Finis
We seem to have no language,
you and I;
Our words are clothed in silence:
not a sigh
From lips encased in virtues smile;
not a cry
Lest ears not tuned to love, defile
The sanctuary of that smothered breath,
Where hope meets Death.
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Anna M. Johnson, death, in English Clear filters
The Jeep
That little jeep he drove!
Strange — it looks like him —
So strong its power of build —
Empty, it stands above
The mountains crusty rim,
Just as his hand had willed,
Empty — its driver gone —
His medals won!
War Trophies
Homeward thy spirit fled,
Glad to be on its way;
Freed from a field of dead,
My darling — so lately wed —
My love of yesterday.
The Sun Went Down
The Sun went down upon my day;
The Moon came up — its light was dim;
And soon all light had passed away,
For Sun and Moon went out with him
And set for aye.
Mummies
I saw a mummy lying with the cryptic dead;
I saw a mummy — but its life had fled;
I saw a mummy — walking on the street;
I saw a mummy — dead, yet on its feet.
To the Departed
All things today seem sad,
Since she has gone;
My heart will not be glad,
Altho’ I would not mourn
For one as Heaven-born,
But I’m alone!
Since she has gone I weep,
The tears will flow;
Vain tears—I would not keep
Such signs of grief or woe,
But she is gone!
A Dream
I had a dream;
I thought I fenced with Death:
And when he tripped me,
I sent a blow with stealth,
That pierced his arrantry,
And set me free.
Musings
Ache heart! What right have you
To hold a universe in tow,
To make a wish come true
To ease your woe?
When I depart shall I be living,
Or shall I be in truth
Among the dead?
Only the so-called living bury
The so-called fled;
Count me alive and giving
Love to my best beloved.I put a plaster on my heart tonight,
Poor heart — so sad, so sore, o’er Earthly griefs —
It drew the tears to surface sheets;
Like raindrops in a sudden flight,
It washed away some false beliefs,
And left it healed— such strange retreats!
Why
Why do I wabble to and fro,
And try so valiantly to go,
Yet like some drunkard on his feet,
I cannot make my senses meet
Upon the path I know?
Why do I bicker with my head,
And try to argue death, instead
Of life, and peace, and perfect poise?
I seem connected with the noise
Of all Earth’s underfed.
Crossings
Give me your hand to hold, dear one,
I must not cross this turbid stream alone:
Your hand tight-held will make a stepping-stone
For all of me that has to cross so soon.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try: