is happening?

two seconds to live:

NO!  this can’t be real!  STOP! HELP!

is this how I die?

one second to live:

final breath crushed from my chest

death’s abyss … The End

Condo collapse, Surfside, Florida, 24 July 2021, 1:30 a.m.  Photo: CNN

#  #  #

Only a Mother Can Know

her soul-crushing loss

secreted behind a mask

of smiling good cheer

grief’s smothering shroud

cloaks her tomb of living death,

gladness can’t enter

but few know her pain,

mothers’ tear-drenched lost-child club,

woe to those who join

pin-hole two-way view:

our sweet love and lucky life;

her dark dismal cave

despair’s icy grip,

can’t endure but can’t move on,

none but moms can know

Her son’s foot molds in bronze (2016)

#  #  #

Final Moments

COVID’s victim horde*

enduring final moments,

thoughts ebbing, alone

nurse’s tear-wet face,

ventilator’s steady beat,

light fading to black

I wish you comfort,

know your life was not in vain,

your good deeds remain

yielding to abyss,

at eternal Nothing’s door,

pain is near its end

so, this is death, at last?

being loved by those you’ve loved,

goodbye to the world

* 22.1 million people died of COVID-19 during 2020-2023 (World Health Organization).

#  #  #

On Nihilism: 1

the world is so big

the universe is so vast

I am so tiny

time is infinite

history spans forever

my life is so short

leaders fail their task

I see, care, but cannot do

I am powerless

I am but a drop

in the Sea of Existence,

insignificant

but I can watch, awed,

in the company of friends

‘til my movie ends

Photo: Technology

#  #  #

On Nihilism: 2

I will write haiku,

I’ll vote, pay tax, obey laws,

be kind to others

I cannot prevent

evil despots’ senseless wars,

children’s suffering

few will know I lived

when my dust returns to dust

and legacy fades

‘til then, here I am

observing my one moment,

awed that I exist

I’ll accept, not fight,

surrender my will to fate,

be. here. now. in peace

The haikuist enjoying a moment       

#  #  #

Along for the Ride

I’m a spectator

of world's unfolding drama

one unit of life

I’m not at the wheel

just a wide-eyed passenger

hurtling through spacetime

on Earth’s fragile skin

voyaging the vast unknown

along for the ride

immersed in deep awe

of this accidental trip

as long as it lasts

I'll binge on life’s feast

with gratitude for blind luck

'til my final bite

Our home-hatched chick out for a ride, much like me

#  #  #

Unspent Wealth

one lifetime’s gems

cast off as trifling pebbles

of dubious worth

my world-wise elders

went to their final abyss,

leaving wealth behind

young ones keep busy

tending to urgent matters,

as did I, back then

wishing I knew then

one ounce of what I now know

of life's rare riches

here, take this flotsam,

this memoir of unspent wealth,

my left-behind gems

Standing at the exact site of my father’s 1874 pioneer cabin birthplace in Humboldt, Kansas, located in 2023

#  #  #

Racing Against Time

this healthy old man

should survive COVID’s virus,

but still, there's a chance

this haiku e-book

may be my life’s report

if finished in time

we social-distance,

we face-mask responsibly,

our friend pool is small

rushing to complete,

and forward to publisher,

before I drop dead

Florida hotspot’s

not a safe place to hide while

racing against time

Selfie while composing this haiku, 28 July 2020

#  #  #

Channeling Dylan Thomas

quoth the young poet:

“rage, rage against the dying

of the light”—a choice?

myself, I think not

—I’ll marvel in that moment,

what a trip I've had!

grateful for my Now,

thinking thoughts about this thought,

cosmos’ gift of mind

at my journey’s end,

savoring final moments,

drifting into void,

I intend to go

“gentle into that good night”

as my life-light dims

* If I had faced death at age 39, I, too, may have raged. Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

