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Long Eulogy Poems | Long Eulogy Poetry

Long Eulogy Poems. These are the most popular long Eulogy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eulogy poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Nola Perez | Details |

EULOGY FOR FRANK

My father died prematurely while away on 
a business trip from a rogue blood clot to the heart  
I never doubted he loved me, would have liked me, 
(not the same thing), adult to adult, provided I 
was not too strong a woman for him.  He was difficult-- 
a Henry VIII of the times, two divorces, a first wife 
we never knew, one from my mother when I was six, 
then heated voices from their bedroom with a third, 
heard in darkness beyond my door, hands over my ears.  
But, he was DADDY. the god-like person who emceed 
his daughter's birthdays, planned games, gave out prizes, 
while a backstage stepmom provided cake.  Cake 
mistress, fond father.  Thus, I learned to turn to men.

Tennessee Williams wrote, "My sister was quicker
at everything than I."  I was like that, maybe not quicker 
than my brothers, but quick to fall in love with cities,
objects, water anywhere: tide pools, oceans, rivers,
mountain streams, stately geese, lake ducks in queues,
the vermillion of winter sunsets, purity of cumulus 
in a summer sky, the scarlet flash of a cardinal from tree 
to tree.  Good luck, always, but with bad luck, I always 
fell in love with impossible men, ones who left me, or I left 
them.  The husband who stayed? He was the true one.  
Then, there was Mr. K, my high school principal, a dead ringer 
for Thomas Wolfe, with whom the girl I was must have
thought she could go home again.  His costume
"de rigueur" was a rumpled white shirt, black trousers
splayed with chalk dust, coal black hair, and an imposing
presence no one took issue with, maybe not even his
British wife, teaching English in the same school.

I sent him my poems by a classmate to his office, too shy 
to deliver  them myself.  Years later, "Poetry mash notes,"
a colleague said, inciting laughter in a poetry audience with 
whom I shared my youthful infatuation, the energy lingering 
long after he signed my graduation diploma, because Yes, 
he read my poems, and Yes, I sat dazzled in his English Lit 
class to "Beowulf," "Chaucer," and the Shakespeare plays we
took turns reading aloud.  When he chose another to read
Portia instead of me, "for her gentle voice," I was devastated,
yet when a boy spoke out in class to criticize my poems:
"No one can understand what she writes," Mr. K. replied 
"On the contrary, she writes about very complex things with 
very simple language."  This praise never left me.

Years after, moving to Atlanta with my husband and small
children, our paths crossed again.  Living there 
at the same time, Mr. K. and I found each other in an 
Episcopal parish, its satisfying high-church "smells and bells" 
the only show in town, "Spiky," his wife said.  There, our
friendship deepened, until Mr. K. moved to England with his wife, 
she returning home to complete the cycle, finish out the years 
at point of origin. We do go home again, Thomas Wolfe not-
withstanding, as did I, seeking toward close of life 
the comfort and substance of birthplace.

Mr. K. returned occasionally to Atlanta for a visit with his son.
He would call me, and it was then that we met for dinner,
most often at Zazu's an intimate bar and restaurant on Peachtree.  
What did we talk about sitting across a table from each other?
I do not now remember, but once I observed him glancing at
his aging hands and comparing them to mine, younger by a few,
completely irrelevant years.  I once asked him as he entered
his later years if he ever felt "old."  He said No, he felt the same
as he always had.  This was a revelation: I imagined people 
felt as old inside as they looked.  This is not the case, as 
I was to discover in my own lifetime.

On one evening I did not know would be the last time, Mr. K.
and I sat in my car in darkness after dinner in front of his son's
house.  As he prepared to leave, he said, "I don't know how I shall
get along without you, though I've been without you all these
years.  We never touched, save in the bond of friendship, and more's 
the pity.  Some time passed.  I wrote a letter to Mr. K.and his wife.  
It was returned unopened with a message on the envelope, 
"Both deceased."  In my car, then, that last night, it was Adieu -- 
To God, not Au Revoir.  Now, with "All time, all attitudes washing 
away," as I wrote in a poem called "Fernandina," he lives 
in the room in the heart where no one enters but me.
No need for a phone call.  I hold the key.


