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Long Funeral Poems | Long Funeral Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by A. Mark Massey | Details |

The Redemption - Part 2

The Procession

Through love they make the passage into light
of gardens lush and in the morning fresh.
All hand in hand they walk up to the site
she chose to be her final place of rest.
The mourners gathered ‘round the open ground
and sprinkled petals on the coffer tomb.
Cold silence seemed to be the only sound
as bearers placed it in its Earthly womb.
And far behind the family stood a pair
of men in whisper as they viewed in grace.
One spoke about his life now in despair
and other days that brought him to this place.
  “No God of love would leave me in such pain,
   alas my faith in Thee could be in vain”.


Faith in Vain

Alas my faith in Thee could be in vain.
I’ve called on you to find the strength to fare
the tragedies that fell on me like rain
and in that hour I could not find you there.
My son and wife are now three years deceased.
Malignancy now fills my mind with fear.
I’ve given up my search for inner peace.
Now only manic demons harbor there.
I still aspire that one day soon I’ll be
released from all these mortal bonds I bear
and seek to find in Heaven my relief.
Through faith in Thee I hope to find them there.
  I wonder why the God of grace would plan
  to test the mortal circumstance of man?

The Cancer

To test the mortal circumstance of man
my body fights a battle from within;
the cure too strong for many to withstand
with poisons meant to make you whole again.
My ravaged state had left me but a shell
and made me wonder why I even tried. 
When I had fallen deeper into hell
my life was saved but for it faith had died.
My guiding light had been my family,
in darkest moments there to lead me on.
I realized that He watched over me,
providing strength in them to keep me strong.
  I knew my loving family would sustain,
  In death a living memory could remain.


The Death of a Son

In death a living memory could remain,
the patriarchal heir shall carry on.
In vain I walk because there is no name
to call a father who has lost his son.
He stood by me when I was in despair
and as those hopeless visions filled my head;
so futile my request that life be fair
or pray for death to take me in his stead.
My grandchild's birth, his son shall free our pain;
too young to know his father could not stay
reminding us that part of him remains.
But sorrow won and death would claim its prey.
  With family we may conquer life’s demands;
  one man cannot secure such futile plans.


The Widower

One man cannot secure such futile plans
to ever mend a mother’s broken soul.
She was my lover and my closet friend,
the anguish finally took its mortal toll.
We placed her in the ground atop her pride,
this single grave now binds me to this ground.
And soon our bodies will be placed aside
with fleeting hopes our spirits can be bound.
I called to Him, “Have mercy on me Lord,
in my surrender, I’m a broken man.”
I knew it was His judgement I abhorred.
But who was I to doubt His holy plan?
  A granite stone engraved for evermore.
  The only way this memory will endure. 


The Emptiness 

The only way this memory will endure
when all my hopes have withered into dust
and everything in life I once adored
is gone and now in nothing will I trust.
My shredded faith I’ve cast into the air
in pieces I may never find again.
With you my friend these memories I share
so in my sorrow you may understand.
The listener stood in silence for a spell
then turned to look into the mourner's eyes.
Then spoke of this great gift that had befell
upon him just before his son had died.
  Your faith in life and love you can restore;
  It lies within the heart of one so pure.


The Child

It lies within the heart of one so pure
as we stand before this passing friend.
The life and death for all is to insure
that everything that ends begins again.
A child is such a blessing to receive,
so filled with love it heals our Earthly pains.
Just take this child to heart and you’ll receive
all the love and joy He has ordained.
All those gathered stood for one last prayer.
With silence broken each then found their way
along the paths where others shared despair
among the stones where mortal memories lay.
  The soul will find its way to Heaven’s door
  A stone shall mark all those that came before.


The Redeemed

A stone shall mark all those that came before,
the solitary soul shall reign unbound.
With mortal flesh interned forevermore,
we pray the soul is now eternal bound.
Through faith we seek an everlasting life,
we hope our prayers are heard on Heaven high
A fragile son cannot escape the strife,
through love they make the passage into light.
Alas my faith in Thee could be in vain
to test the mortal circumstance of man.
In death a living memory could remain,
one man cannot secure such futile plans.
  The only way this memory can endure;
  it lies within the heart of one so pure.