#  #  #

Jim’s Last Gift

he reached out to me,

final-exit day nearing,

to bid me farewell

I admire him so:

slippery slope’s brink foreseen

with clear-eyed courage

choice was his to make,

remaining time’s worth appraised,

as is Reason's way

his amply lived life

left this world a better place,

his friends enriched

Jim’s last gift to me:

clearer view of road ahead

—thank you, my wise friend

Inspired by Jim C.  Image by AI

#  #  #

Life’s a Movie

we’re in this wild show,

director’s chair sits vacant,

stage feels oddly real

comic bits bring laughs,

some so scary I can’t watch,

tragic scenes bring tears

take a seat, my friend,

relax, it’s not about us,

let's watch together

que será, será

whatever will be, will be

will be fun to see

grim spoiler alert:

finale is known: The End

meanwhile, share popcorn

Image by AI

#  #  #

Death’s Silver Lining

a child’s death grieves us,

loved ones left to mourn their loss,

a young life cut short

thin silver lining:

no progeny to follow,

countless lives unlived,

all those deaths revoked,

war, horror, torment kiboshed

in longtermism’s view

would joy outweigh pain?

antinatalists question:

better not to live?

we fortunate few

know but this cloudless moment

in life’s roiling storm

#  #  #

Just You and Me

for nine loving months

before birthing, sharing you

with the waiting world

                                                            it was just you and me

I nursed you to life,

I fiercely held you to me,

I protected you

now you're gone, so gone

from my anguished, sobbing soul,

no soft skin to sooth

none knew you like me,

none loved how I loved you,

no one cared like me

my mother-love aches,

you remain inside me still,

a hole in my heart

                                                         again, it's just you and me

Mother and son shortly before his death (2015)

#  #  #

Antinatalist Ethics

we seldom ask: why

life's bowl of tasty cherries

enjoyed by so few?

pain tops pleasure on

history’s full balance sheet

—ask evil's victims

animal cousins

suffer death by predator

or meat factory

evolution’s tool:

pain serves genome’s goal, not ours,

in life’s lethal game

ethicists debate,

consensus does not prove truth,

paradigms can shift

Image: Antinatalism International

#  #  #

Package Deal

I’m over eighty,

can’t recall your name, dang it!

one of aging’s peeves

ambition’s kaput,

energy tank’s running low

—that’s how I roll, friends

trade brains with teen boy?

only if I keep wisdom

from life’s lessons learned

libido? don’t ask

testosterone? good riddance!

I’ll keep these old bones

body’s loss: mind’s gain

can’t have one without other

it’s a package deal

#  #  #

When I Die

as life leaves this eye,

what will I say to the world

at final exit?

as Mother Cosmos

retrieves borrowed molecules:

“deep thanks for the loan!”

awesome luck at birth

fate’s whim smiled kindly on me,

vastly more than most

I'll live 'til I don't,

the day not yet known to me,

but I choose to choose

my life, not others’

until it slips from my grasp,

it’s mine to decide

#  #  #

Survival

beaucoup close calls in

this bumpy eighty-year romp,

tons of lucky breaks:

motorcycle crash:

Honduran priests saved my butt,

kept souvenir scars

Vietnam antics:

hazy memories survive,

Bronze Star for ganja

now safely cocooned

in Sarasota treehouse

for the duration

few dangers ahead

except the one that kills me

—patiently waiting

#  #  #

A Quirk of Fate

as a kid, I thought

my life would last forever,

death hid behind Now

grown, in the abstract,

I understood I must die,

but distant specter

now passing eighty,

as my life’s been mostly lived,

death’s shroud is slipping

my mom, at ninety,

murmured “it went by so fast!”

she died the next day

on the cosmic scale

my scant existence is but

a mere quirk of fate

Ultra Deep Field by NASA’s Webb Telescope.  Most dots are one of the two trillion galaxies in the observable universe, up to 13.2 billion lightyears away in spacetime. Our Milky Way galaxy contains 400 billion stars.  Our sun is one ordinary star.  Scale is beyond human comprehension.

#  #  #

Rest In Peace

closer to life's end

than to its brash beginning,

watching curtain close

at an odd remove,

as from a far mountaintop

through rose-colored lens

but for you young ones

and those zillions yet to live,

my bleeding heart grieves

what will beset you?

what torment will you endure?

what fate will snare you?

meanwhile, life is good

I’ve lived in charmed time and place

I’m resting in peace

#  #  #

My Dad’s Earthly Afterlife

smoking was not blamed,

no one knew it was cancer

that was killing him

coughing up dark blood

he got sick in mid-winter,

was his fate foreseen?