Long poem by MoonBee Canady | Details |

A Drum Major Martin Luther King Jr

" A Drum Major - Martin Luther King, Jr. ... "

( Rom. 13: 7 / Joel 2: 28 )


A Man Stood Up For Courage
In A Time, Others Condoned Evil
A Man Stood Up For Honor
In A Nation's Long-Hidden Upheaval

At A White House, On A Hill
With A Country's Conscience On An Easel
A Man, Brushed On All Colors
As He Painted For His People

A Man Stood Up In Conviction
In Times of Great Confusion
A Man  Stood Up For Peace
In Pursuit of Principles & Solutions

On A Mighty Mission, He Marched
To A Dream That Would Not Cease
As A Drum-Major For Justice
As A Drum-Major For Peace

" ... I Have A Dream ..."
Said, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Yes, A Dream of Togetherness ...
Was Had By America's Martin Luther

" ... I Have A Dream ... "
Said, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
As He Marched To Wake The World
As A Drum-Major and Mover ... 

As An Imperfect, Yet A Patient Man
In An Imperfect, But Full of Potential World
Still ... He Had A Perfect Dream To Share
With All Beloved Little Boys and Girls

As A Drum-Major In A Brotherhood-Band
Who Opposed The Dischords of Prejudice
As A Drum-Major Stepping To Lift The Land
and Expose The Cruel Notes of Cowardice

" ... I Have A Dream ... "
Spoke, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
and He'd Hoped To Help Heal A People
As He Glory - Hallelujah'd ! ...

GOD's Word Says: "Young Men Will Have Visions
And Old Men Will Dream Dreams" ...
So, We Still Seek Places and Directions
Until We Reach The Final Prophecies
(Joel 2: 28 - 31, 32)

But Reaching Mankind's Unity ...
Requires Acknowleged Equality
and Possessions of Prosperity
For All Individuals of Humanity

And When Those Hopes & Dreams Are Actuality
And Not Just A Dream - But Reality
For In Truth and Love and Liberty
-- Only GOD -- Can Ensure Such Validity ...

Still ... The Goal & Legacy and The March
of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Yes, Dr. King's Dream Did Not Die ...
In The Hands of A Murderous Shooter

But The Dream Keeps Recurring
Relayed On The Human Race's Baton
And Handed To His People & Others
Where That Dream Is Alive & Passed On ...

          Written & Copyrighted ©:  2/28/2014
                      by:  MoonBee  Canady


(For The Last Day of Black History Month
Designated In February, Every Year In the U.S.A.)


    In Memory of:
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Born: January 15, 1929
Died:  April 4, 1968


(Dr. King, had said in one of his speeches, that when he died, and they have his eulogy, 
his wish was to be remembered:  As a Drum-Major for Peace & as a Drum-Major for Justice.)

MoonBee


Long poem by Kizito Sidegu | Details |

HOLLOW HEARTS

the episode took place near the sewer
the boy lay lifeless on the stiff ground
his heart beat loudly in terror
his white clothes now red in color
a rowdy mob circled him
like vultures awaiting their pray to die
his horrified eyes gave their last look
but no one dared to save his life
yet we call our selves humans

missiles of rocks were fired towards him
red splashes filled the air
it was a horror movie in reality
a skinny woman wailed in pain
as she shielded the boy in great sobs
yet no one listened or moved a finger
in mid air she was thrown away
landing in the junky sewer
people watched as if it were a circus
yet they call themselves humans

the grim rippers gambled his verdict
the judge gave his eternal verdict,
cremation he thought was the best
mzee Bakar condemned them to hell
yet they laughed and said they'll meet him their
the mood was silent,dogs barked,mothers wailed
another incidence in the misty shanty
the boy was tied like a gift bag
yet they call themselves men