                        Heroic Crown of Sonnets
                                        A. Mark Massey

Copyright © A. Mark Massey | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Diane Lefebvre | Details |

Wellington Gate

His walk into town would prove fateful that day,
As his mind wandered idly while finding his way.
His footsteps were brisk like fall chill in the air,
Past Wellington Gate, south of Denby town square.

He paused for a time as the hearse passed him by.
Its dark, somber outline contrasting the sky.
Stood still as it turned in through Wellington Gate,
Down this last dusty byway of sorrow and fate.

A pair of dark geldings, black plumes on their heads.
Seemed subdued in their manner while carrying the dead.
Their hooves beat dull thuds on the cold, hardened sod:
Alerting the devil, but more hopefully, God.

The box in the hearse lay there stark and austere.
Poor souls final journey, last trek anywhere. 
The small group of mourners now somber and mute
Trailed after the hearse in reluctant pursuit.

His thoughts then turned back to concerns of the day.
The errands in Denby that had brought him this way.
His footsteps trudged on toward the town just ahead.
On past this bleak place with its fields of the dead.

And the day passed by quickly as he made all his rounds,
Attending to business before leaving the town.
Then an overdue visit to a friend from the past,
Would leave his mind reeling, in tumult, aghast!

For Nell Reed had returned from her home far away.
Nell Reed had come back, never more would she stray.
The scene he had witnessed at Wellington Gate,
The pine box, the mourners, lamented Nell's fate.

Then a blow to his middle - sharp twist like a knife.
Twice now he'd lost Nellie the love of his life.
Nellie, oh Nellie sweet child of his youth.
How could he accept this - admit to its truth?

She now lay in her coffin - pale, cold, not a sigh.
No words would she speak, not one single goodbye.
No explanation of the times in their past:
Of unanswered questions, he could now never ask.

He then found himself back at Wellington Gate.
Fall shadows had lengthened and the day had grown late.
Dead leaves of November swirled under his step,
Invited him follow to where Nellie now slept.

The despair that he felt huddled there by her grave,
Made him seem as a man now most surely depraved.
Harsh pleas for the answers to questions long asked,
From someone once cherished, now part of the past.

Where had she gone while he fought in that war?
Why did she leave, did she love him no more?
Upon his return, mind and body all scarred, 
To face life without her - so sad and so hard?

He cried out in frustration, old sorrow and pain,
As he knelt by her grave there on Evermore Lane.
And the day turned toward evening, but he did not see,
Trapped there in his memories with no place to flee.

Then he sensed someone else, just behind, but nearby.
A young man with Nell's look, most especially her eyes.
In his hand was a letter, tinged yellow with time-
Nell's neat, tiny script penned on each faded line.

"She told me about you and what you once shared,
And asked me to find you, to tell you she cared.
She wished you to have this," his voice held a plea.
"Her last thoughts on this earth were of you and of me."

"The letter was written a long time ago,
When I was a child, before I came to know.
The man I called father, in the days of my youth,
Was only her husband; a well hidden truth."

"He raised me and fed me and treated me well,
But he never did love me and I always could tell.
This letter from mother should bring you at last,
Answers to questions that have troubled your past."

And the son placed the letter in his fathers cold hand,
Waited a moment - made a half-hearted stand.
But he turned then and left - back through Wellington Gate:
To the place he had come from and his own earthly fate.

And his father by the morning, lay frozen and dead,
On Nellie's cold grave with the message unread.
He never did view those last words meant for him,
It grew too dark to see as the cold night set in.

He succumbed to that cold and to Nellie's mute call.
And died where she lay on the last day of fall.
And the years passed on by, like the years always will.
They now lie there together, both silent: both still.

And all who'd remember lie near them as well,
No one now survives for this sad tale to tell.
Yet the legend goes on of this man and of fate.
It's still whispered while passing by - Wellington Gate.

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details |

SCOFFING LOVE

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````March 27, 2013
Vicki Acquah




WHICH WITTY POEM
 DID YOU INSPIRE IN ME,
WHAT SINCERE PRAISE
 DID YOU GIVE MY WORDS
WHEN I THOUGHT 
ENOUGH OF YOU
SEND A POEM YOUR WAY.
WHICH LINE DID YOU WRITE WITH
MY SPIRIT SURROUNDING YOU
.
WHAT SONG DID YOU SING WHEN
YOU THOUGHT OF MY NAME
WHY DID YOU SAY YOU LOVED ME.
WHAT HAVE I DONE TO MAKE YOU SMILE,
HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HEAD ANYHOW
.
WHAT PART OF ME DID YOU AROUSE.
WHY DO I SAY I LOVE YOU.?
WERE YOU SINCERE WHEN YOU SAID "AMEN"
TO THE WISDOM THAT I SHARED
WERE YOU ONE OF THOSE WHO THOUGHT
YOUR MOCKING,WAS MORE VALUABLE
THAN COMPLIANCE.
 
 I HAVE LIVED WITH THE
RESENTMENTS OF SCOFFERS.
I DIGEST YOUR RESPONSE WITH A GULP..
I THOUGHT SO MUCH BETTER OF YOU.
 
I DO NOT HAVE A REAL CLUE-AS TO WHY YOU
WOULD BE THE ONE TO UNDERMINE
AND SCOFF AT LOVE-WITH SNIDE REMARKS
OF FALSE PRIDE;
I WAS CALLED TO THIS THRONE
YOU SEEK TO BANISHING ME FROM.
 
HOWEVER THIS can NEVER BE DONE,
NO MAN CAN PUT ASUNDER
WHAT WAS SET IN MOTION
BY THE HIGHER LAWS OF NATURE
 
I SPEAK OF THE ILLS IN SOCIETY
I SPEAK OF FALSE REALITIES.
WHAT YOU DIDN'T SAY HOLDS FAST INSIDE.
I SAW WHAT YOU DIDN'T DO,
AND WONDER WHY.
 
IN-SPITE OF YOUR MOCKERY
I STILL HAVE A LOVE INSIDE OF ME
THAT ADORES THE GREATNESS IN YOU
EVEN IF YOU CHOOSE TO UNDERMINE
THIS ONLY BOTHERS ME
BECAUSE OF THE EFFECT 
IT WILL HAVE ON YOU
 
ONLY MY FRIENDS WHO ARE GENUINE,
WILL CONTINUE TO RIDE ON MY CLOUD NINE.
RECEIVING NO THREATS, AS
HUMAN I BE, HUMAN I AM 
WITH THE ATTRIBUTES OF
GODDESSES AND MAN
 
TAKE WHAT YOU LIKE AND LEAVE THE REST.
BECAUSE OF THE WORTH I SEE IN YOU .
BECAUSE OF THE WORTH I SEE IN YOU .
THAT'S WHY I SO PERFECTLY ...TOLERATE YOU .
AND OF COURSE WHAT IS LEFT 
NEED NOT BE DISTURBED AT BEST
 
ONE DAY YOU WILL FIGURE THINGS OUT,
ONE DAY YOU WILL KNOW WHY
I SHARED A PART OF MY LIFE WITH YOU .
ONE DAY YOU WILL SEE
THE VALUES THATS BEEN  PLACE IN ME
.
BECAUSE OF THE MIRACLE--
OF LOVE AND FATE COMBINED
ONE DAY REASON WILL COMPLY
WITH YOUR FINITE MIND.
I KNOW WHO I AM EVEN 
THOUGH YOU DON'T
YOU DO NOT RIDE ON MY RHYTHM
OR STEP TO MY DRUMBEAT.
 
BUT STILL you will -TWEAK TO MY HEARTBEAT.
YET MORE WILL BE UNDERSTOOD BYE AND BYE..
AND FOR THOSE WHO FEEL,AND
APPRECIATE EACH OTHERS POETRY or story                                                      
EVENTUALLY ...THE reason will BE REVEALED
 
SO... WHEN THE SLIPPERY HAND OF HOPE IS
EXTENDED UNTO YOU
REACH UP AND GRAB IT
MAKE SURE YOUR GRIP IS FIRM.
 
BECAUSE WHO KNOWS 
WHY SCOFFERS SCOFF 
WHEN LOVE SPEAKS OUT OF CONCERN 
JUST BE PATIENT AND WAIT
SINCERITY AND LOVE
NEVER NEEDS DEFENDING .
ALL YOU LESS CALLOUS , 
WHO SEEK UNDERSTANDING
AS OPPOSED TO MALICE
 
I WILL JUST WAIT AT THE MOUNTAIN TOP  
ONE DAY WITH OPEN EYES YOU'LL COME
THE SLACKERS SHALL JOIN US THERE. 
NO NEED TO COMPARE,WE ALL NEED PRAYER
 
AS LONG AS WE ARE NOT STUCK IN RUTS
OR ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF CONTEMPT 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE 
ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHERS UP
WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS  
THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.
SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY 
FOR I GROW STRONG IN OUR RELATIONSHIP 
SAILED BY THE WINDS OF YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT
TO MY POETS MY TRUE FRIENDS,
I TRULY KNOW WHO YOU ARE, and...
DON'T EVER THINK I DON'T.              

