Category Archives: Death

Fields of the Dead [Free Verse]

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It's a beautiful day
  in the graveyard.

Blue skies.

Cool, but not cold.
 The ideal temperature
   to be an overdressed military man.

Do ghosts amble among the stones
   on days like these?

I imagine most of these men died
   on quite different kinds of days:

Rainy, cold, muddy days.

Muggy, buggy, malarial days.

The kind of day that just won't end,
   but to fold into a sleepless night.

How many died, 
  not from spall or Minié balls,
    but because they just didn't have the will
      to drag themselves through another day?
        from exhaustion?
        from demoralization?

How many died under beautiful blue skies
   on an idyllic autumn day?

I don't know whether 
  there're good days to die,
    and even less whether 
      there're good days to be dead.

Smoky Morning, or: Smoky Mourning [Sonnet]

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A smoky morning signals chilly air
 as those who live with walls of plastic sheet
  gather anything matches set aflare,
   and huddle where skin reddens from the heat.

The toxic kindling of modernity
 can burn so quickly, swirling into ash.
  The search for fine fuel builds fraternity
   as all sift through the varied kinds of trash.

They seek a slow and steady type of fire,
 but poison and explosive burn aren't linked.
  This toxic gas hangs low, where they inspire,
   a deadly vapor which makes this clan extinct.

Smoldering pit, skirted by serene stiffs --
 of what killed them, there remains no whiff.

Winter Days [Sonnet]

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My winter days are vaguely seen from here,
but I cannot yet see the very end:
only the plain that is the sum of fears,
a sum that only living on transcends.

The peek I take looks like my days back then.
It's not so Batman noir as I've been told. 
My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
The act of living life is growing bold. 

In dreams, that dreadful hour calls to me,
and I feign sleep and turn my back on Death.
If he can't be seen, maybe he can't lead,
and I can soldier on with my next breath.

My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
It's good to gasp every now -n- again.

Tomb of the Diver [Lyric Poem]

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Plunging into darkness,
there is no other way.
In the tomb-like silence,
the mind begins to stray.

To roam, to roam, to roam,
or does it simply sink;
with neither light nor eyes,
one might just be hoodwinked.

Schrödinger’s Isle [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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The island's rocky columns rise upward.
Its gray and green was tiny, but now looms.
A giant jutting rock that stands on high,
and shades the white sand beach and coral sea.

This island will be home from now 'til doom.
One's gratitude for fists of sand first swells,
but it will crash in time with tedium.
Could a sea death beat solitary life?

One lives and dies by coconut water --
day after day - week after week,
and dreams of company and comfort food,
while knowing this is hell and paradise.

What prison is this island - place unknown -
that like Schrödinger's box shrouds life & death?

Last Blossom [Blank Verse]

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The final flower falls to the sidewalk.
It's damp and deformed, -n- sugared with sand.
It's gritty and pretty at the same time.

The ants are crawling around and across.
A faintly putrid scent must call to them.
They crave that little bit of death in food.

And tomorrow it'll be gone -- somehow -- gone.
Who knows where: swept up, carried, or wind-blown.
It will be gone, and branches will be bare.