time passed and people were thirsty
thirsty for blood they named him a gangster
they baptized him with diesel and chained him with a tire
the matchbox was ready in wait
women covered their eyes
men held their breath
suddenly gunshots filled the air
people took to their heels
as o land rover grand to a halt
people in blue uniforms dashed out in haste
that's the humane spirit

gently they carried the boy to the vehicle
in high speed they left the place
in the midst of curses and jeers from the angry mob
on reaching the hospital the news was obvious
internal bleeding and broken limbs
made the poor boy visit Hades
so young yet so easily
a life had been lost on peoples hand
yet we call our selves humans

unable to pay the mortuary dues
another cross-less grave awaits the boys body
deep 6 feet under his soul shall rest
his family shall weep forever
having lost the only son
unemployment being the course
many boys will die
crime rates will be at their peak
yet no one tries to stop the situation
and we call ourselves humans

timo was his name
the only son of mama Amina
he died three years go
500shillings was enough
to give him a death warrant
and a free ticket to hell
he wasn't the first victim
many died before him
at the mercy of their fellow mankind
yet we call ourselves humans

the chief finished his eulogy amidst tears
the whole of ghetto inhabitants cursed their act
anger had been the course
yet the government was to blame
for the high rates of unemployment
Timo died a hero,a hero!


Long poem by Angela Lisle | Details |

David and Goliath, Enigma and Pandora’s Lot

David was a young man, David had courage
But David’s courage worried him somewhat!
Citizenship policy needed a Don
Leading by example was attractive, but forlorn 
And Locke’s dominative turn had shattered the Kings’ celestial deity 
Leaving very little in the way of piety or decorum!  

What was needed was an enigma, not a dogma
But Enigma was purported to wear the mantle of Babylon
So David decided to free Enigma of Pandora’s box
By shaving Pandora of her Babylonian locks
And open the dreaded Pandora’s box

What would he find left inside
He wasn’t the first to try; then hind!
At the midnight hour when all were asleep
David decided to have a peep
The lock was broken? The contents robbed?
David was amiss as to what was flogged

You see Enigma as oracle was a feared bespoke 
And so the robbers had changed her into a joke
But deep in one corner bechance left unfound
Pearls of wisdom still waiting to be formed 
Pearls, neglected, disregarded - classed unfounded!
But needed!!!

Her battles were fought, presumed lost?  - were contorted
The silver thread ran like lightening…
Shocking, thunderous, shattering, frightening
The vacuous content of Enigma’s box…
Multiplied by the Pandora legacy  - the robbers’ lot!

The robbers’ dons amalgam displayed
Standing in rows,
Row upon row, upon row, upon row, multiplied, ten fold, nightmare!
All on show
Was this judgement day? - Armageddon?

Pity poor Enigma David thought, her box unfurled?
Was it a barrier? Empty? A burdensome world?
The lamb sacrificed - sorrowful?
Waiting for Godo?
Waiting for ascension?
Waiting for a decision?

Which way will the dialectic turn?
David will you make the decision?
Are you to judge the final hour? Do you have the power?
Will you have the courage? Can you see the end?
Is it the real one?
Or, will you be added to the battles fought, presumed lost, contorted?

Will Mystery remain or misery?
Will this be Enigma’s epitaph, her eulogy? 
Will fate act upon this day, and decide for us which way, which way? 
Which way will the dialectic - will - turn?
Should we live in hope or act? 
Which act will it be? Pearls of wisdom, will there be?
In the end only if it’s the right action will it count! 
Abandonment, anxiety, and despair, do you care? Does it matter?