I am his youngest,

us kids stayed with Grandmother

to shield us, I s’pose

last time I saw him,

snaked tubes in oxygen tent,

he was not moving

and then he was gone,

glimpsed in wistful, wishful dreams

he still breathes in me

J. W. Dana and family (1952)

#  #  #

Misplaced Grief

when I die, I’ll cease,

no missed bucket-list regrets,

just pure nothingness

I’m not who will grieve,

you may mourn your loss of me,

a missed kith or kin

culture’s vain last rite,

my funeral’s not for me,

I will not be there

celebrate my life,

it’s been one hell of a ride

—then, get on with yours

I’ll drink life’s last drop,

but if the end’s too bitter,

please pass the hemlock

#  #  #

My Afterlife Story

my molecules may

join other Earthly life-forms:

mouse, bird, fish, worm, tree

as dad, my genes will

walk, talk, think, feel, reproduce

through offspring’s tenure

my atoms will roam

worldwide ‘til Earth’s final gasp

five billion years hence

then, Sun’s sons explode:

generations of star-stuff,

my galactic tour

as teacher-writer,

some remnants may last awhile

—perhaps this haiku?

Home base of my atoms for a few billion years

#  #  #

PART 2:  Microstories

These precisely fifty-word studies in minimalism are intended to start a silent, asynchronous conversation with you, Busy Reader. Each is illustrated by a photo or image. No backstory is provided for context. Each story is the tip of a desiccated iceberg whose vast subsurface region is left to your imagination, that hydrating fluid stirred to the surface, Rorschach-like, by your own rich mental underworld. How? Simply notice the image that appears to your mind's eye, the tug at your heart, the punch to your gut. You thereby complete the story triggered by this stem. 
 

#  #  #

Getting Better at Getting Old

Sipping not gulping. Being not preparing. Flowing not rushing. Accepting not expecting. Watching not performing.  Doing not competing. Liking not judging. Holding not grasping. Listening not telling. Strolling not racing. Allowing not requiring. Enjoying not regretting. Pausing not quitting.  Resting not pushing. Living not dying. Getting better at getting old.

No refills

#  #  #

Just Passing Through

My living these past eighty years has had zero effect on this scene, this moment.  If my parents had never met, it would be exactly the same—a humbling reminder of my life’s insignificance, and my death’s.  The universe doesn’t revolve around me—nor you, my friend.  Just passing through.

A normal market day, San Telmo, Buenos Aires

#  #  #

North Star

Recalling the Jacarandas Declaration of 2015: “My life has no higher purpose than to contribute to the quality of your life”—my navigational North Star on this otherwise purposeless, accidental journey we share.  Uncertainties abated, comforted by clarity, we now know how to walk our path together to its end.

#  #  #

I Write

Without uttering a sound, I speak to those whose languages I don’t know, whom I will never meet, whose lands I will never see.  I reach out to my grandchildren’s grandchildren, to citizens of a far future whose worlds I cannot imagine.  I will speak from the grave.  I write.

#  #  #

A Writer’s Final Plea

Doctor, let nature run its course: no surgery, no chemo, no radiation, no comforting lies—only palliation and unvarnished truth.  Dear friends, heirs, readers: no grief, only celebration and fond remembrance.  May my afterlife long dwell in values conveyed by my words on timeless digital bookshelves.  That’s all I ask.

#  #  #

Return to Oblivion

He was found face-up, ankles crossed, fingers laced, relaxed, a neck-tied kitchen bag loosely draped.  On his chest waited a thank-you note to no one, yet to all: “I’ve returned to my eternal pre-birth oblivion, grateful to all who made my unique moment magnificent—apologies to you who find me.”

Image by AI

#  #  #

The Alternative

Four old men await zoom leader, cheerily lamenting aging’s travails. Each pokes fun: “I’m still above the grass.”  “Nothing’s fatal except life itself.” Henry’s quip, “Better than the alternative,” draws customary mumbles of affirmation. Except George: “I’m not so sure.” Awkward pause. Chuckling, we move along. I’m curious about George

#  #  #

The Gift of Non-life

This wee volume, tossed into publishing’s vast maelstrom, faces vanishing odds of achieving broad popularity—an epic moonshot.  Yet you, empathic reader, hold the power to singlehandedly prevent death and suffering of myriad generations for countless millennia—the most generous anonymous gift possible to today’s non-descendants.  What other charity compares?

