Death Poems Quotes

“I have drunk the night
and swallowed the stars.
I am dancing with abandon
and singing with rapture.
There is not a thing I do not love.
There is not a person I have not forgiven.
I feel a universe of love.
I feel a universe of light.
Tonight, I am with old friends
and we are returning home.
The moon is our witness.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“I that in heill was and gladnèss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world's vanitie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He spairis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
Themself from Death may not supplee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
That made the anteris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

And he has now tane, last of a,
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Death lies verily;
Great ruth it were that so suld be:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Sen he has all my brether tane,
He will naught let me live alane;
Of force I man his next prey be:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone,
After our death that live may we:-
Timor Mortis conturbat me”
― William Dunbar, Poems

“Like dew drops

on a lotus leaf
I vanish.”
― Shinsui

“The Inevitable Tide by Stewart Stafford

The inevitable tide comes,
To claim every one of us,
Whether sufficient breath of life,
Is inhaled deep or forsaken.

Then let them bend and screech,
Their hearsay and homilies,
To rake the ashes of earthly remains,
In our final resting place.

The person no longer lingers,
Gone to Paradise or Hell,
Purgatory or mere rotting decay,
A ghostly rose bled white on binding soil.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“I feel you calling, in the autumn sweet transformation.
I have reached my brightest green to the gold burning sun.
I have folded my colours into the wind,
bright colours taken to the sky.
My silk has gone to moisture in the rising atmosphere
and I am your colours again, deep and warm.
I hear your calling and I answer,
I come back to you, to slip inside the dark.
Will I be found by the decaying things?
Will I be found by the roots and drunk by tree and flower?
Will I slip and mingle and roll along,
find my way to a river and with it dance,
and give myself in a sigh to the ocean?
Will I scatter, a few fragments of sand –
my body to glisten beneath a caress of moonlight
as I make my way towards no more
as I find my way to forever”
― Tamara Rendell, Mystical Tides

“DEATH

A woman who dreams of death
Is sitting in her room alone
While the clouds and the stars
That once saw the quiet fumes
Of war
Reach out to grasp one another
And stifle that fire
But the distinct forms
And multitudes
In blurs
Takeoff racing in the earthen boundaries
Never counting
The parts they killed
As they were air-driven
Within the velvet cores of her galaxy”
― Trisha North, Internal Devices: The Faulty Drives Within My Mortal Hardware

“Thoughts On My End by Stewart Stafford

My last moments slip away,
On which day, at what time?
Snow chilling bones faster?
Sweat in blinding sunshine?

Halloween, Xmas or Easter?
Evening or just after dawn?
Pass away on my birthday?
Gifts, mass cards all drawn?

Will it be in long, slow agony?
Or mercifully fast and painless?
What will my drug of choice be?
Will I be conscious or brainless?

Who will be at my bedside?
Many or no one, who can say?
Kind words or total silence?
I’ll hear and be on my way.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Darkened Light by Stewart Stafford

Ephemeral life fading,
As a ground shadow,
The cat in the shade,
The sun's arm draped.

Pose for a photograph,
Thousand-yard stare,
In denial of expiration,
That bodily eviction.

Take a breather inside,
Too drained for more,
Crash and burn out,
Let quietus wash over.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“The Path We Must Walk by Stewart Stafford

From dust, we are conjured,
And, to black hole dust, return,
Greater than parts that made us,
From first breath to a cremation urn.

O rake the ashen cinders over,
With smiling teardrops past,
A speck of dust, every echo,
In an inner eye, fading fast.

The cheerful moon, light in darkness,
A hint of blazing celestial glory,
Thawing all terrestrial tension,
Life's character, a remembrance story.

From fleshly body to a child of light,
Weather kissing an empty grave,
Wilting flowers nod to obsolescence,
Sentiment, memory, unharmed to save.

© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Teardrop Swarm by Stewart Stafford

Entombed by verdant prison bars,
On land where I once held sway,
Drowned in Death's tearful surf,
In which we all get swept away.

Weep at a rock bearing my name,
A vacant space once familiar there,
Lost and lingered in limbo longing,
Planted in pastures, green and fair.

Arch headstones are defiant cliffs,
For Reaper's wrath to crash upon,
A foundling rage's pristine triumph,
In foam white light, multitudes gone.

© Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford