Death, be not proud, though some have called thee/ Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;/ For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,/ Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me./ From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,/ Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,/ And soonest our best men with thee do go,/ Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery./ Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,/ And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,/ And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,/ And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?/ One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/ And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.
~Holy Sonnet X, John Donne

Sunday, July 18, 2010

run.

This was a poem I wrote for my rhetoric class; it's a series of haiku that make up a larger story.


feather curl: light as
breath in the corner where
you crouch, tendons tight.

hypnotic dance- the
petticoats unfurl, and a
sudden reflection

in wide eyes almost
could be maniacal. there
comes a twitch- a slight

movement. grandpa joe's
handiwork- a small pile of
sinners' souls. look out.

now comes the noise.
shriek, wail- brings forth neighbors for
miles- bleary eyes blink.

stuff fingers in ears:
run, run. do not stop for the
things you prize. just run.

run.

-2/7/10
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