Tag Archives: #Death

Death on the Beach

It’s never easy to reach

a conclusion;

and even less easy

to reach a beach,

unless you are near one,

and can travel that way.


“Why the title?” you ask.


Well, gentle reader,

a poem must have a title,

or else untitled it is;

or titled ‘Untitled’

if you do desire,

written by a nun

or a non

in a choir.


“That’s just silly!”

commented the gentle reader,

his boots all aglow.

“What is all this nonsense?”


Aside: ‘The gentle reader must go!’


We met on a beach,

face to face,

toe to toe,

I offered the reader a lifeline,

it was tied to a speedboat just so.

Twice round the harbour,

once round the block,

when he returned,

I had a custard-filled sock.


“Whack!” went the sound effect.


“Ow!” the reply.


Now there was a death on the beach;

and, as to the title: that’s why.

A boy and a balloon

I stood, holding the string

of a large red balloon,

and all was well.

Then, suddenly, here I must tell,

I let go of the string,

and a strange thing befell;

into the sky,

went I,

floating past the treetops,

watching clouds passing by,

until I’d reached the height

of twenty thousand feet,

where I did die.


‘But,how could you have written this?

Surely you lie!’


‘Okay.’ I reply

‘I’ll tell you the truth:

I wasn’t that youth,

who died too soon –

I was the balloon.’

When I die

When I die…

I want to be wrapped in Thyme,

and placed into a large freezer.

Give it a day or so…

… and I will be frozen in Thyme.

It rained (and I died)

It rained and rained,

and I got wet,

it soaked me through;

and, yes, I caught pneumonia,

double, died;

and then the rain stopped,

the Sun came out,

and all things dried;

it was a lovely day,

but a shame I’d died.

Who died today?

Who died today?

No, not the celebrity, musician,

actor, politician,

monarch, rich man, racing star;

no, the poor individual,

the exploited animal,

the starving child,

that are not headline news:

they died today…

and who even knew?

Saturday Morning’s Alright For Writing.

Saturday Morning,

like every other morning,

is a good time for writing;

and, seeing as how

it is Saturday Morning now,

(well, it was when I wrote this)

I shall write these words,

and maybe more,

upon high ground,

as it is quite dangerous

writing upon the shore,

due to the rain and the wind,

that is there,

and the possibility

of opening Death’s door

and walking through;

for, if the tide should rise above my head,

I would have to stop writing,

and start being dead.

Mourners on Corners

Mourners on corners

watch hearses go by;

one hearse stops, reverses,

seems to sigh

at the sadness of it all,

then moves forward again

at a coffin-bearer’s pace,

leading a cortège

away from the living

to another place.


I have died a thousand deaths,

taken a thousand last breaths,

said a thousand last words – none of them funny –

and, finally, closed my eyes

a thousand times;

only to live to see another day,

breathe in morning’s sweet scent,

listen, once more, to the variable wisdom of others,

and see that there are many things worth not dying for.

The first time that I died

The first time that I died

The first time that I died,

my partner and my family cried;

they wept in sorrow,

such was their loss.

And, then, I was reborn,

because it wasn’t time

to meet the Boss.

If I Should Die…

If I Should Die…

If I should die

and not be in Cornwall

carry me back

and bury me there.

Under a Pasty Tree

on the West Bank of the Tamar

or further west than that.

And wearing my wellies

the ones with the hole

in the left toe.

Perched upon my head

my flat cap;

and clenched in my fist

a piece of paper

with the words to Trelawny

written there upon.

Sing me a verse

of that fine anthem

then a chorus or two

and bid me begone.