Long Grim reaper Poems
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Clutched in my hands
with a deathly cold grip
are a quill dipped in ink
and a parchment with a poem
half written, yet unfinished.
I was writing about
the heavy-handedness
of the Grim Reaper…
cruel, cold and heartless.
Too soon was taken away
my love from me
leaving me brokenhearted and glum.
Grieving for days and nights
Wailing over my lost love,
I vowed to seek revenge
and expose death’s darkest core.
Becoming at once privy to
my innermost sinister thoughts,
Death sneaked behind me and
laid his heavy hand upon my shoulder…
Leaving a half written poem
and the ink-dripping quill
still clenched in my hands!
~Early June Standard Contest by Brian Strand.
(10/5/11)
This was the night that I was told
Not to walk this lonely dark road
For this was the night that they would all come out
This is what Halloween was about.
Out of the shadows they all came
And many of them was known by name.
There was Frankenstein, the werewolf, the mummy too.
There was count Dracula and his batty friends
The line continued - there was no end.
Then came the witches mixing their brew
In a cauldron pot - would this line ever stop.
The ghouls , the goblins and the ghosts
With their glasses ready to toast.
Backing up the line with sickle in hand
Was the grim reaper, the most feared in the land.
They would go to every street in every town
Letting the kids know that they was around.
They hide behind every shadow and every wall
As the kids came to call.
Out of their hiding places they would jump out and shout
The kids would turn and run about.
Every where they turned there was one of them
No one to help them - not even a friend.
The children going to homes with their Halloween baskets
Till they got to the house with the open casket
Count Dracula would sit up and turn his head
Pretty comical for one who’s dead.
They would turn and run as fast as their feet would allow
Some of them didn’t even touch the ground.
The creatures of the night look forward to this every year
They have so much fun and instill their fear.
BOOBOO
Sans Whole Body Out Of Country Transplant
hmm...methinks mebbe aye
can empty the ocean
one teaspoon at time bine bye
and after about
a bajillion years cry
tears of joy, when mine
petrified organs of sight decry
solid sea floor to mud dill
across to Iceland eye
would readily forsake
United States citizenship,
and buzzfeed akin to a human fly
hooping genuine emotional
physical, or spiritual
philanthropic gratuity
could be accepted
'pon being bequeathed
from this guy
'course after friendly
bantering initiated with "hi"
and once settling upon lingua franca
as modus operandi
this wholesome casual
conversant chap would appeal
himself as (non GMO gluten, and
monosodium glutamate free) bonemeal
suitable *****sapien reserved
quite pleasingly congenial
to shake hands after
mutual agreement reached,
whereby roundly accepted
apprenticeship contractual stipulations
understood asper "Art of the deal,"
an awesomely empyreal
corroborate burning man
Matthew Scott Harris
in effigy "FAKE"
immolation funereal
faux "cremation ashes"
topped with goldenseal
thee initial process
to detox and psychologically heal
from Trump Bite US strain A
(or alternate spelling
D. trump pen lumpen throat
or a similar
facsimile concocted "FAKE"
illness thereof - NOT IDEAL
for man, woman, or child,
who quickly become fodder material
(a bio-hazard devastating
entire folks future generations genetics)
symptoms easily mis
taken for nasopharyngeal
infection, where optimal
cure comprises bland oatmeal
with jelly beans, thus I app peal
to provide sanctuary else this real
threat to life and limb
will find me to suffer fools
unless via quaffing hemlock
rigor mortis from grim reaper ICE steal!
Momento Mori
Remember you must die
We must walk thru the valley of the skulls
You can get there by using the proper tools
Everlasting life is for the fools
Old age can't be defied
The grim reaper can't be denied
He's waiting on the other side
Knock on the door and he will reply
Sometimes it up to you to decide
Skin will wrinkle, hair will turn gray
Better pray
We are not here to stay
We will need a walker and a beta blocker
Hopefully we don't have a heart stopper
Momento Mori
Remember you must die
Bones will become fragile and break with ease
Trying to avoid getting a disease
Just waiting for a permanent release
From this painful existence that we call life
Have had a heart attack not once but twice
We are just waiting to rot in the ground
Nothing but dirt that's all around
Silence will be that horrific sound
Momento Mori
Remember you must die
In the coffin we must lie
No need to cry
We need to be set free in able to fly!
Form:
Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain
both beloved affluential cognoscenti,
(took their life via cerebral hypoxia)
neither death can one explain
left family and friends to speculate
without lapsing into speculation
impossible knot
to veer off toward inane,
where fame nor fortune no immunity
against unbeknownst
deathly accursed mental illness
impact their adherents
plus affect large swath
of population in the main
cuz, (strictly my opinion)
the tightly woven
world wide web doth plain
lee meld humanity linkedin
by avast societal reign
forcing the global community to train
energies toward heightened
awareness (yes in vain)
for those who tightened noose around neck
as grief doth wax and wane
no doubt less prominant persons
amidst every walk
of life give admittance
to grim reaper, who doth stalk
every mortal being tempting surrender soul
for eternal peace, where soul asylum
sacrifice forsaken to black hawk
swooping down soundlessly
to snatch priceless human life
subsequently, whence
benumbed onlookers gawk
aware how precarious, riotous, and tenuous
the psyche offers no resistance,
nor doth balk
at absent awareness,
how collective adoration wears
a funereally ghostly, horribly immensely
joylessly knitted veil
eludes measurement, though nonetheless
unanimity that far reaching sadness
weighs heavy on tear filled side of scale
witnessed by grievous next of kin,
who struggle to accept severe de rail
ment of unsuspecting hidden agony im pail
ling corporeal flesh gouging body electric
on par with a nine inch nail
jaggedly renting asunder (an unseen male
strum) pitching one incognito,
no matter she/he appears hearty and hale
leaving a wake of inconsolable paroxysms
causing thee human league to ail!
Death followed her, like an unwelcome guide.
Grim Reaper stalking, forced her shadow to hide.
Angel of death took her sister, but let her survive.
How could a child understand death and being alive?
Other siblings distracted her suffering and pain,
like rays of sunshine on dark days with heavy rain.
A caterpillar seeking a cocoon to shelter from bruising,
for the wounds she had suffered were not from her choosing.
With fragile wings the butterfly gradually learned to fly,
when falling in love, her beloved made her feel so high.
But the Grim Reaper returned and took her parents away,
heartbroken she wondered how long the pain would stay.
Malevolently, death returned like a bitter enemy,
mercilessly snatched her babies without integrity.
Not content, Grim Reaper returned without warning,
stole her beloved – her tears never stopped falling.
Tormented emotions meant each day was full of anguish,
terrorized by dark demons who continued to languish.
Losing loved ones and falling into depression deeper.
Sensitive and fragile, she beckoned the Grim reaper.
Preparing to die – surviving was no longer her intention,
as the Grim Reaper approached – there was an intervention.
An ethereal light appeared, illuminating hope through her heart.
Death fled like a coward, afraid of the light, he would depart.
Wings broken, but still intact – butterfly began to write,
expressing her emotions, suppressing them with delight.
Angel of death would return one day, that was for sure,
but, producing beautiful poetry was temporarily her cure.
Originally written in 26 December 2015
Re-posted 19 November 2020
Dedicated to the poet formerly knows as Broken Wings (Constance)
from the everlasting scrap yard of common decency
and the slaughter fields of raging battles never won
the stench of broken values rises in foul smelling loss
perfumed no doubt by the false values and belief of
glory fame power and victories of raging belligerence
for one goal or other and the wasteland of abasement
the cemetery has long been closed for overpopulation
instead landfill sites have replaced ceremonial plight
because remembering might cast a shadow of doubt
lest we forget the tragic blood shed and mutilations
foot soldiers and money lusting collaborators alike
would stand a chance of wielding humanity instead
of the overwhelming desire to kill execute and maim
dumping grounds and hazardous waste dumps have
replaced ceremonial remembrance of defeated trust
in humanity butchered on the killing fields forever more
worms devour shattered bones and vacant skulls’ remains
finish off what history buries in its toxic suffocating void
with only a few widows gazing at weeds and wilting poppies
orphans of wealth scramble at the surface and gather tears
that slide like slime and splattered brains down to their hearts
draped in rags the hungry vagrants have lost their appetite
while the grim reaper belches in flatulent satisfied reward
they tie a white flag so innocent that it remains invisible
chant a cacophonous melody as they inhale a final whiff
their loved ones died in vain and are unwilling to applaud
their henchmen and woman who cast their sword for death
and vitriol of marching onwards until ultimate surrender
but in tune to their own souls and deeply rooted disgust
they dig up the remains of sacrificed friends and former foes
gather in candlelight vigils and refuse to not fight for light
08th March 2021
Before golden opportunity
(goes no argh hue mint
the way of Long John Silver)
doth fade and dwindle
not necessarily cuz the missus
did (NOT) bribe and swindle
an ambition (for nor rhyme nor reason)
arose to kindle...