#  #  #

Good Enough

Amid those bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, more, the boy grew into a man.  The bar remained forever just out of reach.  He tired, but persisted, never giving up, never winning. The race has been run. He finished mid-pack. At long last, he concedes: he is good enough—and always was.

1952

#  #  #

Ambition

“My ambition is to be completely forgotten,” quoth the poet.*  Others envision their legacy engraved on mossy churchyard stone, or safely preserved on some archive’s dusty shelf, or eternally stored as timeless digital bits in the cloud. In the vastness of cosmic spacetime, ambition is futile.  His wish is assured.

* Bob Kaufman, Beat poet, 1950’s

#  #  #

                                Another Day at Sea                

Where am I going?  This uncharted sea offers no buoys to mark my way.  The horizon looks limitless.  No shoals, starboard nor port.  My vintage craft’s wake shows steady progress, but toward what destination?  Old salts warn of certain storms ahead, but my sky is blue.  What’s on other shore?

#  #  #

Death Rattle

Sucking the straw loudly, slurping final drops of animating fluid clinging to the bottom of my cup, portending emptiness, foreshadowing the inevitable.  The end is near.  But afterlife awaits the faithful.  If deserving, I may relive this pleasure yet again. Unlike the real world, this death rattle foretells a refill.

#  #  #

Living by Default

Unless we choose otherwise, we live each day by default, tolerating chronic pain, grief, despair, buoyed by often-implausible hope of relief from such maladies, leavened by moments of pleasure.  By habit, instinct and will, our organism persists.  Body memory of primordial predators energizes instinctive self-preservation, oblivious to latent rational choice.

#  #  #

Live Now

Immediately upon cessation of consciousness, my body will begin its entropic return to the primordial elements from which my sentience so recently emerged from oblivion.  Others’ recollections of my momentary existence inevitably fade over years, decades, generations, leaving no trace.  Fear not the eternal void. Oblivion will resume. Live now. 

Hubble ultra deep field photo containing ~10,000 (of ~2 trillion) galaxies up to ~13 billion light-years distant (NASA)

#  #  #

400 Forefathers

I’m a researcher of historical poetry.  Today, I stumbled upon the digitized works of a long-forgotten heretical, humanist, antinatalist haikuist in the ancient kingdom of America who warned of generations of needless suffering in humanity’s far future.  I carry his Y-DNA.  Any one of my 400 forefathers should have listened.

10,000 years from today

#  #  #

Did Daddy Worry?

My little boy may not remember me, if Viceroys take me out. The industry claims “no proof,” but I cough and spit.  He will be fatherless soon.  Would no-life have been better for him?  I lie sleepless beside his young mother.  Will he ever wonder if I pondered these thoughts?

J. W. Dana, 1874-1955. Killed by lung cancer. Photo 1948

#  #  #

Christmas Truce 1914

In Flanders Field, George and Hans played football in No Man’s Land.  They exchanged souvenirs, sharing bawdy jokes and rum.  In harmony, they sang carols known by both families.  They helped bury the others’ dead before returning to their trenches.  Both died when shooting resumed next day.  It hasn’t stopped.

Tyne Cot cemetery, Ypres, Belgium

#  #  #

Wall of Death

So, this is how it ends, my road from boyhood in Szentendre. I cursed Lászaló, a “friend” from Budapest’s ghetto, now a Sonderkommando.  A Szwab overheard me.  Stripped, hands tied, pushed to my knees facing the Wall.  My suffering will soon be over.  I hear commands.  I wait for relief.

The Shooting Wall, Block 11, Auschwitz, 6 May 2025

#  #  #

Glad I’m Not Young

At ninth decade’s door, beneficiary of America’s privileged demographic in history’s luckiest generation.  Facing waning twilight with calm curiosity.  Passed life’s consequential tests: stumbled into gratifying career; eventually found the right wife; survived lethal blunders.  Narrowly escaping democracy’s collapse.  Worried for grandchildren’s grandchildren, mine and yours.  Glad I’m not young.

Age 23 (1968)

#  #  #

Reason’s Quotient

If instinct charts my final course, 600 million years successfully evading hungry predators will compel my genes to preserve this flicker to its natural end.  If reason takes command, I may accurately estimate future’s quotient of pleasure versus pain, rationally choosing my time and place.  I patiently await reason’s calculus.

