Come the morn
I shall yawn,
Or not.
In the graveyard plot
Tombs stand.
Now my hand
Is hot.
Tag Archives: death
One should not speak ill of the dead
It is frequently said
That one should not speak ill of the dead.
It is a notion most quaint
That in death, a devil becomes a saint,
Yet we cross ourselves and say
“He has passed away.
May god have mercy on his soul”.
While inwardly we smile
For well we know
Where his soul did go …
Must
I do not care
For this must
And dust
That thickens
The air.
The scent sickens
Me,
Yet I must
Agree
(as is so often foretold),
That we end our days in dust
And mould.
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.
There Is An Equalitie In The Grave
There is an equalitie in the grave
Where the brave,
The coward, the rich and the poor
All must bow down,, to death’s all conquering law.
In the beds of the living,
There may be mutual giving
And equalitie,
But love may not always be free
Here Lies Lot
Here lies Lot.
He knew Not
Nither why nor what.
Yet there he lies,
Forever lost to tears and sighs.
Tree
Oh tree at the edge of the park,
Oh warm imperfection of bark,
You where here ‘Ere I came,
And when I am gone, you shall remain.
Fly
To live and die
As a fly,
Knowing only this wood, this sky.
Yet here am I
Dust
I drink
My wine and think
On bed,
Fertile wombs,
And tombs,
Where sleep the dead
Who Knows?
Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
Sometimes
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.