Poems on the topic: death

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

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Dave Bonta

Death angel

the clock over our revels is an angel on a leash I give it a while to betray us and tally all our time

Dave Bonta

Replete

full of myself is how we all are how a boy that died being dried in an oven lies there entire in a box how the king is quite out of ink and weary of everything how rain put me into my good night

Dave Bonta

Three short poems to inaugurate a new pocket notebook

ravens climbing into each other’s sky circling crying out above the road bank where the hepatica has just come into bloom, the corpse of a porcupine carrion beetles clamber through the quills butterflies cluster on what’s left of its mouth a hole spanned by the long, curved railings of its teeth & down below, the pale blue blossoms swaying on their stems

Dave Bonta

Goth fitness

among sorrowful stories the green agreement of the park I walk to walk pass by the dead unburied dogs

Dave Bonta

Haze

busy with dying in her mind a haze green and pretty

Dave Bonta

The great equalizer

in the city of the dead the poor cannot have any bell ring for them we fear that public sand fear being forced to lie there like a little warren

Dave Bonta

Funeral procession

a corpse going to the grave how everybody looks going up and down like a tress or vine into the ash of hands so weary so long

Dave Bonta

Vulnerable

saving time I hand to my physician this strange man dying so this open self

Dave Bonta

Donation

give me to a body farm a body to watch day and night a no-body more other than a dog better than my own vexed home

Dave Bonta

Ship burial

within the river is a sweet green night and a rank day and people say there is also a ship which was fitted to go to the dead

Dave Bonta

Bellwether

I could expect to age or boil over a compass busy with the north napping in a riot having been rescued from the dead I know no certainty

Dave Bonta

Street culture

not liking the horse desire I walk out not liking death I eat a piece of pie who lives in an outhouse so he would not be seen thrust his head into the grave we drink and talk and read verses in the street

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