On the Death of a Friend (10/20/91)
“O woe betide the day I die,”
the hermit cried aloud.
“Thou first must live,” the cave replied,
“ere death come ever nigh.”
“O woe betide,” the hermit sighed,
“thou, now become my grave.”
O woe betide, o woe betide,
the hermit died, the hermit lied:
The cave remained a cave -
his life became his grave.
But she who lives until she dies
lives thus much longer still.
For in the heart a memory lives
whom Death can never kill!
bonnieq said,
October 7, 2006 at 6:47 am
I’ve just read a number of your poems and I must say you have an exceptional talent. I decided to comment on this one because I’m particularly drawn to the Old English and that Poe-esque feeling. I also thoroughly enjoyed your poem reflecting your thoughts as you look out the window from an airplane. I’ve had many of those thoughts every time I’ve flown: it’s almost magical to look down upon earth from 30,000 feet, to see the patchwork quilt and city lights at night.
You really should consider querying various Poetry publishers about getting a collection published. You would do well to pick up a current copy of “Poet’s Market.,” and start from there. I am an editor for a publisher, though not poetry, but more importantly, I recognize talent when I see it.
Visit me sometime.
Love in Christ,
http://bonnieq.wordpress.com
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