  EVENTUALLY ...THE MEANING OF THINGS WILL 
BE REVEALED, SO... WHO KNOWS WHY SCOFFERS 
SCOFF WHEN EVER LOVE SPEAKS OUT.
 JUST BE PATIENT AND WAIT, SINCERITY AND LOVE
 NEVER NEEDS DEFENDING 

.ALL YOU LESS CALLOUS PEOPLE,WHO SEEK 
UNDERSTANDING AS OPPOSED TO MALICE, JUST WAIT
 AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
ONE DAY WITH OPEN EYES 
THE SLACKERS SHALL JOIN YOU THERE. 
NO NEED TO COMPARE,WE ALL NEED PRAYER,
AS LONG AS WE ARE NOT STUCK ON THE
SLIPPERY SLOPE, OF CONTEMPT , 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE
 ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHER UP

WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS :
 THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY,

 FOR I GROW STRONG IN OUR RELATIONSHIP 

BY THE WINDS OF YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT,

TO MY POETS MY TRUE FRIENDS

,I TRULY KNOW WHO YOU ARE,
 DON'T EVER THINK I DON'T.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2012


Long poem by Stanley Collymore | Details |

Gone and hopefully permanently forgotten

By Stanley Collymore

Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.

But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
or ethnicity.

I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.

Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions. 

So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?

Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.

© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.

In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.

Copyright © Stanley Collymore | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Timothy Jacks | Details |

My Grandfathers Dying Wish

See problems they no worry Timothy
He was raised by his Great Grandmother
One day she taught him
Miho you can make life beautiful or ugly
Work hard, find a woman who has a strong back
Beauty fades it doesn’t last long
Now let me tell you 
A woman with a strong back may not be your perfect companion
Times are changing, I think Faith is more important these days
I say okay Grandma, can I have the horachata now that you made me
No hush up! You can have it when I’m finished talking
Timothy come your poor Grandfather wanted you to have this
It is his Journal and I have never read out of it
She hands it to me
I am struck by it’s cover, it is brown and plain
Yet it spoke to me by it’s elegant style
These words were printed on the cover “Blanco Vendetta”
I was drawn and pulled in untill I was covered by the spell
The first page I open too it says “My first Mil Besos”
The Temptess that blew my heart away
I turn to page 33
It says “The story of an Apache Warrior”
There are no rules to an Apache Warrior when it comes to fighting
He says if you are my enemy I don’t care how but I’m gonna kill you
Page 41 is like a fist full of words thrown across the page
Barrio boxing, The protection of the Shield of Faith
Brokenhearted for my careless speech has left her heartbroken
Strengthened by Love “Amor”
Nourished by the sunshine in her hand
There is healing in its beams
Blessed by her presence Del Dios I am Greatful
I’m like Grandpa what did you say wrong
Then these words come to me
Give her your full attention when she speaks to you
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
So I close it and my finger brushes a bookmark
It’s the Last page
It says To: “Timothy my son who is as mighty as an army”
I Thank you for the Greatest Gift
For the Greatest Gifts are as small as your small hand that touched me
I plant these seeds and they will take root and grow because you are good ground
Timothy let me say That without you I would of never found my Faith in GOD
Listen for it is your Grandfather who is dead and speechless
Timothy you see the good in everything
And I know you will understand my words clearly
If a man gives you his word
Promise me not to plan your future on it
And if you give your word my son
Do everything in your Power to fulfill it
AND NEVER Promise more than you can deliver 
For it is better to put out more than you promised
Everyman is considered unwise when he appears foolish
I wish I could give you some insight about women
But your Great Grandmother may help you better than I can
But never timothy, Never be quick to fall in Love 
Or give your heart to a woman
Listen carefully to her words when she speaks to you
Cherish Her give her your full undue attention 
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
Love your neighbors as yourself
And do not strive against another man
If he has done nothing wrong to offend you
AS much as it is possible live peacefully with all men
And it is okay for you to speak these things with your Great Grandmother
She is a very wise and God-fearing woman
Amor take the greatest care of her, I Love you Son
Timothy when the time comes to avenge my death
Hit harder then you ever have before
But not in a Duel son, not like an open Vendetta
Marry his daughter Maria
The one who is pretty and Two years younger than you
Oh! He will suffer greatly!
And it will kill him to know that I chose this way to repay him
And remember son to be ready to fight any man at the drop of a hat