Moral
If Pandora’s box be open, must have it
The peppered moth you fear not - the Enigma
First women - woe, misery - Madonna - you must trust
For without her you’d be cursed


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

YOU ASKED FOR IT, THE REAL ME

Here I am, rarely proud, but this Canadian stands glorious and free,
Hell, yeah, I know that I can say too much and in more than my poetry,
But I refuse to lay low, bite my lip or act with even a smidge of duplicity,
And I don’t believe that sharing my thoughts in public is in anyway dirty,
How is airing out sadness and regret and confusion doing ones laundry,
And I am sick to death of that overused and brainless analogy.

Frankly, folks, I try to walk the beautiful path of growth and honesty,
Knowing there is a fine line between candor and cruelty.

Art is more than just life; it pulses in marrow and revels in curiosity,
It wraps lines around narrow margins despite a lingering insecurity, 
At best, it joyously leaps onto the canvas or page without a single hesitancy,
At worst, it is a mere copy of some dead genius, a shrine or a eulogy.  

Writing shouldn’t feel like a police state, but like a borderless country,
Where you can fly under leafy oceans and swim through coral trees,
And if you don’t have a clue of what I’m talking about, well, then that IS a pity,
Cause there’s more to verse than a metronome and some ancient form’s history,
And behind the scenes bullying can send a soft heart straight to an infirmary,
Though I can echo bad attitude, why bother? It just takes too much energy.

I know when it’s time to hang my head and give a genuine apology,
But how I am I supposed to feel sorry for standing firm in my artistic doxology?
There is nothing rude about intelligent conversation and agreeing to disagree,
We are peers here and mutual respect should mean sharing views openly,
And I don’t play those parlour games of take it outside, that’s seems bourgeoisie, 
This ain’t no fist-a-cuff or barroom brawl, it’s only an all night long poetry party.

But I DO realize that the poets who have been kind, I have treated shabbily,
Your deserve more of my attention, earnest comments, my friendship and loyalty, 
But I spend my meager free time writing instead of treasuring your golden bootee, 
And for THAT and ONLY THAT, I drop to my knees and beg you to forgive me.

Beloved writers, sisters, brothers, those here and our cherished absentees, 
Each of you dazzles me in some way with your verses, whether real or fantasy,
Now you know where I stand and that I believe grace CAN be found within liberty,
And I hope we all see that door, loosen the locks and toss away all the needless keys!


Long poem by Charlie Rippey | Details |

Eulogy of My Self-Worth

                                               When I die, there will be no crying
                                               It shall be a time to laugh and sing
                                               Good times gone but never forgotten
                                               Hit the road, Jack!
                             
                                               All my friends and family will be there
                                               For drink, talk and good fellowship
                                               Music and dancing everywhere you look
                                               Live and let die!

                                               Games and good times galore what a time!
                                               Party hats and whistles passed out at the door
                                               And let's not forget about the door prizes
                                               A copy of the single "Zombie"!

                                               I am sure there will be times of sadness here
                                               But clever diversions will end that quickly
                                               Before long the place will be rockin'
                                               It's my party and I'll die if I want to!

                                               And to all those that choose to attend
                                               Will be blessed with love forever
                                               'Cause I will see who the patrons are
                                                Well secluded, I see all!

                                                Yeah, it's gonna be a great bash, wish I could make it
                                                But as you see I had a prior engagement
                                                So drink one or two or three for me too
                                                One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer!

                                               To my loving family on this day:
                                               Daddy loves you very much and is still with you
                                               So don't you cry my three little cool kids,
                                               I belive it's time for me to fly!


