This post will include the poem written by Jean Jones, to me (or more accurately, by the Angel of Death to me) below my poem.

Premise of the poem… I had this idea in my mind of how I might respond to the Angel of Death even before she wrote to me. I was reading poems from the collection, “The Angel of Death” by Jean Jones, or had read these poems many times over the years. I was thinking about how my concept of death, were it to be personified would be something very different. I had these thoughts about death that I didn’t like very much at all. For Jean, I know this from a very old interview with Jean on this collection, the Angel of Death is a very powerful and very real entity, for lack of a better word. While I’ve never seen or experienced anything that would convince me that there is any such Angel, when I read the poems, during the reading, she is very real… When I read Jean’s poems, my experience is such that it is as if the Angel of Death were real at that moment.

Perhaps this letter is to Jean or the Muse that speaks through Jean.

Letter to the Angel of Death

I
don’t really have
much
of a belief
in
Angels or Demons,
having never
seen any,
as far as I can tell.

Yet,
in your Angel of Death poems,
Jean,
just
for a moment,
in
the reading of those words
the
Angel of Death
is
very much alive
and
real.

To the Angel of Death:

I’ve
always
feared
you;
so
much so
that
I thought
I
could write
you
out of existence

and
while I’ve tried
various
methods
to
deny your existence
I’ve
come to
recognize
you.

I
recognize you
as
that which would
keep
me up at night,
as a boy,
afraid
that if I were to fall
asleep,
I’d
never awaken.

I
would hide
under
my covers,
as
a very young boy
hoping
that if you came
to
my home,
you
would not find me,
like
you did those Egyptian
boys
in Biblical times.

How
I hated you!
You
were a challenge
to
my faith and everything
in
which I needed to
believe.

I suppose
it would come
as
no surprise
to
learn
that
I am still afraid of the dark…
afraid
you might be there
trying
to sneak up on me,
as
if I could keep you away.

I
know you were there
the
other night -
I
recognize your presence,
your
hypnotic voice

in
my mind saying,

“Imagine
no thoughts,
no
images and no sounds -
Nothingness.”

At
that thought,
my
eyes snapped open.

It’s
always been my fear -
that
empty nothingness -
the
place
where
dreams end
beyond
the universe…
beyond
everything.

By Bruce Whealton
June 5, 2009

The following poem is by Jean Jones who has produced a lengthy collection entitled "The Angel of Death."

Letter to Bruce

Bruce, darling,

you think that all the words you put up on the screen
will save you from me.  It won't.
You think that all those words you put up on the screen
will give your life meaning and purpose.  It won't.
You think that things will turn out all right in the end.
It won't.  See I know your fears, Bruce,
I know you worry that everything is meaningless, that there is no God,
that you will die alone.  What if I were to tell you
all that is true and will happen?  What would you do then?
Remember, I hold out my hand to you,
and at any time, any moment, you can reach out and touch it.
When you walk down the street, in the face of oncoming traffic,
I'm waving at you
from the closest nearby car.  Run out to me, I say.
I am waiting.  Waiting for you, for when you get tired of that
pretense of life, of hope, of all things that are not me.
Run to your church.  It will give you no solace.  When you stare up
at the ceiling, you will see me, a grinning skull, looking back at you.
When you close your eyes, my black hair and dark eyes will haunt you
and haunt you, until, when you wake up, you will have wondered if I
spent the night with you, and I would have, and when you look outside your window,
on the fifth floor of your apartment, looking down, I will be at the bottom,
waving at you, telling you to jump.