Copyright © Timothy Jacks | Year Posted 2012


Long poem by Tiana Tillman | Details |

Celebration of life for Dalo

If I only had a few more minutes before you passed away
I'd tell you all the things I didn't get to say
I'd sit down with you and reminisce about our cape cod days
Go over one more time the particular day you walked my way
When you asked me, "can I meet your friend", and you and taryn danced the night away. It was no doubt, meant to be and your family instantly grew to three, taryn was your rock and Jordyn was your number one girl. Within a year you got the news you family would grow to four. I remember when you called me after receiving the news, you kept asking me if it was true. I told u yes cuz taryn wouldn't play a joke like that on you. You were going to be an exceptional father as you already had proven to be. As expected, You embraced the role and a new glow came over you that I had never seen before. The love the joy that shun through your eyes as your family became a family of five. a memory that will never fade in our minds. You worked day and night to provide your family with anything they did need.
I was amazed to see how much you changed throughout the years right in front of me. Your sacrifice, your drive. It was much too early to say goodbye. To a man who's smile alone warmed our heart, a man with so much love of life. From Haiti to Oregon, You played such a prominent role in everyones lives. Your spirit and values will carry on, especially through your daughters eyes.
I'll miss our talks, I'll miss the laughter, I'll miss your relationship advice
I'll miss you telling me to be happy and just enjoy life
I will cherish every word you ever said, even the ones I didn't understand
I will make sure the girls realize you are right there still holding their hands
Looking over them protecting them the best that you can
I will continue to bring my friend back to the joyous state I know you would want her to be. You'd tell her to keep your head up taryn, my love cuz I live inside of you too.
To wipe our tears and go on with our days.
Live life to the fullest and don't question gods way
If I had just a few more moments with you, there's so much more I would say
I'd thank you for the beautiful Angels you brought this way
I'd thank you for showing my friend the definition of true love
God blessed her with your presence in her life
Because You were truly heaven sent from above
For me the words unspoken never really needed to be said
More than just a friend you were like no other
You will always hold a place in my heart, because u you were my brother
Your love will never be forgotten
The fun we shared, The laughter, the cries
We know the hurt will ease in time
The joy you brought, with all of your love and affection
You will always be so much apart
Apart of your soul mate taryn, Your daughters Jordyn, taelyn and Jaxyn
Although we miss you, we are comforted your presence will never leave their side
So from this day forward, my brother, Dalo, WE CELEBRATE YOUR LIFE

Copyright © Tiana Tillman | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Laura Breidenthal | Details |

Doom of Ancient Bloom

Oh, this impish ill!
This mystic flock of ever-roaming pain
You now possess fully, my body and life
I am at your full attention and mercy
Are you not ecstatic?
Are you not overwhelmingly triumphant?
The very body that shamed kings into beggars
And made fighters into martyrs,
Songs to stimulation,
And indisputable chaos to nation…
No, indeed, indifferent you are to my successes
My brilliance and my valiance
You see no more but a breakable man
Another mortal undeniably, indefinably, irrevocably….dying

This misshapen swarm distorts my frame,
These bones weaken as I lay,
Isolated in the mist below the disparaging council,
Away from the ordinary who spat on me in revulsion,
The healthy and the blessed—the cursed clean!!!!
Even relieving the dogs and the fiends from this stinking burden
I am
But a rogue omen, and threat to self-deceived power

My skin is paling, flaking, ah! I feel it
Though dread long has fled to sorrier lands
Seeping in the heavenly regions of trembling angels
Waiting for me to submit, and repent
To a god who has enslaved us—
To—in the end—die,
And for the bravest, and the best,
Perish harshly and horribly!