#  #  #

Wordless

Finding words that encode thoughts and feelings into printable symbols, enabling others to decode them, thereby reconstructing a semblance of those thoughts and emotions, is my craft.  Standing at Auschwitz, where millions of fellow beings just like you and me were tortured to death by indescribable cruelty, leaves me wordless.

,

#  #  #

Accept Impermanence

My cherished travel-stained cap, left in a Berlin taxi.  My career’s product, meant to benefit mankind, discarded in new executive’s reorganization plan.  Democracy, America’s brilliant experiment, crushed by tyranny.  My sweat-stained poetry, abandoned unread in deletable digital files.  My short life’s chalk mark, rinsed off by time’s rains.  Accept impermanence.

#  #  #

Tracks

Theo, my Poland-bound doppelganger (~1953 version),

stands absorbed in passing scenery on his journey from Berlin.  This same track carried countless Auschwitz-bound boys in 1942, peering between drafty wooden slats, fearing their rumored destination, mere hours from death.  Theo will visit grandparents in Krakow and perhaps learn some family history.

Intercity train Berlin to Krakow

Auschwitz-Birkenau Human transport

#  #  #

Moral Cul-de-Sac

Homo sapiens’ evolution led us into moral cul-de-sac, posing inexorable choice:

 #1: Pacifism—Reward aggressors, glorify militarists, tyrannize populace pawns, enable Hitler-style solutions.

#2:  War (failing diplomacy)—Condemn boy soldiers to battlefield hell, bomb innocents, industrialize weapons for future  nationalists.

Consider #3: Ethical antinatalism—preclude suffering of myriad future generations

Entrance to Birkenau.  No exit.

#  #  #

Wall Decorations

Dad to one, Papi to two, uncle to dozens, friend to plenty.  Sweetie to one interdependent life-partner, lying beside me now—those others are nostalgic decorations gracing my darkening wall.  Will I choose to survive her, if her turn’s first, to occupy an empty, amply decorated home?  We shall see.

Image by AI

#  #  #

The Recurring Dream

None since 1994, until tonight.  New setting: glimpsed him across crowded room of professional men.  Found right moment to approach.  He knew of my career, website, poems.  Seemed proud of me.  I thirsted for his every precious word.  We parted, again too soon.  I’m eighty.  Can’t wait another thirty years.

J. W. Dana (1874-1955), photo circa 1910

#  #  #

Our Warm Sea

Like a fish in water, I don’t notice, enough, the warm sea we share, an ocean away from suffering and its rumors, sedated in languid stupor, stirred awake only by the occasional ripple or nudging wave.  I swim in your gentle wake, my love, until we reach the water’s edge.

Image by AI

#  #  #

Peace

A thunderous clap silently shook me from this morning’s stupor, exploding my resident delusion: that my existence matters beyond this shell holding all things me: my life, my poems, my people, my future.  I’m left with my Now, my Here, nothing more.  That’s enough, if I let it be.  Peace.

Sarasota, 7:44 am, 23 March 2025

#  #  #

Uncertainties

Throughout these eighty years, I’ve known, abstractly, my term will end.  When, where, and how remained distant uncertainties.  With age and reason, barring fatal surprise, uncertainty has ebbed: when pain crosses pleasure’s Rubicon, at home, peacefully, by chosen means.  Meanwhile, uncertainties abated, I shall carry on living this good life.

With COVID masks, 2020

#  #  #

Danny’s Decision

Daniel Kahneman, thinking fast and slow, made a supremely rational decision, exchanging his final decrepit years for timeless, painless oblivion.  He chose the Swiss option, waving off irrational gods and laws—a model for averting millennia of needless human suffering.  Choice:  The world isn’t there yet.  I am, in time.

Receiving Presidential Medal of Freedom, 2013

#  #  #

A Bid for Remembrance

I draw poems from a deep, dark well, not knowing their worth before reaching sunlight.  Upon appraisal, I wonder, “Is this one good?”  The sheen of newness blinds me to blemishes, the hubris of creation clouds banality.  Tossed into the bin with its predecessors, this one, too, awaits fickle remembrance.

