I read today a great man died
and then observed a butterfly
so sat I did there pondering
are they but souls on silken wings
death escaping mortal clay
in fleeting calming colours gay,
thus this thought my heart has eased
that we may all dance on the breeze
when our earthly time subsides
and be observed as butterflies

Good Friday Song

I laughed with Leonard Cohen
on Good Friday afternoon
we prayed to old Jack Daniels
that Death would visit soon.

The old bartender took the call
and in a crying voice did say
a toast to friends both here and gone
for Death had passed away.

He’d taken black on Monday morn
maudlin as the heaven’s host
and lost his purpose in a dream
of a thankless holy ghost.

And though he prayed on Tuesday
Wednesday, Thursday too,
on Friday took a glass in hand
and knew that he was through.

So lost without his faith no more
Death rose once from his bed
he grabbed his pistol from the drawer
and put a bullet in his head.

When The Rain Came

at ten, I think
is when, I think
death came.
He had, of course
announced himself
upon the grey
tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
but strangely
that was all
no black
foreboding pall
(..or bugle’s dampened call)
just quiet
pregnant quiet
silence, save
the grey tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
which replaced her breath
now lost,
to never, ever
sound again.