Writer’s Almanac
Had permission to reprint
I don’t have. So here:

• Dharma
• When I Look at the Old Car
• Directions
• It’s Sweet to Be Remembered
• The Ghost of Walter Benjamin Walks at Midnight

And then a few from places other than Writer’s Almanac:

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours – on the wall –
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay –
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall –
I see a little cloud all pink and grey –
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call – I fancy that I
heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way –
I never read the works of Juvenal –
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational –
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small –
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

– by G.K. Chesterton. The glory of the everyday.

(HT: The Pickled Apple blog)

Hear the voice
of those who in all honesty
feel bound to choose
the cold
outside your house.
…
You are goodness
and I find you
in people who do not confess you.

Dom Helder Camara in Dom Helder Camara: Essential Writings, Francis McDonaugh, ed. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2009), p. 115.

(HT: Catholicanarchy.org)

Sorry if these seem a bit top-heavy on death obsession.