Photo: iStock

#  #  #

Socrates

First, know nothing.  Question received wisdom.  Celebrate skepticism.  Embrace ignorance.  Think, feel, rethink.  Learn from students.  Never graduate.  Practice the craft of dialogue.  Take the other side—your opponent is your teacher.  Hubris poisons learning.  Live once.  Consider hemlock.  He is the father of Western education.  I am his son.

470 - 399 BCE — Convicted by Athenian authorities of ungodliness and corrupting the youth — Quote:  The unexamined life is not worth living.

                                          #  #  #

A Life Story

A Boomer baby, he found farmers’ boots too coarse for his tender feet.  Misfit, too, were dorm life and camouflage fatigues.  Once discharged, he searched for his people, yonder.  On Oaxaca’s beach and Yasgur’s farm, he discovered his generation, now called “Woodstock.”  In Socrates’ steps he finally found his footing.

1969 to present

#  #  #

Imbalance

Hey, Empath!  Worldwide, suffering far outweighs life’s lottery-winners’ pleasure.  Consider: far-future descendants we’ve caused to exist, the meat industry we patronize, wild carnivores who must eat.  Was Creation Loving God’s original sin?  To live justly in this unjust world: create no new life, be kind to fellow fauna, be aware.

Image by AI

#  #  #

Duty to Live

I’m alive! —a self-aware bundle of star-stuff on the gossamer skin of this rare habitable planet in one among trillions of billion-sun galaxies.  Mine is a lottery-winning cosmically purposeless—yet truly unique—life.  What duty, owed to whom, requires I live it fully?  Others?  Legacy?  Or to none but me?

Photo:  NASA

#  #  #

I Want My Mother

I achieved higher education. I’ve written books. My students learned. I’ll leave the world a better place. I’ve created another generation. I’m a good man. She did me well. She was proud of me. She loved me. She’s been gone decades. I am eighty. I’m scared. I want my mother.

Explainer for the psychologically curious: Object Relations Theory (ORT) is a useful way of thinking about the relationship between self and the external world outside us, especially in times of stress. It’s a healthy comfort to love and be loved by your mother (your first external object)—living, dead, or imagined—at any age. 

#  #  #

My Dad at 150

We’re getting up there in years, you and I, Old Man. You are the man I’ve strived to be in lonely, fatherless dreams. Dwindling few of us recall your twinkling blue eyes as thoughts stirred your mind. When I reach your years who'll recall my twinkling eyes—some aging poet?

J. W. Dana, born 14 December 1874

#  #  #

But First, My Mom

Christmas baby born of sturdy, hardscrabble farm folk, sole sister of five brothers, her mother’s selfless apprentice. Sacrificed past my knowing. I sip kindness from her depth. I claim no esteem—by her genes and her example she created me. Yes, the village raises the child. But first, my mom.

Bradford Louise Gant Dana, born 25 December 1918

#  #  #

About Me:

I am a retired mediator, psychologist, and educator living with wife Susan in Sarasota, Florida. Born in 1945 on a family farm in Missouri, I served, reluctantly, in the U.S. Army in Vietnam (non-combat) and Panama Canal Zone (1966-1968). Holding the PhD in psychology from University of Missouri (1977), I authored two books on mediation and one on secular humanism. Five Palms Press, named for my perch overlooking Sarasota Bay, was created to share my poetic handiwork in retirement. I am the father of one and grandfather of two.

#  #  #

Other Books

Post-Retirement

· My Last Haiku: And Other Haiku Quintets

· A Life Mostly Lived: True Stories in 85 Syllables

· Diary of a Young Man: Coming of Age at a Cultural Crossroads

· Love, Death, Humanism: Practical Philosophy in Verse

· My Death Collection: Haiku Quintets for Thinking Mortals

· Haiku Quintets

· The Reason Revolution: Atheism, Secular Humanism, and the Collapse of Religion

· Life Is Not Good: Ethical Antinatalism in Haiku

· Science and Secularism: Haiku Quintets

· Songs of the Pandemic: Haiku Quintets

· Finding Your Best Friend: A Field Guide

Pre-Retirement

· Managing Differences: How to Build Better Relationships at Work and Home

· Conflict Resolution: Mediation Tools for Everyday Worklife

#  #  #

Acknowledgements:

Scribes, a Sarasota writer’s community.  You know who you are. 

Susan, my window into the Eternal Other.