New Year’s Eve headline
Infant skeleton
found in suitcase after
elderly woman dies
Poems on the topic: death
Poems on the topic “death” on Poets.by.
Undead
If the dead can’t rest,
it’s because we won’t let them.
We storm,
we harry,
we decry,
we implore.
We make them star
in our horror shows
for that surge of adrenalin
that lets us know
we’re alive —
as if they our dear departed
were the ones out for blood.
Poem for Display at a Police Checkpoint
Sometimes, you need a bridge
where there is no river.
The ground falls away
& you need that pique experience —
looking down on everything
without ever having climbed,
sky & water wearing the calm
blue uniform of authority.
Held up by high-strung cables,
speeding through our lives,
we could all use a pause
to adjust our perspective,
get in touch with who
we really are & what
brings us here, dry-
mouthed or sweaty,
Poem for Display at a City Reservoir
Attention suicides: please have the consideration
to drown elsewhere. It is not that your body
would be especially toxic — that’s a myth.
But what we crave in water is an absence of taste,
not the taste of absence.
Also, kindly make sure your water bill is paid up.
It’s the least you can do for your neighbors,
who will soon probably be needing to recharge
their own reservoirs, those brown or blue pools
in which on occasion you may have glimpsed yourself,
smaller than life.
Ode to a Hatchet
This hatchet hasn’t bitten
through a neck in twenty years.
When we raised poultry,
it was in weekly use,
& also had regular dates
with the bench grinder:
a grating hiss, & a bright
new smile would open
in century-old rust.
The back of the head flares
into a hammer,
lending heft & balance
to this almost-cross
& making it easy to hang
from a pair of nails.
In a museum in Pittsburgh
Thoughts and prayers
the news
touching us
too mad for madness
touching her child
they bury us
day and night
escape lies
in the ground
among other people
Rocker
I harbor a war
in my music
an ordinary yes
can kill a child
Unequal access
seven businessmen rattle out
their seven thoughts
death giving them
what they please
a piece of hot salt beef
some brown bread and brandy
and we make little
but desire better
live only an hour
carry fire into our graves
Survivalists
in ignorance of the present
we copy it
for future use
and go gaze at the dead
I make a cake like an urn
and agree to be merry
my dread hardly suffering me
to speak
Day and night
I wait
in bed all day
dressed
for burying
come to see me
and sing
sing
to ease my night
Heatstroke
in hot weather lying
with only a sheet upon me
like a ghost
there is a strangeness
between hand and head
and I miss the body’s city
when I at last die
will I be friends with it
Dream conversion
I dream of meeting my love
and she is dead
I dream a stone swelled
and turned into a gray bird
I dream the stairs go down
to the Ganges
and I become religious
and wail like a lost wind
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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