Agony places itself in all that cries out in me
Tired agony mixed with the sting of venomous words
My family—additions to the cursed clean—they visited me once in prison
My father, rigid, alien to me,
Colder than the prison walls surrounding
And—of course—unwilling to be written upon
Stood silent, as my mother wept,
As his son whom he loves,
Stared at me hollowly, dumbly
Possessing traits that are so doleful
But always more than anything I have died to achieve

Dead flowers crumble in my palms
Now they are long gone
I had been ailing, though enduring,
Spreading and killing off fellow prisoners one by one
The jailer became furious with the disease—
His dying wish to have me alone with the ground and worm

The jailer’s death and the bugger’s will touched the queen, 
The king whom I had served once with reverence
So soon sentenced me prematurely to this tomb
To enclose a black hell of chilling cold around me
And—as was ordinary—granted me
No walls to write on

Tears fall…
I have learned in the silence e’en fury sighs and dims

Pacing and pacing,
I was soon reduced to feverish quaking, and in every sense aching,
Till the floor met my lips,
And the weakness took a fragile but substantial grip on my hope
That moment, I begged this tomb to take me

Because this was my dirge of a conclusion:

We all—cursed manAll—ordinary and brilliant alike
Meet the same filthy fate 
Involving unassuming worms and dirt
Senseless deafness, blindness and darkness
If I ever bloomed,
In your eyes, my father,
Like your sons before me,
I bloomed for naught
Only to, like infants, cry
To die
And rot 

For Justin Bordner's "A Tomb of Ancient Bloom" contest



Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Epitaph Eulogy BY Linda Blair News Flash OBITUARY

 

Epitaph – Eulogy
BY
Linda Blair

This man, lying here in state – DEAD – lives.
His aged soul - but not his heart – he gives
to me – for me - this is such a shame,
so on him – everything – I will blame.

He has always – to a degree -  been there for me.
in my need – my desire – much more, I want to be,
and so, because these things I want, are not met
I have left him perplexed, to wonder, worry and fret.

Fret about the things I do, I do not want him to know,
and so, I play my little games, put on a great show.
Now that he / I have gone - to that great beyond 
I believe I now understand my act – him I wronged.

And so, I now leave this old man – alone
to take his life’s journey - on his own.
I wish I could find peace and glory
in telling Bill, - for my act – I am sorry

I think he knew ?, that it is just not in me
to face up to, and accept my responsibility.
May god speed you on your way Bill,
I pray, one day. you may, again find life’s thrill.

B. J. “A” 2
May 29th 2004

News Flash

   Found today in his Prairie Avenue, seniors apartment, Port Coquitlam B.C.
dead of wounds inflicted, it has been determined, on May 6th 2004 by one
Linda B. of Dewdney Trunk Maple Ridge B. C. who has been alleged to have 
stilettoed Atfield in the heart, many times, in the parking lot of a gas station on 
Lougheed Hwy., and then left him to bleed to death in the parking lot of 
Shaughnessy Station, under the shadow of the catwalk that crosses over
Lougheed Hwy. It hovers over the 701 bus stop, the bus that provided her 
with an escape route, Poof and Mrs., Linda B. disappeared .
   There will be no formal charges laid against Mrs., Linda B. for her crime 
of being a product of her nurturing and nature, for her indifference. 
Mr., Atfield left an impression, he understood the nature of the beast that
laid within and in parting – departed – forgave once again.
   An autopsy performed on Mr., Atfield, revealed that the weapon used
by Mrs., L. B. was similar to numerous others that have perpetrated 
the soul of this old fool, tried to destroy him copious times, on previous
occasions. The scar tissue found, that doth surround, covers much 
of his beating, bleeding heart. This is Friendship ???, this is Love ???

Article written by B. J. “A” 2
Published by The Now News Paper

OBITUARY

Found this gray, gloomy day, of a broken heart,
friendship past away, ended, no chance for a new start.
Laid to rest upon a heap, Wm. J. Atfield Jr. of
Port Coquitlam, British Columbia.
Mr. Atfield is survived by his three Daughters,
his Father, Brother, Brother / Uncles.
Mr, Atfield follows the demise, the destiny,
the fate of many – relatives, friends, acquaintances,
stranger, human kind who have put their faith,
their trust their lives in the hands of friendships .

May 29th 2004

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014


Long poem by Mary Oliver Rotman | Details |

Trilogy for My Father

IMPRINTS
(Part 1 of Trilogy for My Father)

His shoes by the front door make me cry,
like his glasses resting atop an
unfinished crossword
and his toothbrush in its holder
the bristles still damp.
And I wonder...

Did he brush his teeth before he
put the gun to his heart?

