Treasure Island

Leslie Philibert

(6th March 1954 / London, England)

Walk Slowly At My Burial


Take the pace out of step,
the black beetle crunches over gravel,
a block of ice, stupid silence

carried like a china cup
nearly down, a ring of flowers,
the first prize packed like a gift;

six strong men are needed to carry
my boxed bag of bones,
flaps of skin and the old-man smell.

Hold on. A moth in a lampshade
couldn`t bruise its wings less;
scared of the fall into cold loam.

Submitted: Saturday, September 07, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 09, 2013

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I write for myself.

Comments about this poem (Walk Slowly At My Burial by Leslie Philibert )

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  • Elena Sandu (9/18/2013 8:40:00 PM)

    Lol I could dream of this poem in many ways, thank you for giving me such freedom! Even when being dead we would stop everything only to observe the works of nature; or would the moth it be a teacher saying that everything goes on and off? Or I could go back to the start of the poem and dream of a different burial, mine. Maybe you have written this with fear in mind but for me is an exciting poem helping me to think search and feel my way out of that fearfilled box. Thank you! (Report) Reply

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