Keats had his Nightingale, which made him think of death.
I have my owl, which brings to mind Macbeth.
Tis a different name
For the same
Thing.
The morning birds sing
Replacing the owl’s cry
And I
Ponder on Keats, who is remembered still
And wonder will
My owl survive
Long after I am alive.
As I walk through the churchyard,
Along this hard
Path,
I laugh
For although
The day Is cold, those below
Do not know
That it is so
There are no pockets in a shroud.
The proud
And the humble
All must tumble
Into the grave.
But you should save
One solitary coin
To enjoin
The ferryman to take you on
Your final journey.
Going to bed
I shed
My skin. When I awake
I shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor.
One day
I shall go away
Leaving my skin
To be sold in
Some charity store.
Rummaging through bags on the floor
Maybe some shopper will buy
A piece of me.
Perchance a thoughtful soul may wonder why
My skin came to be there.
Or, more likely they will not care
For bargain hunting is the new thing, and besides, giving money to a good cause
Oft results in applause.
—
Going to bed
They shed
Their skin. When they awake
They shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor …
The cold rain does fall.
I recall
We stood in the shelter
Of the old hall.
Helter skelter
The years whirl by.
Now I
Sit alone
In my home
Thinking on the cold rain
And the old hall that will remain
When I also make my way
Into those woods where we were wont to play.
—
Bits of data
Fly.
Sooner or later
I shall die.
I
Wonder why
I
Should care
Where
My words will go
For I know
That the winter snow
Will cover all.
Perhaps a few may recall
A word I said
When I am dead.
But in my graveyard plot
I shall know it not.
Why this conceit
On my part
that others should repeat
Let alone understand what lay in my heart?
I would
Do good
But know
I have not always done so.
Sitting here in this winter weather
I see a feather
Float on high
Through indifferent sky.
The wind will sigh
When I am gone
But not for me,
Though I shall be free
As wind and sea.
Do those who drink of Lethe
Find surcease
From pain?
Or do they wrack their brain
In a vain
Attempt to regain
What is forever, lost?
O to be free of regret
And forever forget
A life ill spent.
But what cost
To drink
Of Lethe and no more think,
But merely to do
As like some automaton
We wander through
Hades
Where memory fades
And days are as one.
The departed are gone
But know it not, or perhaps they do
As tears may break through
When half remembered years
Enter the head
Of the living dead.
All men meet the ferryman, but not all fear
The guide
Who carries us to the other side.
It is Lethe drear
That inspires most dread.
The Greeks said
That the ferryman comes before we quench our thirst
In Lethe’s waters.
But no, ‘Tis not always so
For sons and daughters are left behind
When loved ones find
The river where memory fractures, before the body dies.
“Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head”.
There was a young poet named Zeff
Who wrote a poem about death.
The Grim Reaper heaved a great sigh
And said “I have long pondered on why
You poets are so obsessed with death”.
On such a day, when the winter sun
Casts my shadow upon yonder wall,
It is difficult to recall
That all
This will, one day, be done.
In future, will some other one, sitting here and seeing their shadow fall
Upon this self-same wall,
Know that they may not forestall
The night
Where dancing shadows are forever lost from sight.
—
(Written on 3 December 2016, while sitting in my study).
—
(Note: “Shadows” can be found in my latest collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind”, which is available from Amazon, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0735JBVBG and from Moyhill Publishing, http://moyhill.com/clock/).
K Morris - Poet 