Poems on the topic: death

Poems on the topic “death” on Poets.by.

CheerfulDave Bonta

Living in the moment

the Lord is as strange as the devil and me I am a happy man I play till night in the garden and every minute expect to die
SadDave Bonta

Limp

flag too great to stir like a new carcass not used to any airs foul or sweet
SadDave Bonta

Night riders

where a poor man put off his traveling clothes in what tree was the body hung last night so very still
AnxiousDave Bonta

Gambler’s spell

dice found in the dead man’s pocket which my hand now shake write out like a dagger all my red ink
AngryDave Bonta

If it bleeds

the news makes madness to order nobody was to be offended we live now perpetually fighting battles how strange that you should be dead
SadDave Bonta

Clueless

this lack of notice is a sin going to chapel with the ground full of people who might have believed in one true exchange which they cannot have now and we out of fear preparing ready answers and little tales and the old doctors return to see death providing scarfs and gloves
SadDave Bonta

Post mortem

tomorrow missed us where we lie who are without doubt a poor dinner in a box like letters from death my counterfeit sleep and strange hair her face the same face as my soul
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Forward planning

for death I am making up my accounts having just my little tongue and a little talk a little house very pretty and a little moon and in the cards an opportunity to be
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Anatomy lesson

her dead body is opened like the king’s business they see themselves in a royal library of meat divertisement though it be deep is a strange perfection in tragedy
AngryDave Bonta

Spotted owl

a who who to which we can give no answer the snappish owl is dead and buried we ward off witches and spirits with the noise of profit
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Spell for a widow-maker

Snag turned deadfall, dread widow-maker with your fag-ends caught in the crotch of a living tree, hold fast while the chainsaw gnaws through your limb, don’t pinch the bar in your haste to get free, but as soon as the uppercut meets the undercut, drop straight, don’t twist or kick. Sink into the soft mulch of your many autumns, the bed you made for just this final fall.

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