These Death Quatrain poems are examples of Quatrain poems about Death. These are the best examples of Death Quatrain poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
November 25th, 2013
Emerald etchings are given birth
to bask their lives in summer's sun,
until brushing brutal winters cheek,
They cower yellow; brown undone.
Swirling down onto concrete pyres,
They somersault to a random grave.
The earth lays claim to copper corpses
But the winter wind is a cunning knave.
It finds and flips the fallen fibers,
then flings them crisply to the street.
The failing sheaves of burnt magenta,
tossed like chaff from harvest wheat.
Now strewn about with playful malice,
and denied the resting place they crave,
for the golden sun is a glint of amber,
but the winter wind is a chilling knave.
I have found myself at the threshold of death on several occasions. Each time I managed to
look it in the eye, doff my hat and say, “I’ll catch you up the trail.” This is not to say that I
am some special breed of hombre that casually defies death, for there have been many who
have gone the way before me and managed the confrontation in heroic decorum.
Nevertheless, death is not some evil state of being that only the brilliant or daring may defy;
nor is it a release from the severity of life. If anything, death is the threshold of eternity. Life
provides all known qualities, conditions, trials and tribulations that we encounter throughout
the fruition of our purpose.
Oh, death is not the enemy, for life provides our foes,
The ills, disease and suffering… the countless other woes;
For this is as it was ordained since Earth was yet to be,
When life evolved on other planes, the eye will never see.
We all embrace our time and grow in body, mind and soul.
We foster wisdom, strength and faith, fulfilling every role.
Prepared or not, the time will come, our form will waste away,
While life goes on, as is ordained by He who plans the way.
No, death is not the enemy, an end that one should fear.
It’s but a threshold for the soul to doff its mortal gear,
While life transcends its bond with Man to dwell forevermore
With He, whose force conceived all life and is its very core.
A plastic smile
He waves hello
To all his friends
He'll never know
Beneath his skin
There lives the sin
The hurt within
A silent wish
A crazy thought
How does one kill
A mind distraught?
An answer looms
As dead as leaves
It covers life
A matchstick lit
An open sore
A fire burns
Consumes the core
The pain is gone
When all that's left
Ash on the floor
She was a pretty muse
As far as muses go
He said she had about her
An incandescent glow
There was a certain mischief
He saw there in her eyes
And though he couldn’t touch her
He’d tasted paradise
She made his mind to wander
Down honeysuckled lanes
A few moments with her
And he’d forget all his pains
She had such rosy lips
Cascading raven hair
And though he could not touch her
He felt her presence there
She made him feel euphoric
She knew how to beguile
Was it the words she spoke?
Or the magic of her smile?
She was a pretty muse
As far as muses go
But it did seem of late
That she was losing her glow
The muse sat and wondered
At what had dimmed her light
In playing hide and seek
Was she lost of his sight?
She thought to seek him out
When to her great surprise
She found him much bewitched
By another Muse’s eyes
At once all of her sparkle
Her charm and beauty too
Blew away with the wind
She pondered what to do
The muse just simply smiled
Blew a kiss towards his face
She changed into a fairy
Flew away without a trace
At times when the dear poet
Sit downs to write a rhyme
He finds the words are lost
And he gets lost to time
He wonders about the muse
And in the flicker of candle light
He can’t see the little fairy
Just sparkles in the night
The heavy hearted poet
Is out of poetic tune
He killed his inspiration
He killed her off too soon
But then again the fairy
Smiles at him from afar
She knows her work is done
Now she’s just a guiding star.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
filling the radio with words of availability
lot lizards selling their souls to diesel driving “Joe-s”
in and out of truck cabs under a weeping moon’s protection
Jane, works the night, wondering if her daddy knows
lipstick on and high heels strapped as the sun sets in May
call sign; “Wild Orchid” …. “Anyone looking for a good time?”
a traffic jam of radio chatter…… congested air waves
the August sun rises on a night of sexual crime
Orchid petals caressed with greased stained hands
her pale white color quickly wilts to brown
the young November night is holding her final bloom
evidence of violent pruning becomes talk of the town
a knock on the door……………….. a flower delivered
Wild Orchid’s father is asked, “Is she the one?”
he checks her stem, quickly recognizing his roots
inevitably, the withering of his blossom has begun……
In greyness the weather swung and basked,
A fog of old, rude and dead,
Are you alone, was it this she asked?