A cereal bowl waits in the sink;
The laundry basket overflows.
"To Do" lists adorn the refrigerator.
Suicide is not on the list, and I am
almost surprised.
He was a tidy person, neat
organized almost to the point of obsession.
That's how he lived; that's how he died.

But Dad...

I'd have felt better if, for once in your life
you'd left a mess. But no
even in the ultimate act of selfishness, 
you strove to be polite, choosing to lie 
on the shower's cold tiles, no doubt
thinking we could just flush the blood away
   with the turn of a faucet.

Yes, the place is spotless.
A tiny trace of blood, a single gouged tile
are the only signs that a life ended here.

It seems, somehow, that there should be more.


ASTROTURF AND SNOW
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)

We stand on cemetery Astroturf
     strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
     snow scaling the tops of our shoes
          to compete with the ice in our hearts.

The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
     a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
     reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
     with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
     discover the shame of self-inflicted death.

Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
     we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
     and summon memories that refuse to respond 
     while, in their place, we have 
Astroturf
and snow.


THERE WILL BE NO FLOWERS TODAY
(Part 3 of  Trilogy for My Father)

I took my children to the cemetery, a rare visit,
But they did not understand
---could not understand---
the reality
the finality 
of lives and dreams turned to dust,
of a childhood lying buried in those graves.
Or is it the childhood I wished for those many years?

"Where's Anddad?" my daughter asked.
"There, beneath that stone. His ashes," I said.
Ashes of a relationship as cold as this frosted grass.

"Anddad all burned up!" chortles my youngest.

"And here is Grandma," I tell him, but it's just a word.
"See the rose on the plaque? She loved roses."

I remember when the dog peed on her prized
yellows until they died. Until she cried.
I thought her tears silly at the time but not now.

"Grandma would have loved you," I inform my
bored offspring. 
Loved you like she never loved me.

I reach for the vase set in the grave marker,
but time has rusted it in place.

There will be no flowers today.

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Kizito Sidegu | Details |

throwing the last stone

the episode took place near the sewer
the boy lay lifeless on the stiff ground
his white clothes dipping in red
a rowdy mob encircled him
like vultures awaiting the surrender of a fighting  spirit
his horrified eyes gave their last look
but no one dared to move a finger

yet we call ourselves humans

missiles of rocks were launched towards him
red gushes were the aftermath
a cut from a horrifying slaughter flick
a skinny woman wailed in pain
shielding the youngster as if she were her own
yet nobody breath a word
in mid air she was husked away
scuba diving into the greenish sewer
people watched as if it were a circus

yet they call themselves humans

the grim rippers gambled his fate
the puisne adjudged his eternal verdict,
cremation he thought was best suited
mzee Bakar condemned them to hell
they laughed and said they'll meet him their
the mood sombre,dogs barking,mothers muffling
another incident in the misty shanty
scattered beyond the files of disinfected news rooms
the boy was tied like a gift bag to Cerberus

yet they call themselves men

time flew and people were thirsty
craving for blood they named him a gangster
anointed him with diesel, adorned him with a treaded necklace
the matchbox lied in wait
women covered their eyes
men covered their laughter
suddenly gunshots came uninvited
people took to their heels
as a land rover grand to a halt
pale blue uniforms dashed out in haste

that's the humane spirit

gently they saw the boy to the vehicle
leaving the battle field in mayday
amidst curses and jeers from the angry mob
on reaching the hospital the obvious news
internal bleeding and broken ribs
was the free ticket to the other world
so young yet so easily
a life had slept from peoples' hand
yet we call ourselves humans

unable to pay the mortuary dues
another cross-less grave awaits him
deep 6 feet under his soul shall rest
his family shall weep forever
having lost the only son
unemployment being the cause
many boys shall follow suit
crime rates will be at their peak
but no one tries to halt the situation

and we call ourselves humans

Timo was his name
the only son of mama Amina
he died three years go
five hundred shillings was enough
to give the victim a death warrant
he wasn't the first along the line
many died before him
at the claws of their fellow kind

yet we call ourselves humans

the chief finished his eulogy amidst sobs
the whole of ghetto inhabitants cursed their act
anger had been the cause,vengeance the inhuman motive
yet the government was to blame
for the high rate of unemployment

Timo died a hero,a hero! - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11728524-Throwing-the-last-stone-by-kizocarson#sthash.5UurVg8M.dpuf

Copyright © Kizito Sidegu | Year Posted 2013


Long Poems