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ROBE d'or, mais rien ne veut
Qu'une rose à ses cheveux.
A golden robe, yet will she wear
Only a rose in her golden hair.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The heart, they say, asks pleasure first
A king is a king by his robe;
A priest is a priest by his robe;
A judge is a judge by his robe;
A nun is a nun by her robe.
Naked, they answer their instincts
Which are not different from yours
04.09.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Sage Green Robe
I sit on my bed, and look across at my sage green towelling robe,
hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
Does he still 'fancy' me,
when I'm wearing it,
probably not,
it's not 'sexy', rather 'frumpy' really,
not at all an 'exciting' piece of clothing.
A dowdy bird,
dowdy and unheard!
I think that's me!
A 'new' me, must emerge from that robe.
A butterfly from a chrysalis,
A rose from a bud.
I think I need an overhaul, and a new 'robe',
like you see the 'famous' wearing,
in their 'penthouses'.
A glorious creation of satin and silk,
like flowing cream and milk.
Mind you, my towelling robe, hangs next to his towelling robe,
so perhaps we will do the same, and remain side by side,
and perhaps he loves me for other things than just being,
glamorous.
Hanging there, they look at peace with each other,
so I think I'll stick with my sage green towelling robe,
it cuddles me, just like he does!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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My pith is hollow
I seem more than I am,
Thanks to the title I hold,
Thanks to the robe I wear.
My pith is hollow, I know.
27.10.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hymn 20
Spiritual apparel.
Isa. 61:10.
Awake, my heart; arise, my tongue,
Prepare a tuneful voice;
In God, the life of all my joys,
Aloud will I rejoice.
'Tis he adorned my naked soul,
And made salvation mine;
Upon a poor polluted worm
He makes his graces shine.
And lest the shadow of a spot
Should on my soul be found,
He took the robe the Savior wrought,
And cast it all around.
How far the heav'nly robe exceeds
What earthly princes wear
These ornaments, how bright they shine!
How white the garments are!
The Spirit wrought my faith, and love,
And hope, and every grace;
But Jesus spent his life to work
The robe of righteousness.
Strangely, my soul, art thou arrayed
By the great Sacred Three!
In sweetest harmony of praise
Let all thy powers agree.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 47
A padshah was casting a glanced of contempt upon a company of dervishes and one of them, understanding by his sagacity the meaning of it, said: ‘O king, in this world we are inferior to thee in dignity but more happy in life. In death we are equal and in the resurrection superior to thee.’
Though the master of a country may have enjoyment
And the dervish may be in need of bread
In that hour when both of them will die
They will take from the world not more than a shroud.
When thou takest thy departure from the realm
It will be better to be a mendicant than a padshah.
Externally the dervish shows a patched robe and a shaved head but in reality his heart is living and his lust dead.
He does not sit at the door of pretence away from people
To fight against them if they oppose him
Because when a millstone rolls from a mountain
He is not an A’rif who gets out of the way of the stone.
The way of dervishes is praying, gratitude, service, obedience, almsgiving, contentment, professing the unity of God, trust, submission and patience. Whoever possesses these qualities is really a dervish, although he may wear an elegant robe, whereas a prattler who neglects his orisons, is luxurious, sensual, turns day into night in the bondage of lust, and night into day in the sleep of carelessness, eats whatever he gets, and speaks whatever comes upon his tongue, is a profligate, although he may wear the habit of a dervish.
O thou whose interior is denuded of piety
But wearest outwardly the garb of hypocrisy
Do not display a curtain of seven colours.
Thou hast reed mats inside thy house.
Death Takes The Piss
Death goes on the piss
(he's already had a few too many) .
Death goes on the tear
(looking the worse for wear) .
Death belche4s: 'The drinks...
...are on me! '
Death only wants a little company.
But, when last orders are odered
...nobody's there!
Death drinks alone
...then goes home.
Death thinks: 'It's a dirty job but...
... someone's gotta do it! '
'I just wish it wasn't me! '
Then goes on living -
- so that others may die.
Then with a bursting bladder...
Death takes a pee
(still muttering drunkenly)
'I just wish it wasn't me...
...I just wish it wasn't me! '
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Death and I
When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.
A weathered stone will bear my name –
Identity of once a being
Living out existence in
A world of risk, and never seeing
Sense of why we’re here.