Only in company he said.
She would have come -to greet, meet, talk sweet
Cotton words well uttered to squeek all thought
But torns in his voice, they paved the street,
With little green memories of what she once sought.
What a festival of souls deeply tailored to life,
Once there were songs of this kind of strife.
Days flitter away, never sitting, never sitting
Lashes make haste save pictures from slipping.
Yet footsteps were made, tap tap, tap tap!
A few minutes late though not too late to stop.
The rain spotted her jacket, colors green now black
Come in and sit down, now it's too late to go back.
I flew, I jumped, I said hurry, please hurry!
You have come on time to prevent my journey.
I know, well sure, very sure I don't bother,
I was on a travel to Mars, what an honor, real honor!
Tea I like tea, and I'll even have some wine!
From far above they have sent me a sign
I never wondered what could lay in great space,
To save him from her with fast and steady a pace.
Goodbye, he said, rising to the skies,
I love how thoughtful you are
Once my mind flies high, my body dies
Are you gone- somewhere far?
The warrior lays her weary head,
With heavy heart she cannot bear,
Burning tears stream down her face,
As whispered memories touch the ear.
Her armour tarnished by remorse,
Her battle-cry a wimpered row,
Her wounds, of which bleed solitude,
Will never know forgiveness now.
The song began two score ago,
When two came knocking at her door,
In need of refuge from the world,
Of that, and love, and little more.
Forced to fight for every smile,
Her only solace found in song,
She longed for love to rescue her,
And plant her where she could belong.
Jealous tongues are seldom kind,
Self-seeking hearts know nought of love,
The caged canary only sings,
When coaxed to praise from up above.
For the steely spine that now I own,
Forever shall I grateful be,
A gift from her, and from her own.
Courage mounted inwardly.
I'll not forget how I have loved thee,
And youthful memories I will prize,
Til on the shore of His forgiveness,
Whereto now, we both shall rise.
Sore to the bone
Running on a drop of energy
Just gotta push through
I'll rest eventually
My shoulder has gone numb
But my body feels her weight
As if she's gotten heavy
Since her unconscious state
If I could, I'd stop right now
But who knows how safe it is here
And if I could even start again
I may fall asleep I fear
Soon my body will give up
But I'll make it as far as I can
And hopefully haven isn't too far
And I can put her in helping hands
Walking all day and night
It's hard not to think on past
And any thought I come up with
Has me struggling to hold sobs back
I've kept my ears open
Trying to focus on only sounds
But all I keep on hearing
Is my shoes crunch on foreign grounds
Bang. I hear it softly.
So far but still so near.
Bang. Another gunshot sounds
And I've collapsed in fear.
I close my eyes but another goes off
This time in a memory
And now I'm filled with rage
At how repulsive humans can be
My thoughts turn to my baby
Slipping off of my shoulder
I set her down and examine her
Bloodstained gown and skin colder
My worst nightmare but it can't be true
I listen in for her sweet breath
No. No No. No No. No No.
What's this silence? This isn't death.
This time I don't close my eyes
I see a sight that makes me sob
Memory of the last I saw my wife
And now my baby's with her mom.
Each one of us left covered in crimson
By a monster, a gunshot, a blow
Their death is the death of me.
This is as far as I can go.
Inspired by Morris Gleitzman's novel "Once," a historical fiction about a boy in Poland
during the Holocaust.
God touched another hand
as last breath slipped away.
Cradled a loved one’s head
as hearts began to pray.
God whispered I love you
while angels near him stood.
Raised his soul to heaven
cause He promised He would.
God granted his soul peace
from life of constant pain.
Freed body from struggles
and further family strain.
God allowed him to love
to know all life’s pleasure.
But God loves him more than
one can ever measure.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey