Death Spiritual Poems | Examples
These Death Spiritual poems are examples of Spiritual poems about Death. These are the best examples of Spiritual Death poems written by international poets.
(“Citadel of Light Merit Badge”, 2016, original pen and ink)
Battle For Your Mind
We live in a time of upheaval and change,
Challenge and war,
But the biggest battle
Is what some call “jihad”
An internal struggle of light and dark
As a soul makes their way along the path.
But along with the esoteric jihad
There is the exoteric, external struggle for your soul,
And battle for your mind,
A battle between the Death-eaters
And the Life-givers.
In this battle of temptation
Desertion is always an option,
And as many times as we may vacillate
What matters most is where we finally settle.
And in an infinite universe
On a timeline of eternity,
As Led Zeppelin said,
You can always change the road you’re on.
But once we know how it will end
Then the momentary ups and downs
Cannot confuse and distract us.
This is the Path of Seeing
The path of no return
The warrior path
In the battle for your mind.
(9/16/25)
OUR CLAIM TO FAME
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Line of Inquiry: “death approaches but we have no regret ~ when God questions us, we will stand erect”
Now I stand upon the precipice of my waning years,
Outwardly gazing upon landscape I created.
Releasing sobs, my burdened spirit weeps,
Exiguous wisdom upon my brow.
God's gentle guidance, my ego refused to embrace.
Redemption comes with God’s tender mercy and grace.
Eternal encore for soul forthcoming, weighs heavy upon my mind.
Thunderous voice asks, “Any regrets?”
Standing erect, I reply, “Though flawed, I lived; I learned. No regrets"
"Remorse? Yes, but no baggage. No guilt. No shame....my spirit's claim to fame."
When my mother in law died a few years ago
She did so at home before dawn one summer’s morn,
And my wife and I went over and sat around
For a few hours as her dad cooked us breakfast.
All the time her mom’s body lay there
Slowly cooling in the living room.
And what was remarkable
Is that for such a low key and unassuming woman
Gale filled the whole house
With a palpable peace and stillness,
Unlike one I’d ever experienced before.
Today I feel that same kind of blessing is being felt
With the passing of Charlie Kirk,
Except instead of filling a single house
His spirit is filling the entire world.
Let that sink in for a moment.
We’re talking about a once in a millennium kind of soul.
(9/13/25)
A Meeting With Amitabha
On my way to meet with Amitabha
The Buddha of infinite light,
I ponder my life, my place in the world
Its trajectory, and my mortality.
Who is it that dies? What is it that goes on?
And where is this infinite light not found?
We all die, but how we do it
Makes all the difference.
They say how we live is how we die,
And so if this gives any solace
As we live our life, directly knowing what that is,
We get a glimpse what our death will be like.
The beauty though of being alive
While we are alive
Is we can always change its trajectory.
And so I head out to meet the Buddha Amitabha
As he sits resting, ever peaceful,
In his infinite light.
(9/13/25)
the road became a tree-lined tunnel—flickers of
crepuscular rays try to play tag with the squirrels
as they stutter-dash across the shafts of you’re-it!
a free for all, until the road-tires butt-in—
flattening all the rules on a tire-treaded squirrel.
the light reacts with a sudden shift—to renew.
anticrepuscular rays converge to the antisolar point.
a change in perspective as the light beams fall.
inflating the tire-treaded squirrel with a do-over.
the game goes on until sunset or the next rogue tire.
Like a time bomb ready to explode
What be a man except what is washed away
Like a wave beats the ocean sands
Change of time can change whole man
Soul in search of itself what does it see
Despair of a journey that makes his strength
Or the demise of life he finds his grave
It is of the heart beats our breath
Spiritual being like all species with purpose
What is beauty that love does not exist
What is a man if not themselves thrive to be
Is one not dead in their depths darkness appears
Battle of good vs evil which you choose
Lost in misty fog, what light be your inspiration
Belief to his existence finds trouble trails
But he gives not up his strive to breathe
Reaching in, ticking man; just a second of a gasp
Awakening, sea of stars filled with dreams
Light on the waters beneath moonlight beam
Heavens open door shinning light from within
Ti cerco, watching behind dark eyes sleeping
Jesus keep me near the cross my cries
I'm just a man whose time is ticking away
Shàngó!
Where are your fiery eyes,
that spit fear into burning coal,
that blaze with warmth and glow,
a conflagrator dancing with flames?
Who dares invoke your name in sin,
and not have their tongue seared?
You summon thunder as a hound to hunt,
their wealth and souls it strikes at once,
swift as lightning no man can withstand.
You are a god with no patience,
a judge whose verdict is fire.
The guilty inherit their own shame,
terror grips their trembling mates,
till their fear spills water from their bladder.
Shàngó!
The king who hung himself–yet none dare say so.
Your name alone bends foes of Dàda,
your gentle, effeminate brother,
subduing armies without a clash,
a king great in life, even greater in death.
Your words are clothed in flame,
your breath consumes in thousands.
No scroll could ever disguise your greatness,
no fool could scorn your name
and escape the storm of your wrath.
And now, O thunderous king, hear me:
Unleash your fire on all my foes.
Shatter them into smouldering dust,
burn them in your raging inferno,
heap grief upon grief, lament on lament—
O king whose hanging none dare declare.
“creation is substantially nothing but a mere idea-play of Nature on the only Real Substance, God, the Eternal Father”
~ extract from ‘The Holy Science’
Ramana inquired, ‘Who am I?’