My genes will die away thro’ child –
Hue of eyes and hair, the way of thought,
Will quickly dim with generation –
Bow to future dominance –
Memories of provenance
Resigned to curious few.
When death comes
I’ll need not grace
Below; no grieving face
Will call my resurrection,
Not when I’m at ground –
Death and I so bound.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
D eath Crawl
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Wear It So Well
All of those things
Yeah, that you got to give
Yeah, you wear it so well
Hey, you wear it so well
All of those stories
Honey, that i know you could tell
Yeah, you wear it so well
And your face hides it so we can't tell
That you knew we would wear it so well
You wear it so well
Yeah darling, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Yeah now baby, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
Hey now darling now, yeah, you wear it so well
(you wear it so well)
All of those things
That make poets sing
You wear it so well
Yeah, you hide it so well
And all of those pain
That you used to tell
You hide it so well
Can't tell from your face that you knew it so well
Hey, now that you have such a story to tell
Yeah, you got style and grace and you wear it so well
You wear it so well
And you got, you got such a story to tell
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well
Grace and style equals you so well
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wear it so well, well, yeah, so well
Yeah, you wear it, wear it, wear it now, wear it now, baby
Yeah, now you wear it so well
And you got such a story to tell
(ooohhh, ooohhh, ooohhh)
(ooohhh, you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
(you wear it so well)
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death, My Dear Old Friend
Can you tell me
what it feels like,
to be afraid of death?
I do not know
what it's like
to fear death.
Death,
I am not scared.
Why should I be?
I am nothing
If I die
Nothing would change
NO tears would be shed
No one would care
No one would notice
So why should I fear death?
Others don't value my life
And I certainly don't
People think I'm happy!
They believe this mask I wear!
They believe all my bullsh*t!
I have no fear
Death is my friend!
And I welcome him with open arms!
So can you tell me
What is fear?
What is death?
Why should I fear death?
Why should I care?
Am I even important?
poem by David Zhukov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death, Inevitable Death
Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.
Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’
Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?
Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death
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Death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The missing
I was missing...
I was missing...
At my self
I was missing...
Wear is i am...?
wear is i am...?
Asking for my mind
Any time...
I am missing...
For my sence...
Wear i am...?
My work...
my money...
my poem's...
my dayana...
Wear i am...
Wear...?
I was leave
At me...
But...
I was searching
For the world drama...
I was search
Wear i am...?
My answer is;
'Missing...! '
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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A Fresh Endeavour
So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.
I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Punishment
There never really was a place of sanctity
For you, the mortal entity.
You thought you had prosperity,
The while you thrived and were.
Angels don't exist, you see.
You lived without a guarantee
Atop your brutal Earth.
Still, you had a birth.
And whither now, your crying whim -?
Answered by a tearing limb-?
Are you contrite; your valour slim?
And will He care...?
'Tis down to Him.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter,2009
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wear A Smile
I wear a smile
that never reach my eyes.
I wear a smile
that feels misplaced.
I wear a smile
that is completely fake.
I wear a smile
to drown my sorrow.
I wear a smile
but i'm so numb.
One day this mask will break,
but then it will be too late.
poem by Precious Arroyo
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Death, My Friend
Death, my friend - so good to see you!
Stand aloft and view my soul!
I have to say you’re looking frightful -
Bony chum, you affable ghoul.
Death, my friend, so charmed I’m sure!
State your case and tell me straight -
Am I worthy of reward, so
Venture I to Heaven’s Gate?
Death, my friend, a new acquaintance!
You're always welcome in my home -
Though the stare from empty sockets
Indicates to Hell we roam!
Death, my friend - my bosom buddy.
My! your finger points at me!
Be you tired of my frivolity?
Aha, I see - Oblivion, we!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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General Fonseka’s entry into politics: Is it the end of democracy in Sri Lanka?
As a simpleton I do not see any difference in between War and Politics.
In the battlefield you kill the enemies by Arms & Ammunition.
But it's rather change in politics as most of the hypocrites use wet towels for the said purpose instead of shooting they do it by strangling,
I suggest that the General could get a retirement and wear a saffron robe for the end of journey?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Keep The House A Little Darker
Keep the house a little darker
Let the curtains remain drawn-still
It is not right to leave the door open....
Wear your robe
And in the safest chamber of the house
Recall the unlearned prayer.....
He always enters
Through closed doors...
COPY WRITE©2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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