Ode to Bob

(A Freestyle Poem)

Bob was a very dear friend,
He gave me joy when no one else could.

Listening to me spill out my woes
Without judgement or scorn, what a dear.
He said nothing as I took the knife to his head,
And cracked his neck, he understood.

His guts spilled on the floor,
But there was little blood
He was always so considerate that way.

I shall always remember Bob
Especially as I puree his remains, which stain my hands,
And add the puree to soups and breads - how delicious!

So rest in peace my dead Bob, you make such delightful bread.
I hope others will enjoy you as much as I,
For you are now homemade and really yummy.

R.I.P.  Robert 'Bob' Pumpkin

Dulce Et Decorum Est

By Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This has always been a favorite poem of mine. Enjoy!

A Postscript to Spoon River Anthology

Spoon River Anthology is a collection of free form poems by Edgar Lee Masters about a fictional town called Spoon River. Each poem is an epitaph of each of the citizens delivered by the dead themselves. Here's is one that I wrote. Enjoy!

Change was constant in my Life

I’ve seen different places, different things, different people
Some of which gave me unspeakable joy
Others – a stabbing horror into my heart
Everyday held a task that I had to do
Some I meet with a delightful happiness,
But others put a fear that consumed my very being.

Failures, achievements came as the day closed into darkness
My closest friends became Tears and Loneliness.
In a crowded room Loneliness was there beside me,
Holding my hand tightly.
As I went to sleep and closed my eyes,
Tears moved his warm hands down my face.
But my greatest friend, I could always find by a lit red candle.
I would often go to my friend by the red candle with Tears and Loneliness
But Tears and Loneliness would stand aback
As my friend by the red candle held me lovingly in His arms.
As His blood dripped from His head to mine
I was reminded of what He did for me.

Though my life these three friends accompanied me
Though the failures and the achievements there they were – always near.
Even at death there they were.
As I lay dying I found myself cold
With Tears’ hands on my face
Loneliness holding my hand tightly
And my friend by the red candle, holding me in His strong loving arms,
With the greatest love in world.
And I believe, with all my heart, that there is no great friend than Him – My friend by the red candle.

Can any one guess who my friend by the little red candle is? It will be revealed in next post.