Strange it is, no one seems to know
We’re born in this form, which will die
Let’s find the truth in stillness slow
Senses look outward in the world
We assume we’re this body-mind
Lost in desires, we’re by thoughts twirled
The joy we seek, we fail to find
Watching thought spirals come and go
Dropping concepts, if we be still
Releasing cravings of ego
Voids within us on their own fill
Although thoughts cease, we yet exist
As pure awareness self-aware
No to-do list, we’re a bliss mist
Thus with heart of God, we so pair
Ego dies, space and time too fade
We then see our true form as light
At peace in God’s heavenly glade
Love’s imbibed to our heart’s delight
God alone is and we’re as He
He dwells in us and we in Him
That life is a dream we now see
Projected because of God’s whim
When thoughts cease, we metamorphose
Ego dies and we are reborn
Our Self glows in tranquil repose
Death of form is no cause to mourn
Mirrors stand sentinel in homes,
African homes, where they're often still,
unused, like dining tables turned decoration,
gathering dust, devoid of purpose.
At night, when men slumber, the shadows stir,
underworld spirits manifest, their forms shifting,
observant, operative, unseen by mortal eyes,
yet their presence felt, a whispered rumor.
Ghommid spirits lurk, invisible, yet real,
their existence a mystery, a hidden truth.
Some abhor mirrors, standing tall,
reflecting their horrors, infuriating them.
Their rage unleashes chaos, destruction's path,
frustration and setbacks, a trail of broken glass.
The mirror's gaze, a provocative act,
unleashing fury, a maelstrom of malevolent force.
To avoid conflict with powers beyond our sight,
cover the mirror, shroud it in darkness,
silence its reflective surface, still its gaze,
lest the metaphysical realm exact its toll.
She came tonight, a whisper soft,
As I lay reading, lost in thought.
Her warmth curled close, a phantom grace,
And time dissolved in her embrace.
The book fell silent in my hand,
Her breath was there, I swear I felt.
A tear broke free, then came the flood—
A river born of love and guilt.
Three decades gone, yet still she stays,
A shadow dancing through my days.
She left because they locked me in,
For sins I never did commit.
She couldn’t bear the bars between,
The silence stretched too far, too wide.
She chose the stars, the final flight—
And left me here to ache and write.
I never let her fade from view,
Her name still trembles on my lips.
I love her still, I always will,
Through every crack my heart equips.
Why, Baby, why? We’d still be whole,
If fate had not betrayed our soul.
But maybe love defies the grave—
And finds a way to still be brave.
So let the spectral glow remain,
A light that cuts through loss and pain.
She’s still with me, in dreams, in breath—
Love outlives even death.
Look at body-mind as a car we drive,
from which upon death we will disembark,
so we renounce goals for which we did strive,
sailing in the void on an upward arc.
This world is a dream, so it’s unreal,
therefore to which object should we then cling?
Shifting to the heart, we being to feel,
throb of bliss magnetism that makes heart sing.
Divine aligned, mind fixated on God,
objects of the world holding no allure,
at our slow motion awakening awed,
our childlike presence is pure and demure.
We flow with ease, mode embrace and release ~
There are no demons we need to appease
A return to Normalcy
As night comes, all are at ease
We return to slumber
In the electric comfort
Of artificiality that is our lives
We revel in the false sense of our own
Modern conveniences
We forget the thin veil between
Our electric life, truth of nature’s brutality
Of our existence, we believe we are
Immune to the real world, harsher realities
Till only a loss of electric life or death, finite
Our comfort zone is rot, lost, and won
Something jars us back to reality
Of the world so frail
So it goes for everything n anyone
We are wrapped in ourselves
We are ignorant of the truth, in flesh
We hid in the comfort of our arrogance
We whitewash our history
We tell ourselves one thing
We miss direct our attention
With glamour, illusions, n media broadcasts
Peel back the thin layer of civility
See the bones of mortality
The flesh of humanity
The blood of our souls, vanity
We are primal and dangerous
Everything foretold, lost
We are comforted by our excesses
We fear what we cannot hold
And believe all we are sold
As we turn in for a much-needed reprieve
A needed night's rest, we are in our woolen
Wilds and slumber in our hypocrisy.
Ghosts that haunt empty spaces
Like objects in cabinets
that drift on window pains
As light out places the things
left in the corners of
attics and In-between
the walls and hidden faces,
memories like objects
that linger as bookmarks
to someone's history,
yellowing pages,
trinkets and toys,
old books and broken vases
sit like old photos faded,
memories of something
best left untouched or forgotten,
never stated, between the moments of memory
Like things left in shadows last and fated,
ghosts linger here and there,
pale movements in the Either,
objects of history,
a fall of light, a twist of shadow,
objects that haunt
like old souls in empty spaces…
free from thought and free from desire
no earthy goals left to aspire
vibrant without a to-do list
he who has become a bliss mist
knowing this world is but a stage
impacted not by other’s rage
nonjudgmental eye, tranquil heart
deeming all souls one, none apart
outcomes any, at peace within
a purified heart, free from sin
egoless and bereft of pride
recognising God dwells inside
equal to birth death, rise and fall
walking path of truth, standing tall
present in the now, all the time
drenched in rapture of bliss beat’s chime
(“And Dream of Sheep”, 2018, original encaustic)
The Dreaming
At our core we’re all the same
An awareness being in a world of confusion
Good/bad, happy/sad,
Distracted/focused, lost/found
Each of us wrapped in layers
Trying our best to express ourselves
Within the superficial
Caught like a fly in a web
Sleep walking through thick air
Paddling upstream endlessly
A marriage of body and soul
For better or worse
Until death do us part
And we begin again
Another compulsive dream
Of becoming.
(8/10/25)