DEAD MEN LEAVE NO ENTRAILS

Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatever to do with it.” –Somerset Maugham

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Once upon a time, I published a very dreary little book of poems and epitaphs, titled GONERS. Today, April 6, being PLAN YOUR EPITAPH DAY, and April being NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, I thought I’d dig up what’s left of that cryptic tome and (having nothing better to post) see what I could do with a slew of its bygone remains. I’m counting on findng good bones, because no doubt the meat of the missive has long since become the diet of worms.

OLD ED YOUNG

Dismissed as “minor” poet
By critics half his age,
Young, Edward, found no solace
Could pacify his rage.

Yet, his epitaph managed
Homage to his skewers:
Those who can are poets;
Those who can’t, reviewers.

LET NO MAN WRONG MY EPITAPH

Here, for good, lies Chastity Wood,
Her casket wood, sin’s snares withstood.
The wood without is without flaw.
The Wood within, men never saw.

SATAN NEVER SLEEPS

So. Help me God!

IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT

Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray there’s been ONE HELLUVA MISTAKE.

POETIC LIAR-SENSE

The Great American Novel
Is the Everest of climbs;
I have written it myself
Any number of times.

And I have written lyrics
To the music of the Spheres;
The sound is magic to the soul
….and yet, tragic for the ears.

One last triumph yet remains
When, at my mortal ending,
Doth expire the greatest lyre
Since Orpheus descending.

HELL TO PAY

Ego
Ergo
We go.

ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO?

Lord, what fools these mortals be
….and You get to watch for free.

JOURNEY’S END, JOGGINS, NOVA SCOTIA

On the fossil beach at Joggins,
One finds fossil bods and noggins.
Comes high tide, the sea Atlantic
Summons sleep with the Titanic.

IMPOLI-TICK

Tempus fugit.
Please excuse it.

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Please excuse it? Hold on. Where is the life that late I led?