For My Grandmother
This lovely flower fell to seed;
Work gently, sun and rain;
She held it as her dying creed
That she would grow again.
For a Cynic
Birth is a crime
All men commit;
Life gives them time
To atone for it;
Death ends the rhyme
As the price for it.
For a Singer
Death clogged this flute
At its highest note;
Song sleeps here mute
In this breathless throat.
For a Virgin
For forty years I shunned the lust
Inherent in my clay;
Death only was so amorous
I let him have his way.
For a Lady I Know
She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.
For a Lovely Lady
A creature slender as a reed,
And sad-eyed as a doe
Lies here (but take my word for it,
And do not pry below).
For an Atheist
Mountains cover me like rain,
Billows whirl and rise;
Hide me from the stabbing pain
In His reproachful eyes.
For an Evolutionist and His Opponent
Showing that our ways agreed,
Death is proof enough;
Body seeks the primal clay,
Soul transcends the slough.
For an Anarchist
What matters that I stormed and swore?
Not Samson with an ass’s jaw,
Not though a forest of hair he wore,
Could break death’s adamantine law.
For a Magician
I whose magic could explore
Ways others might not guess or see,
Now am barred behind a door
That has no “Open Sesame.”
For a Pessimist
He wore his coffin for a hat,
Calamity his cape,
While on his face a death’s-head sat
And waved a bit of crape.
For a Mouthy Woman
God and the devil still are wrangling
Which should have her, which repel;
God wants no discord in his heaven;
Satan has enough in hell.
For a Philosopher
Here lies one who tried to solve
The riddle of being and breath:
The wee blind mole that gnaws his bones
Tells him the answer is death.