A quiet grief

A quiet grief
The small bunch of flowers
On the dirty lamp post
A thousand drivers a day pass this place
In third gear looking for fourth
Do any even notice
So small and tragic a thing?

Dying not to die

I’m dying not to die
Sick to death of sickness
Fed up with loss
And weary with the bullshit
People tell themselves
To rationalise their end
What if we didn’t need to dream
Pray, or pretend?
But through the light of science
Live again and again
In every fascinating permutation
A thousand adventures
In a hundred worlds
Never be in a rush
And never be bored?

Shadow of death

The shadow of death is cast by life itself

Remembrance Day

This day we pause our uncaring dash through life,
How much more we’d care if our country called,
And said we must die to take some muddy, bloody hill,
Or hold in our arms a dying boy
Who’ll never now get to live,
Only guess at what might have been.
All he can ask –
A shadow of a memory on the wall of names –
Is that we remember this debt
For all our days to come.

Tasting Death

Through insight we gain the wisdom to know that we can never experience death.
For there is no sense of taste without taste-buds, no sights without eyes,
No sounds when the ears cease to function.

Divided

Living divided from ourselves is our human fate,
As is the desire to be complete –
We will only completely satisfy
In death.

The day is what you make it

This day is whatever you make it:
A tick of the clock, passing unnoticed,
Or a deep tock, solemn as ritual.
On this day three years ago my mother died
Taking with her my link to the past,
A kindred spirit gone forever.
A year on I cried;
Two years on I forgot;
Three years on I practice remembering
This day is what you make it,
If you remember nothing else,
Remember that.

One moment

One  moment of time,
A teardrop in eternity
Or an endlessly flowing stream?
If we cannot permit it to be both,
We can never admit our own death,
Nor grow beyond the confines
Of our current life.

New Shoots

In the darkness of the earth
None shall see the sun,
And yet it is there:
Waiting, wondering when growth will come.
In the pitch of night,
Nothing is more certain
Than light will crack the dark,
A pendulum that must swing up
As surely as down,
A child that must grow
As surely as we must die,
And if the seed of death is carried by life,
Then death must usher in new life;
A potential bursting into being,
Rocks tumbling down a hill.
Let us not rejoice in the hidden acorn,
Nor the mighty oak we may one day be,
But the first green shoots of morning,
The dew not yet trampled,
By the Kingdom of the dawn.

The End

A 27-word challenge posted by Jenny Matlock inspired this little poem with the prompt ‘the end’.

Each moment a fragment of time

Whorled into the next,

By eyes averted from the end,

A trick of the light,

This illusion I call ‘my life’.

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