712

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

I'm waiting to get sick
so I can die without doing it myself
without a mess, lying in a bed
with the blankets tucked in around my head
I think I might be sick
or maybe I'm just being hopeful
that this will be over quick
maybe they could catch it early if I cared
but it's very hard to see myself anywhere
but lying down, somewhere dark and underground
or maybe in a jar on someone's shelf

-- who am I kidding, I'm a closet girl

what does any of it matter
   this pain I feel
compared to the ordeal
   you're facing?

not a pinch, an inch, no
   -- so don't ask me

726

We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s Act—
And later—when we die—
A little Water supplicate—
Of fingers going by—

It intimates the finer want—
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West—
Termed Immortality—

Oh, orange tree,
Your bark adorned
With wicked-looking
Three-inch thorns,
Needle-sharp
Each one of them
Protruding both
From branch and stem,
Perhaps you want
To pierce the hand
Outstretched by
Some unwary man,
That he may not pick
Nor may not eat
Your fruit that is
So very sweet.

From Entertaining Verse Poems
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)
http://www.goo.gl/KDCb4a

Incredibly,
It seems to be,
That everyone
Can be the owner of a gun.

A gun for what?
Protect the shop?
No, no, to ****,
According to your own free
will.

Students here,
Colleagues there,
Isn’t it fun
To mow them all down one by
one.

When will it end?
It won’t, my friend,
With guns galore
On sale at every corner store.

         From Entertaining Verse Poems
        ©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)
  http://www.macdonrod.com/EntertainingVersePoems.htm

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