The picture stands out against the white
Of my living room wall.
A few birds still call.
A fascination with sunlight
Which, as I watch, slowly dies away.
The night
Takes the day
And the picture we see
Is lost in obscurity
Although we hope that this light
We borrow
Will be seen on the morrow,
But this we can not know.
How convenient to have a graveyard
So close to my home.
‘Twill not be hard
As, when I die
There will not be far to go
For my bones
But, you know
The place has remained undisturbed
By burials for many a year.
I am perturbed
And shed a tear
As I do not know
Where I shall go
When I die.
Perhaps my ashes will, in a pub find a place
And the drinker, with his or her flushed face
Will look at me and say,
“He used to drink this way.
Another beer
Here barman, for I feel suddenly queer
And must drink
Else I shall think
On dust
And he, who has into the grave been thrust!”.
I dislike
The idea of fire
And my desire
Is for burial. Yet the night
Will come down all the same
So why should I care
Whether I am consumed by flame
Or end up underground?
For the truth profound
Is that I will not be there
To know or care.
I am skin,
Sin,
Lust
And dust.
And one day I shall be thrust
Into a place
Where no trace
Of who I am now will be found
For underground
There is no sin or lust,
Only dust
Which once was thee or me
The wind
Did sing
To me
Of eternity,
And bring
My consciousness round
To the profound sound
Of it’s song
In the graveyard tree
Making me,
For a moment, free
Throw a stone into a brook
And look
As the water ripples.
Then, when the ripples are gone
You may
Ponder, on yonder
Setting sun, or turn away
For to think on
Days end
Can be painful, my friend.
As permanent as the grass
I pass
Or the birds that sing,
Is this thing
I am,
Merely man.
I put my nose out the window
And smell the rain,
But quickly close it again
Why should I
shut out the rain
And sky?
For I
Know not when I shall die.
On my way
Home today
I met
A budding rose
And did a poem compose
To love, lust,
Dust, and regret.
Who knows
Whether the rose
Be closed
Still.
All flesh is grass
And I will
Into the dark forest pass
While the rose
Is blooming still
Why must
I dwell on dust
On this sunny day?
‘Tis the thought that all this will fade away,
Yet there is still time to play
Ere the sun
Does run
Into the arms
Of night.
Sometimes I think
Her charms
Are sweet,
For who has not forgot
Regret in the arms
Of sleep?
The river of lethe
May take us unawares.
Vacant stares
We bestow
On family and friends
For we know
Them not.
I think ’tis better to die
Than to lose the plot
And linger on
Though one’s essence has gone.
But the weather is hot
And there is yet time to play
Ere my day runs away
Into lethe
Or with luck, I shall avoid
The void
Of memories loss
And pass, direct, instead
To the land of the dead
For it is the knowing
That one’s faculties are going
That fills me with dread.
I am rested today.
I shall stay that way,
Getting plenty of sleep
But, sooner or later
This prater
Will, his toil
Cease, and find peace
In nature’s good soil,
For I maintain
That none can foil
The reaper of grain.
K Morris - Poet 