Long poem by Sidney Beck | Details |

EULOGY FOR A FLY - PART ONE


OK  Let’s get started, huh?
Well, ladies and gentlemen, on this sad occasion, it is my painful duty to welcome 
You all to the farewell meeting convened in honour of our beloved Uncle Hector. 
We gather together on this heap of cat-crap behind the restaurant for two reasons.  
First,  it is  a familiar place full of pleasant memories for all of us, but second, 
And more important, it is Uncle Hector’s own favourite place for passing away 
A pleasant hour two, buzzing excitedly on a hot summer’s afternoon.
You all know, I think, that Hector was born into  a family of 115 flies 
From  his mother’s bluebottle fecundity. Raised in poverty, no education to speak of, 
The young Hector managed to learn the lessons of life the hard way, 
Narrowly missing fly-swatters in kitchens, sprays in toilets,  sticky-paper in bedrooms, 
And many other potentially fatal ends. When he was seven months old, he married  
The beautiful   Mary-Belle,  and they had  a lovely family of 8,236  children, 
Many of whom are the spitting image of Hector himself.  Uncle Hector is survived 
By Mary-Belle and   5,019 of their children. We are all heartbroken as we realize 
That the poor kids are still asking their mum, 
“Why is daddy so late coming home?  When will he be back?”
You don’t need me to remind you of the sudden and untimely end of this fine fly,  
And yet there are youngsters among us today who would do well to be reminded 
Of the pitfalls awaiting the careless adolescent fly.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen,  
Uncle Hector, despite months of expert practice at avoidance techniques,  
Allowed his attention to wander too casually and he accidentally stepped onto flypaper.
What a demeaning end for a leader of such stature.  
Hector blazed a trail  a mile wide 
Through the old-fashioned traditions of bluebottles. 
No mere dog-crap afternoons for him….no ! 
Hector didn’t hesitate to go for the unusual.  The half-rotten  kiwi  fruit. 
The over-cooked  -  nay, burnt  -  shashlik  at the beach or barbecue site.  
His favourites were the day-old vomit from  dogs with food-poisoning,  
And the two-week-old decayed carcass of a mouse or rabbit. 
Youngsters listening to me now would do well to attempt    even half of the stuff 
Practised by our beloved uncle. Indeed we would all do well to try 
And emulate the deeds of such a fly – a shining example to us all.


(continued in  PART   TWO )


Long poem by Leon Stacey | Details |

Between Us and You

O Rich man in purple and fine linen draped
With your lavish home beautifully landscaped
Extravagant, faring suptuously everyday
Please cast your eyes upon us beggars we pray
And on Lazarus whom we have brung to you from the slums
For he only desires of your table the fallen crumbs
We have laid him here at the entrance of your estate
For pity yet between us and you is the this shackled gate
Now open up your heart from behind those closed doors
For even the dogs have come out to lick Lazarus' sores
But the man who could meet the need and supply the lack
Never met him or took heed though he was always brought back
And finally it came to pass that the beggar man died
So the angels of Heaven carried him to Abraham's side
Then the rich man died and was buried by gentlemen and ladies
But being in torments he lifted up his eyes in Hades
And seeing Abraham faraway with Lazarus by his side
He addressed him as father for mercy aloud he cried
In agony for Lazarus to be sent to him in hell fire
After dipping his finger in water to cool his tongue, quench desire

Son, remember how you received good things in your lifetime
Living for worldly luxury all throughout your prime
While Lazarus received evil things with no one to mourn or sing
Or give Him a heartfelt eulogy after death gave its sting
But now he has the comfort for which he was always yearning
And you are sentenced to pain and sorrow in eternal burning
His hope's realized, you're denied for all your days you will rue
Besides all this a deep and wide gulf is fixed between us and you
So that those who want to pass through from here to you cannot
Neither can any crossover from there to this beautiful spot
Of paradise as the Garden of God a bosom for His saints
Who trusted in Him and now have no lack or complaints
Nor will your prayers be heard though your beggings become fervent
That Lazarus should resurrect (yet Lazarus is not your servant)
To go witness to your five brothers and warn them to repent
So that they will not also come into this place to suffer torment
For they have Moses and the prophets them they should hear
And change their minds to worship God with reverent fear
For if they do not listen to Moses and what the prophets have said
Neither will they be persuaded though someone rises from the dead.

