When a very old man of Stroud
Said, “death be not proud”,
Death replied, “you know,
We must together go,
And leave this earthly crowd”.
When A Very Old Man Of Stroud
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Tag Archives: the grim reaper
There Was A Young Poet Named Zeff
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”.
Time by K Morris
Thank you to Roberta Pimentel for publishing my poem, “Time” as a guest post on her site, http://robertapimentel.com/2017/01/29/guest-post-time-by-kevin-morris/.
Kevin
Shark
For the blank
Stare
Of the fish tank,
thank
the shark
Who dwelt in the dark
He has had his wish
And eaten all the fish,
But can no longer glare
As consuming his source of food
Perforce
The reaper stark
Did intrude
And made the shark
His food …
When I Go
When I go will it be in a darkened room
With cloying perfume
Hanging like a stark
question mark,
In the unmoved air?
I shall beware
The unlit stair
For I may go
Below
Lest I tread with care.
Will I leave at dawn
With only the birds to mourn?
Or perchance it will be among friends
Who, seeing my end
Will say
“Blast. A blaggard to the last!
He failed to pay, his bill ere he went away”!
I know not the day
But pray
I go with conscience clear,
Without fear
And with those to me dear
Standing near.
The Intruder
Alone
At home
I sensed an intruder in my hall.
My mouth was dry
And I could not call
Out for help.
For his throat I felt
And smelt
A stench as of a thing long since deceased.
All grappling ceased
And through my fear
I recognised death
Standing near.
—
The above poem is based on a dream I dreamed several days ago. While dreaming, I was conscious of a profound sense of fear, heightened by the terrible stench emminating from the intruder in my home. However it was only on awakening that I recognised the presence as that of the angel of death.
Time
The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop.
K Morris - Poet 