Some musings on death - c/c please?

Question

IF COMA IS A COMMA,
IS DEATH A PERIOD OR AN ELLIPSIS?

Death stinks like potatoes
left too long
in a dark cupboard.

Ivy fastens little sucker mouths
under the magnolia’s bark.
The fieldmouse quivers in its cover
of rotting leaves;
the owl stirs circles in the night sky.

My silver spoon stirs
the steaming brew
boiling water has awakened
from freeze-dried crystals.

Near the dying orange tree
still bright with fruit,
the possum melts in the sun
skin and hair puddling
around grinning bone.

Stone mastodons struggle in la brea.
I see the ponderous march of elephants
trunk to tail.

The widow burning on the pyre
imagines she is floating
on an ice floe into the aurora.

Answer 1

This really works for me.

Answer 2

certain, it truly is more desirable than the "trouble-free" situation of demise. This to me, is the complicated disappointment that is affecting those left in the back of. It experience like that clawed hand accomplishing to pull us lower than. residing in the memory of a existence, lengthy gone continuously will kill you, in case you enable it, and once you enable it bypass, then there are different thoughts to manage. Oh, sweet misery, captured in this ideal poem. I desire there develop into an accompanying e book jacket to ascertain all about the author.

Answer 3

Next time I smell rotting potatoes... >-----OOh, maybe Death IS an ellipse. Shivering, quivering write. ANd what they said. You a good poet, Girlie.

Answer 4

Some more musings on Death:





VISITOR IN THE NIGHT



Reader dear, if you will hearken,

a hellish tale I shall relate.

Each and ev'ry word consider,

For in their story lies my fate.

One night, while vainly seeking sleep,

I heard a sound within my room,

and slowly opening my eyes

I pierced the near-stygian gloom.



A fearful sight confronted me;

O reader, how can I convey

the scene that met my startled eyes -

a scene that haunts me to this day?

A figure clothed in black I saw,

it lurked mere inches from my bed.

A vision from the vaults of hell!

My quaking heart was filled with dread.



I lay quite still - no sound I made

'though all the while I longed to scream,

but I held back my cries of fear

with hope 'twas all an idle dream.

And then, with stealth, I pinched myself

with fervent pray'r my head would clear,

but, alas, 'twas no vain fancy,

the image did not disappear.



I heard it moving closer then,

'though soft and muffled was its tread -

a face peered out from 'neath its hood,

a ghastly pale skeletal head.

I watched the fiend loom over me,

my body froze, my limbs grew numb;

it bent its skull toward my face,

I thought my final hour had come.



And then it spoke O Saints above,

I felt its fetid, icy breath.

The words it said near stopped my heart -

"Tremble, mortal...for I am DEATH!"

And then my clouded head did spin,

for he stretched out his evil claw,

but something seemed to hold it back,

his gnarled talon did withdraw.



And as I gazed into his eyes,

they glitter'd with intense regret.

And then he spoke and I knew why,

he said, "Your time has not come yet.

But know you this, although unseen,

I stand forever at your side,

and when at last your time does come,

there is no place where you can hide."



"So now I leave you with these words...",

he seemed to fade into the black,

"you have respite, for now, at least,

but live in fear for I'll be back!"

And with these words the fiend was gone,

'though only from my human sight.

For he, in truth, yet lingers near,

in spirit, ev'ry day and night.



And since that dreadful hour I fear

the chimes that bid me to my bed,

for on some unknown day to come

the rising sun shall find me dead.

And so I sit here while time flies

until the day of DEATH's return,

when he shall come to claim his prize -

O reader dear, the tale is done!

Answer 5

Great write Crow! Nice vintage...cellared well, still drinking well now...more like a port or a maturing whiskey.

Answer 6

I never have a second cup at home, but this is so visceral. I also no longer plan to have potatoes with dinner.



Strong.

Answer 7

Thank God for your garage, and for the 'attic' where your poem was born...



Betray no surprise,

Let the eyelids slip down

Until they become

Made of true stone.



Leave it all to the heart,

Although it should stop.

It beats for itself alone

On its secret slope.



The hands will stretch out

In their boat of ice,

And the forehead be bare

-- Between armies, and void,

Like a great public square.

Answer 8

Off the charts interesting....