				


Long poem by Michael Jordan | Details |

Flying With The Birds

If I were to believe in you, would you believe in me?
If everything that I promised you actually came to be

If I were a beautiful rainbow, a reflection in the sky
Formed by the rays of light as your tears you cried

Sweetheart I am just a simple man with a complex plight
My blessing is you’re here with me, as this quest I fight

Sweetheart you know I’m a warrior, though I live like a ghost
I fight and write living my plight, inside the belly of the host

From shore to shore, a forever war, that will never end
Just today I got the word the host has taken another friend

Another soul another goal of course another wasted life
God I am a lucky man to have become one with my wife

Pains insane it shreds my brain and tears my heart into
I’m left here asking myself, “Was there anything I could do”

I have to write a eulogy though I just don’t know what to say
Here is a soul, another hole, for someone who lost his way 

Sobriety is really great but at times it is truly rather hard
You watch them take another friend and plant him in the yard

Another smoke, another joke another party has reached its end
Here I sit in a spiritual pit feeling totally lost about my friend

I hope someday someone reads what I say, takes another course
Pass on doing that shot, love it or not, death upon the black tar horse

So I shall write my Eulogy falling to pieces about my friend
Who made fun of the man I turned out to be, until the very end

But that’s ok it was just his way, right up until the day he died
The one true light shinning bright, lives inside of you and I

So will all of you join with me let your spirits pen my words
About a beautiful soul, who found his goal, flying with the birds


------------------------------------------------------------------
Very few people in this life that I love enough to let make fun
of the changes I made in my life. Addiction (The Host) took 6
friends in 2007, 5 in 2008 and this is the first in 2009. He didn't
overdose he was shot a couple of days ago in Chico, Ca during
a home invasion robbery over his heroin debt. I used to always
pay his debts when it reached this point with bags of Meth. This
time I couldn't go there for him and now he is dead. This is my
life, my gift and my curse. God Bless you all, mj


Long poem by Gerald Nforche | Details |

THE BLACK CASKET

First draft 

I

By his deeds he was duly judged
And by his greed he was condemned
To the bowels far beneath the Earth-
Cursed tenfold to rot and feed the maggots unfed.

Stark Kilns was his doomed name
A man who burnt with hideous flame-
A name to forever tumble to oblivion
With its proprietor’s ruins and vision.

Not a soul wept
Not a tear on cheeks crept.
Not a soul attended the funeral
Save Kilns’ only overdue Aunt Feen-
A shrunken lady of a hundred and fifteen.


There petched on the solitary scaffold 
Was the casket, a sad but terrible thing to behold-
For every inch of it gleamed of black-
A thing that still makes me tremble as a feeble stag.

The old priest by dogma read the eulogy
And alas! The casket was lowered
To the bowels of the cemetery 
As the Sun hid its pale face
Beneath the horizon.

Thinking that this had brought the end
I turned away from my hiding behind the fern
But my attention became arrested
By a hollow sound, as if a drum had dropped.

There, the very black casket had reached
The base of the grave harder than intended.
Or perhaps the undertakers were in haste
For I had noticed them on edge and none chaste.

Then the undertakers fell to filling
And cursing that grave which today
Is marked by nothing but a pale olive tree
On which every evening perches a mute owl.

For ten years, that olive tree has never a fruit borne:
For ten solid years the owl has had itself sworn
To keep guard on that tree, that hideous tree
And Wait for its doomed master, I presume.

It had braved through like the very true son
Who had lost to the claws of cold death
The best dad in the world. So it had braved
Through the rain and cold that had plagued most days

How the town stirred upon becoming sentient
Of the cold guest at Kilns’ resting place.
Nothing but the owl was on the people’s menu
Many a townsfolk went to see for themselves

How the owl stared back with so much nonchalance
How the creature just glared back, its huge eyes inert.
The townsfolk upon leaving would but mutter:
“A queer creature! I never trusted Kiln’s death.”

It came that these very townsfolk then sat
And secretly planned to bring to its death
This inert guest upon Kilns’ grave.

II


Long Poems