Submit a Poem
Get Your Premium Membership
spacer

Funeral Age Poems | Age Poems About Funeral

These Funeral Age poems are examples of Age poems about Funeral. These are the best examples of Funeral Age poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

1234
Details | I do not know? |

Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom

(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)



Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:



Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.


He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.


After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.


In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.


Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.


He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.


Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.


On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.


Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.


His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.


In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.


On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:


‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.

Tell my people that I love them.

They must continue the fight.’



Mahlangu died for a cause!



Salute!



The Struggle Continues…




(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)


Details | Epitaph |

The Unknown Soldier

I stand at your grave.
I do not know your name.
I know not where you are from.
Where you fought,
nor where you died.

The horrors and pain you suffered,
were not in vain.
The death and destruction brought you pain.

I weep at your grave,
for the life you gave.
I weep for the Mother,
that gave you that life.

I kneel before your grave.
I bow my head in gratitude to you,
The Unknown Soldier.
Forever Remembered.


Details | Ballad |

My Cousin Alf

Written by my Cousin Susan Northwood who thinks she cannot write. She wrote this poem for me. pleaser let her know that she can write very well, she is also an excellent artist. By the way, I am back from my holiday, and glad to be back with you all.





My cousin  Alf.

Whilst searching on the net one day
A name jumped out on me
Peter Duggan, as he is known
My cousin, that he be.
A crazy man, a writer too
Speaks his mind, I kid not you
He loves to argue, and debate
Gossip, and trivia, he does so hate.

He wrote me emails, all the time
And many poems in rhythm, and rhyme
His words were calming, made sense to me
Helped my fears,and anxieties.
Life for him had not been kind
Bullied, beaten, and a troubled mind
But here he was, helping me
With all my anger, that He could see

As time did pass, my life got better
Thanks to him, and all his letters
Back and forth, we wrote like mad
Happy laughing, and sometimes sad.
Now here in Oz, I've come to see
My cousin, and his family
Yes he's just how I imagined
Loves all life, and writes with passion.

He argues, talks, and often shouts
Sings, and laughs, but what about?
Yes, he's blunt, and can be rude
He'll shock you too, if you're a prude
But underneath his suit of armour
There stands a man, who's met his karma
All he wants is peace in in life
No more trouble. fights and strife.

There's many souls who cannot cope
With this loud, outspoken bloke
But I know where this man is from
He says it in his words and songs.
So for me he is not Peter
Or Billy, John or Ralph
He simply is my cousin 
Also known as Alf.

Written by Susan Northwood, for Peter Duggan.


Details | Narrative |

Heartbeat

They ran laughing
Into the night.
Hand in hand.
Heart in heart.

Twenty-One, and Nineteen.
Forging new pathways,
Skirting danger,
Laughing at the wind.

It took only 
A second,
A heartbeat,
For the driver
To mow them down.

It took only
A second,
A lifetime
For love realized
to be lost.

But years before
He stood next to his father
Who said the choice is yours.

And the proud young man
Checked the box
And signed his name

Not knowing
That the heart
He gave the girl
Would not be
His to give.

Seven hours
Of waiting,
Praying,
Hoping.

Seven hours
Of holding breaths
And hands,
And the heart
Began to beat

Again.


Details | Narrative |

In memory of Bob

In memory of Bob
A true story.

It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.

     There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.

      As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya  going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and  somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.

      I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life,  that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long,  ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.

     Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.

     Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain,  but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.

   His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
 


Details | Ballad |

From The National Poet Of Slovenia In A Language People Understand - THE RUINS OF THE ANCIEN REGIME




Farewell, then, AUKN boss,
The next this year makes three.
By the time they find a substitute,
Slovenes will be at sea.

He tried to cover his behind;
AUKN boss of bosses,
As every week, balances grew bleak:
He weighed merits and losses.

With all this he'd no time to eat,
And round and round he flew.
And now he's split in a hissy-fit;
So helmsman, too-de-loo!

Day after day, day after day,
He drifted on the ocean;
Guano-vernment rained on his ship
Their suggestions for promotion.

Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Corporate boards crosslink;
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Let's take you for a drink.

Accountants talking rot: O Christ!
Missions, visions - oh please!
Yea, slimy characters need legs
And slimy policies.

So has he done an hellish thing?
Not hired who? We dunno:
Was it absurd, to have a separate curd
From the whey Slovenia owes?
This wretch won't play, after 60 days;
Pissflaps, he'll have to go!

God help ya, gospod Bencina
From the fiends, that plague us thus! -
It's time to go — shot like cross-bow,
The AUKN boss.

Ah! walk-out day! what evil looks
Had I from Ernst and Young!
Who's at a loss? AUKN's boss
Wouldn't take a bung?

"You'll be" quoth one, "abolished - no
Stigma to double-cross."
He chose to go - why? We don't know:
Harmless AUKN boss.


Re-reading the original gave me a great idea for dinner until I realised all the storks have all flapped off to Africa for the winter. Pity, as I have some ancient marinade from Tuš. Like the subject of the poem, I didn't have the stamina for a Coleridge-length effort.

Story: http://www.sloveniatimes.com/total-mess-in-state-owned-capital-asset-management

The National Poet Of Slovenia In A Language People Understand interprets important Slovenian affairs for the non-Slovene speaking world. www.maria.si


Details | I do not know? |

The Women



The Women



(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)



Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.



They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,

and white was right in South Africa back then,

but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.



You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.



You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,

my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.



You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.



Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.



I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.



I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.


I salute you!



(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)






Details | Elegy |

BYRON'S BONFIRES

BYRON’S BONFIRES

Byron’s life was full of fire
Some from passion’s strong desires
Some from temper, child spoiled--
Too much paper--desk embroiled

But he suffered sacred fire
Shelley’s wretched funeral pyre
On strange shores his friend succumbed
Drowned so far away from home

Fighting valiant-- Greeks allied
Keeping paper by his side
Used a fire to keep warm--
Daunting rain that did him harm

After death friends burned B’s words
What a shock if people heard
Thoughts that Byron dared to write
Deeds he carried through by night

Thus his words sung to the flames
Protecting friends from nasty names--
Luck-charmed  chimney to embrace
Ash-thoughts of man so wrong defaced.

Victoria Anderson-Throop   12/03/12 ©
Juja, Kenya   Africa


Details | Rhyme |

Speech of Tears

Speech of Tears – Zamreen Zarook

Drops of tears from our purl conveys a lot,
Each an every shedding has a ballot,
By identifying the core, our hands should allot,
Because, some might be extremely as shallot.

Chipper and blissfulness gives you cool tears,
Whereas in console and divesting flow hot tears,
Fear and pains give drains of tears,
Nothing that can be patch with dollars.

Some deliveries are automatic,
While some productions are acoustic,
Another drain says I am really bombastic,
Tears are at last solely cubistic.

They convey the emotions,
People go in search for solutions,
They become happy when they are with the precautions,
Reactions again as the tears, it’s the real abbreviation.


Details | Epitaph |

Winter in me

40 below and it's been a rough go,
through the talons of a frostbit mind.
Months to go, before relief will show, 
the signs of a clear blue sky.

The winter in me like the hoar frost it seems,
grows colder with each passing mile.
The spring of past shall certainly never last,
with a frown where once sat a smile.

40 below in the Wyoming snow,
like a compromise between it and me.
So in the end, spring can rise once again,
to the death of an old winter Breeze.

The winter in me, like the leaves on the trees,
have outlived it's seasonal pride.
Gathered in time are all that I've rhymed,
through the ghost of my past, 
since I've died.



1234