Don't the dead have boring days,
Dull plans; they're in a haze,
Halitosis, their eyes are glazed.
Instead of moving, they just laze.
The dead don't make excuses
For what's not done; there are no ruses.
The dead only have old bruises.
They're not taking any cruises.
The dead don't have love affairs,
And they never put on airs.
If they were smart, now it's not there.
The thing that they do best is stare.
The dead think they are so urbane;
They are, if you ignore the stains;
They never wax, they only wane:
Sometimes I think they're all insane.
Being dead's a formal thing;
People come and someone sings,
All the phones and doorbells ring-
But no one knows just what it means?
like this one a lot...'the dead are only the seeds of the living! '...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This sure fits accurately into the big picture of the human experience.... Has a difinite place and brought to us by a master perciever......And the departed deserve observations. Not many have the courage to tell it. And it has a beauty of its own. There is rest and peace at the end of lifes journey and boredom is a spark to change........ To transend perhaps. Thanks for bringing it Patti.......................Jim