Poems on the topic: grave

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

InspiredDave Bonta

Lord Sand

Lord Sand left the sea for the fields I fear he is not well that it was done for a joke the weather is now very warm an axe white with light but Lord Sand they say will lead in the darkest manner mouth in mourning like a prince believed to lay up hidden money lord of anger without any consciousness of his faults he has no face but a grave which I will not call my brother I resolve to stand on my own legs or fall
AnxiousDave Bonta

Dead town

Fleet with my word, I talk bodies out of their graves, which please me better than sitting in a dark place, not seeing. We stand and make the moon take to bed.
SadDave Bonta

In practice

I practice loss, lousy as a fool in the king’s favor leaving his things in an open grave. Strange to hear all the murderers of a pint part for home.
CheerfulDave Bonta

At the yacht club

In my new boat I am glad to leave business a while like a cunning fellow in a grave or a little blind shoe, ashamed to be bland.
SadDave Bonta

Consumer

I make nothing but order, get things ready against the ivy, a grave jealous of the kitchen. I was so satisfied, I wept. Give me a good reason for being.
SadDave Bonta

Plaint

My pain, give me an ointment, a plaster. My mother. The common axe pierces, singing between wedding and grave.
AngryDave Bonta

Streets paved in gold

sober graves grow up into desires to look still to leave a great family among the wrong names the riven street is rich in other men’s gold
SadDave Bonta

Beautification

Made myself fine like a grave in the garden— my estate which I lease to wormwood every night.
SadDave Bonta

Lenore

I wrote against night and forgetting for a lady still as thought we had a plain dinner among the graves the hill slept in the manner of cut stone
SadDave Bonta

Grave goods

The messenger sits in his boat expecting us. How much difference there is between the old and the dead! As if there was never another world but my things— and as if they shall pass with me.
AnxiousDave Bonta

Mortality

This morning I find myself laid out in the grave. I have hope—a far tree intended for many birds—but I fear the wall with a talking clock. It is going to lie.
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Cemetery tourist

A little churchyard: graves tempt with stone and gates, old walls and seeing nothing.

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