When a man hears the knell of his untimely death,
in the rattle of bloody phlegm within his chest.
In final gasping hours he will treasure each breath,
perhaps thinking of the lady he loved the best.
In those earlier years he had lived fast and hard,
casually playing his hand against precious time.
stakes only grew higher with each flip of a card,
while death sat across the table speaking in rhyme.
"You carry the gift that you got from your mother,
with every breath you exhale, it fouls the air.
It has followed you out here, my little brother
your constant companion at all times, everywhere.
Rather than this way, a bullet might be kinder,
ending your life quickly as you bite the dust.
Glimpses of heaven before your eyes grow blinder,
you could pray for an ending that is swift and just.
A historical legend face down in the street,
most doomed men would rather die in this way,
than flat on their backs beneath a grimy sheet,
to be buried under prairie instead of red clay.
Ante up little brother, lay your money down!
accept the odds, play the hand that you’re dealt.
Remember this day when death rode into town,
and wasn’t even wearing a gunbelt."
A man who was dying was a man to be feared,
hooded death was a raptor perched on his back.
His passage to hell had already been cleared,
with fear already gone, his heartbeat growing slack.
Uncaring if bullets hit their mark or missed.
Walking bold, while he still had the power to choose.
His face turned upward to receive death’s sweet kiss.
Either way that it went, he had nothing to lose.
A merciful quick ending was not in the plan,
he lived six years beyond his gamble with death.
When his time came, he was a mere shell of a man,
death called his bluff, then he drew his last breath.
Author notes
This poem is based on the last years of Doc Holliday, who was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which he probably contracted from his mother. He traveled west to a better climate for his condition, and spent his time gambling and befriending the Earp brothers. They all became legends in the story of the shootout at the OK corral, many movies are based on this event, "Tombstone" is one. John Henry "Doc" Holliday was a native of Georgia.
A contest entry
- Cowboy's In 1880 by ennovy.
700 points, ended February 23, 19 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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he dies the same way keats died.
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there have been a few times of late where i have woken up from sleep not being able to breath, coughing like a nutter, trying to catch a breath, it has been frightening - i have on every occasion this has happened thought i was popping my clogs! often i have diced with death, by my own hand and failed to reach the shores, sometimes i think it my destiny because of these self attempts to live a long life, buut still i get frightened even chasing death when i get a close call. ahh doc h - maybe we were related
a good poem.
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Doc Holliday was dead at age thirty-six...so young!
The will to live is so strong in all of us, I think it takes a very strong and brave person to face death unafraid. I know those breathless times that you wake in the night wheezing for air, have to be frightening.
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As always I enjoy your melodic recanting of a story poetically, you place the reader in another time and place with ease. It felt as if I was being read too ( which I love) The last line is water tight, it seals the poem with your own insignia. Superb.
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I watched the movie "Doc" last night starring Stacy Keach. It was a pretty good oater, but I enjoyed your presentation better. Good write, good luck in the contest and happy trails.
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This is one of my faves Doc Hoilday, the Erap's...Doc was born on Aug 14, 1851 in Griffin, GA. Left there for Dallas. TX in Oct 1873...due to his illness...in 1880 he was just 29 years old....in his short span of life he made history....he passed on Nov.8, 1887 at the age of 36....you have done a wonderful poem based on him............thank you
novy
Thank you for entering my contest -
Magnificent piece. Very well written, flowed nicely and a great tribute to Doc Holiday.
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