Tag Archives: mortality

To A Departed Dog (Dedicated To Trigger)

Sometimes I see
You in front of me,
Or imagine you at
My side. I
Go to pat
You under the table,
Where you so often sat.
I am not able.
You are not coming back.

Writ On A Most Ancient Grave

On a most ancient grave
Is writ,
“Here lies the great Dave.
His wit
Was razor-sharp.
Yet, for all his art,
He ended in this grave!”.

Fine Rain

I get wet
By this fine
Rain.
Yet,
I do not regret
For the divine
Is in the rain.

I shall get wet
Again
For when
Death does steal
Me away.
I regret
That I shall no longer feel,
The joy of a rainy day.

There Are No Gods

There are no gods.
Men are but sods
In the end
My friend.

Yet we strive
To stay alive.
And some pretend
That there are gods.
But we are sods
In the end
My friend.

Though, the poet’s work may survive
Long after his eyes
Have closed.
And, who knows,
Perchance he may find, at his end
That we are more than mere
Sods.

Yet I fear
That there are no gods.
And we are but sods
In the end
My friend.

“Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats, read by Stephen Fry

Yesterday evening, I ran a quiz for friends on Zoom. One of the questions I posed was who wrote these lines:

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease”.

The answer is, of course John Keats, the poem in question being “Ode to a Nightingale”.

Along with “Autumn”, “Ode to a Nightingale” is one of my favourite poems, written by a poet who died at a tragically young age.

You can find a wonderful reading of “Ode to a Nightingale”, read by Stephen Fry here,


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Caught Up in Thought

Caught up in thought
Amidst these spring flowers.
How many hours
Have I spent
Denying that our time is lent.

Then, birdsong
Breaks through my useless thought.
And I recognise
That human eyes
Do not see for long.
And that I ought
To fill my mind
With birdsong.

Yet, I find
That my brain
Oft runs like an express train
And will not be still.

But, sometimes, its just the sky
And I
And the poignancy of birdsong,
That will not last long.

Their Time in the Sun

They have fun
In the sun.
Their perfect
Bodies reject
The fact that they
Will grow old.
Where I to be bold
And say,
“All this will pass
Away”,
Lad and lass would laugh.
Though, perhaps a thoughtful few
Would say
“That’s true.
But we must
Enjoy our day
Ere we are dust”.
And I would nod,
And go away.

I Walked The Woodland Path

I
Walked the woodland path
And passed
By
Tall, slender flowers.

Now I
Traverse, in verse
That self-same path,
And grow flowers
In my mind.

The flowers
May be gone tomorrow.
For I find
That we borrow
Time.

True, many a rose
Has been emmortalised in rhyme
But the poet knows,
That he has limited time.