Affectionate communication
employing (figurative) gambol
probably testing your patience
to decrypt me trademark ramble
essential crux of matter after
ye prune thorny verbiage,
metaphorical berry good bramble.
Methinks yar psyche slid into funk
cuz usual upbeat gregarious disposition
of late (June 26th, 2020)
analogous to reclusive monk
whose nonverbal body language
shrieks "LEAVE ME THE ƒµ©* ALONE"
lest recipient (in this case yours truly)
receives judicious suckerpunch
finding him landing - ouch
on his buttucks - kerplunk!
Nevertheless as one
mister misanthrope to another
who could pretend cavorting
as asinine make bull heave brother,
(or undergoing extreme makeover,
and stretching imagination voila
one garden variety generic beastie boy
rendered into... yup, your grandmother.
Hoop fully no unpleasant memory
doth suddenly unfold
linkedin to said very old
boot (moost likely)
long deceased family member
turned to dust commingled with auld
Lang syne amidst weathered tombstones,
markedly intact skeletons absent
any flesh o'the rear
some etched with hands folded in prayer
mausoleum enshrining even in death near
(think grim reaper kingly leer)
still provoking jeer
profligate (yet prolific) paperback writer heir
housing generations ghostly forebear
comprising your family tree, once... dear
father, mother, sister, brother, et cetera
who profusely guzzled beer.
No intent to induce fury if playful banter
loosed psychological trip wire
merely harmless ambition to deliver mirth
lobs strike out as decided
by just now summoned umpire
on the ball punning away without tire
greatly flattered if literary antics inspire
ye to pen memoirs,
which become New York Times
bestseller, thus countless clamoring demands
to serve as ghostwriter hire
prompt ye with fame and fortune
before thee doth exhale last breath and expire
when moments prior,
I while impersonating a squire
wished ye a cheery bon voyage.
Rockwell) framed palette,
(sans dystopian
picture) outright
and despite whatever hardship,
with curtain call on this
November 11th, 2018 night,
a flickr ring, instagram, and
kickstarter motive might
be fulfilling tummy,
that ever so quickly
the dimming light
(when the scythe lint
covered grim reaper)
perhaps attired as
21st century LGBT knight,
the latter once
sip pawn a time...,
now he iz a
messenger simply bear
ring pleasant tidings,
and also an effort
to express, how
ye didst (aunt still do) care
(uncle Andy as well)
for Shana Punim,
who on a do able dare
to be doted upon, and offered
to go here, there,
and everywhere
experiencing a gamut of
eye opening globe trotting
(Watch out Harlem
basketball Boyz to men) hair
reed tailored, and swiftly styled
educational adventures
adding learning and zest
to life, liberty, and purrs
suit of feline doth wrest
good development
of character to in vest
patterning herself after
exemplary guardians
sometimes you might
be feeling beat,
when embarking upon
latest electric kool aid acid test,
nonetheless, this
missive of gratitude,
where thee darling daughter
doth conquer one quest
after another (principally attributed
to thee, who NEVER protest
obligations, but
launch with confidence,
whether feathering
the Gadshill nest,
or...furthering education keeping
body, mind, and spirit
sharpened as best
Yukon Mount attain.
Stayed in the sun too long today.
My skin became like the bark of a tree.
The soul was turning to brittle scars
for uncaring worlds to see.
My face is a pile of old owl bones.
Sewn into banks of midnight creeks.
Even the plain and plump ones no longer look at me...
If their tires were flat, or their oil grim reaper black.
they'd manage a water-colored smile...
So long as I could change their brakes and spin the jack...
So, I spin it until their potholes turn to satin.
Stayed in the sun too long today.
The mind has smoothed like pebbles in Saturn's rings.
A forgotten spice in the conversation of life.
A Sunday bell that's lost its holy ring.
Tomorrow I'll stay wrapped tight inside.
Until my skin turns back to ivory.
To an easter egg yesterday.
A time of bouncing ball and spinning jacks.
When the mind was a great silky nest.
When the face was a flowered meadow place.
Where watercolors swirled all day,
Every heartworm kept at bay.
Like a hungry muskie, I'll stay hidden within the weeds,
'till the jewels of memories soothe every scar and every stripe.
Till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
Until then, only my curtains will breathe...
...stayed in the sun
to long
today.