death

Butterfly

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.

Visitor

each time death visits
he leaves me his calling card
one day I’ll be home

You Are The Cold

you are not night
for night I do not fear
as even in the winter’s dark
the morning soon is here

you are not dreams
in perchanced sleep
as waking with the sunrise comes
and away such nightmares creep

you are the cold
of tomb’s decay
that feeds this earth
for warmer days

The Shadow’d Crows

what ephemera
this flesh of ours
all that breathes
will one day cease
and hold its final breath
forever,
even the graveyard crows
seemingly victorious
in their coarse laments
will fall at last
as forgotten shadows
of Autumn evenings do
from the yew trees

The Stones

they are but shapeless stones now
re-hewn by rain and dust and tears
what history they may have held
is mystery lost to passing years.

craven, graven angels weep
but tears from eyes to ages dried
without the will or wings to fly
and leave these secrets to their sleep.

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.

No Silence

there is no silence,
in even the quietest death
peace passes away

Dusk

what strange shapes
the golden fire makes
upon the far horizon
no shadows more
scar the hastened draw
of my day now done,
for this is the dusk
as endings must
descend upon us all
what once was light
submits to the night
that on a life must fall.