Sonnets on Death


I will remind you time does not exist.
Need a little time to do that, of course.
But then, moments like that will not be missed,
as, then, timelessness bound to be endorsed.

No understanding of it. No movement.
No sight of the hands of the clock, moving.
No hearing tick-tock’s persistent intent.
No thought of things, over time, improving.

Endless time will come to an abrupt halt.
Passage of it will lead to life passing.
Mine. Yours. In a time limit all are caught.
In a lifetime’s pastimes, this fact masking.

It goes on beyond, I hear you insist.
But, I remind you, time will not exist.


She has already found another man.
Moved in together in another home.
All the children with them, if goes to plan.
She cannot leave them to be on their own.

Her husband died just a few months ago.
Left her alone; shocked, angry, desolate.
Grief, then, for a while, put on quite a show.
To Death, could describe her as ‘insolent’.

Drunken binges. Times when disorderly.
Neglecting her children, accusation.
Yet, ‘needs must’. Life goes on importantly.
Found replacement at her instigation.

In hope of restoring her way of life,
decided, from grief, quick return as wife.


“We lost our little boy, a month ago”,
the woman on her bicycle told me.
She had ridden toward me, then she slowed,
stopped, and gave the awful news, politely.

The fact. Only a little mournfully.
But the grief, could discern beneath, immense.
Epileptic. It was epilepsy.
That’s the only way the death did make sense.

My first thought was it was the pet; pet dog,
she was referring to. That sad enough,
but realised it was her son. Huge shock
she, and her husband, must have had. Still tough.

I expressed my condolences. Heartfelt.
Words understating tragedy itself.


The biggest word in human existence
is ‘nothing’. It’s more than ‘everything’.
Nothing is around, with its persistence,
The base upon which comes all living things.

It is vast this void, past and in future.
To such an extent, could say it’s timeless.
Contained me until I had this future.
Come, after all I’ve had to say expressed.

Experience, and learning, and fortune,
personally be of no relevance,
in this most unimaginable form,
which, with formlessness, requires compliance.

The purpose of death … it having meaning …
is nothing, however much deceiving.


Death is in a body, non-functioning.
There, still, without any recognition.
Consciousness lost. Mind unimagining.
Being, but lifeless. No contradiction.

That time in the lake when I nearly drowned,
my ‘all’-understanding extinguishing.
Senses switching-off until brought to ground.
Fierce resistance became anguish-ceasing.

Or when I was susceptible to fits.
Limb or head spinning ‘round, then I collapsed.
When I went out, could have ceased to exist.
Light, and all of life’s colours, black extract.

So, from this, know what Death is, I confess.
It is a case of unconscious stillness.


With all the dead animals, be as one.
In history, as having existed.
Lived before. Before what will have become.
The finality, to come, insisted.

Living’s a temporary indulgence.
A miracle with lots of potential.
If could look back, would say, ‘had its moments’.
Survival for a time, existential.

Yet I am a creature essentially.
Like all others, destined for the same fate.
That’s oblivion, as an entity.
To my simple mind, that does not seem great.

But I must go, with what know to be so.
Animals only live with death in tow.


She will speak to me. What use will that be?
“There are chores to do. Why did you leave me?”
This is just being imaginary.
Merely what I assume will be likely.

If I die first, and she is on her own.
I will not be there to listen, of course;
to take instruction, do work in our home.
Outside help, to which she will have recourse.

Cleaning services and food delivered.
Sometimes friends visiting for company.
But the expected partnership severed.
And in the absence of it, left lonely.

So I expect her to communicate.
And me to reply, as her mind dictates.


It would seem to be metaphysical,
the concepts and illusions people have
about death which, for most, inimical.
So some less-painful belief encouraged

via ‘religions’, rituals attached.
To other minds peculiar, bizarre.
Against what is likely, largely unmatched.
A God to reach out to, somewhere afar.

Not really make sense. Is irrational.
But having some sort of faith, typical.
Self-preservation, imaginable,
the comfort in the metaphysical.

But death will be, whatever is thought now.
And once there, unable to disavow.


Extinguished. Not by water, but by fire.
Doused in flame, wave after wave flooding in.
A washing of my body; its entire.
Like a torrent on me, immolating.

I can see that is where I will end up,
looking at my image in the mirror.
As about to bathe, the thought interrupt.
That future for me, I know is nearer.

The warm water now, far from the heat then.
A cleansing in comfort this way immersed.
Yet soap bubbles crackle as if pretend
the burning of the flesh, until dispersed.

In fact, ash, me, that’s later cooled by air.
I saw it will be, in that mirror there.


I slide toward an eschatology.
For what is the world without my senses?
I know nothing, metaphorically.
Destruction they’ll be, sensed as extensive.

An end to the world, then. Shall be no more.
For what is the world without me in it?
Across a shiny obsidian floor.
Maybe my bones will end up within it.

My flesh turned etiolate with the shock.
Bones shattering in the explosive crash.
Soon to be the land, time and I forgot.
All bar that glassy floor reduced to ash.

Pale, too, my writings’ terminology.
Slide into place in eschatology.


Emphatic. Emphatically alive.
Speaking out as best I can, I would say.
For now, the death that awaits me denied.
The many sights of living on display.

Emphatic, my being here fully formed.
In bold shape and colour that’s not fading.
I’m aware what’s ahead. I have been warned.
But at the moment, I’m up parading.

Emphatic. Emphatically insist
that I have more to receive; more to give.
It is a blessing, I think, to exist,
So, hey, I want to continue to live.

Death, though, however it comes, dramatic,
and it too, for sure, will be emphatic.


‘Elsewhere’ mind and ‘not yet’ mechanism
deflects thought away from knowledge of death.
For what the mind thinks, there’s competition.
Dwelling on death considered as hopeless.

And, admit, living concerns are plenty.
Those connected to well-being, like food
and warmth. Solving problems essentially.
Pleasures, tasks to do; sex too, don’t exclude.

And from the senses, new and familiar.
The end, which will be, no priority
until crashes past bland exterior
to involve, in its impact, properly.

The shock, then, as does not keep its distance.
Before that, too busy with existence.

Sonnets, a bit humorous. Then, a Coffee Break.
Sonnets Politically Motivated.