Bob had been a lonely man ever since
His wife of fifty years had passed.
“Lord, let me join her.” he would pray.
“Let this day be my last.”
Each day, he went to the cemetery,
Just a short walk down the street.
After their talk, he would water her flowers
And hear passers-by whisper, “How sweet.”
One gray and misty morning,
He had hoped for sunnier skies
To plant fall bloomers at her graveside;
But there, to his surprise…
Stood an old dog beside her stone;
Thin and dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as Bob approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as Bob planted flowers,
Carefully sniffing each one Bob put in place.
After the last one was planted, he sniffed it;
Then turned and licked Bob’s face.
Bob smiled. “I had a dog when I was young…
Pal…he was a mighty good one too.
So, if you don’t mind old fella,
That’s what I’ll call you.”
Pal may have been an old dog,
But he was smart and handsome in his way;
So they made a deal, Bob would give him a meal
And a bath, if he decided to stay.
Pal loved his bath, then rolled in the grass.
He slept on a blanket in the den.
In the night, he dragged it next to Bob’s bed.
He intended to be Bob’s best friend.
Pal was such a good dog, housebroken too;
Never made a mess or got in trouble.
He knew about newspapers, slippers and Frisbees;
And when Bob called, he‘d come on the double.
Yes, Pal gave Bob’s life new purpose.
A special bond of friendship was cast.
And never again did Bob pray,
“Lord, let this day be my last.”
For twelve years, the very best of friends,
Together night and day;
And so it was, until one evening,
Pal quietly passed away.
Bob held Pal in his arms and wept.
“Oh, Pal…my best friend…you saved my life.”
He caressed Pal as he reminisced;
Then, sometime in the night, Bob joined his wife.
The next morning, an old woman,
Tears welling in her sad and lonely eyes,
Brought fresh flowers to her husband’s grave;
But there, to her surprise….
Stood an old dog beside the stone,
Thin an dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as she approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as she took old flowers
And put fresh ones in their place.
He carefully sniffed the fresh ones,
Then, turned and licked her face.
She smiled through her tears.
“I had a dog when I was young...
A good one too. His name was Pal.”
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
Legacy of Errors
An eternity of anguish, endured,
Wounds healed, scars uncured,
A legacy of errors and mistakes,
A lifetime of lessons unlearned,
Won 6th Place in the contest: Any 5 line Poem by friend 'Poet Destroyer':)
Copyright © Mohammad Taha Effendi | Year Posted 2014
We only talked sanely a few times,
About how he also had a condition like me,
Although my dad, who had a Medical Doctorate, when James was small wouldn’t say,
Obvious as it was that he had CF from his inward-growing finger-nails,
Dad decided to bypass the issue, medicine to assail.
I have CP, and needed James’s comfy chair to read,
It was given to him in misogyny because it was blue,
About three months before he died he said,
I could have it, and must convince mum and dad that it was mine;
They were Christians, fundamentalist and strict,
And so sometimes there was an elephant in the room,
Between me and James, about the physical.
Death is inevitable, but to them it was only a maybe for James,
When the doctors had said that 14 was the expectation,
I prepared myself for the worst well before it occurred,
As an atheist I am, with no qualms or hesitation.
James wanted for me the best, happiness and friends,
Wanted me to do my best physically, ‘cos he knew I wanted that too,
But he also suspected that I would grieve for him rightly,
Not like a sentimental fundamentalist who believes that Jesus is risen,
But as a steadfast atheist who knows what has been given;
So he knew to remark on my immediate life without him so as to adjudicate.
I cherished Christinna Georgina Rossetti’s poem, Remember,
Long before and for some time after James’s death,
And quietly held in my heart the loved-one’s good wish,
Mum used to think that sometimes I was cold as stone,
But really I'd faced the fact that James was dead and gone.
Although Rossetti was by no means an atheist,
Her poem recites the mantra of the bereavement psychologist,
That to get on with your life as best you can,
Is a right, the partner of grief, and the pathway for your lone self;
In the Bleak Mid-Winter puts Christ as relational to nature,
Instead of pertaining nature to Christ, as it is normally,
And so we must partake of it within our space and our pasture.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
The Wedding Ceremony of the Dead, Part One, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Les Noces de la Mort by T. Wignesan
Orgy of stone !
I drank hate in your inferior parts
And bathed during a wild summer our green sepulchres
O ! death
and my animal mouth became distorted
on those decomposed lips which long ago turned
Stricken by god for having loved you
during transfiguring summers O ! Madeleine
wholly naked breasts dried up by such severe beauty
and by such an impetuous sun between your legs
and upon your flanks two large smelly wounds
I loved you streaming and golden through fatigue
O ! grape of sin ripened by my gaze
I loved your heated mounting sucking in shadows
and the houses your famous teeth and your gardens
all juicy the evening of the dream of whores
Nocturnal city whose walls of tears bitter crypt
the obscene litanies that I have sung that I have prayed
to your Madonnas of pleasure and those testing
the guilt-ridden ex-votos which I trimmed
during my wild years !
How I prayed shed tears sang
How I intoned in a tenebrous voice your praises
at the organ of winter’s rains in the tubas
vertiginous in the shade
and how I walked !
How I stalked Death for a long time under your arcades
with my blood I mixed the oil of cobbled paving
where I looked atrociously for pure crime
amongst discordant murders the agonies
And the svelte leaded-glass window I loved
so naked in the square of memory
that she was visible in the great heaps when her haïr
raving cascaded graminaceous over you revealed
your proud marble O ! speechless
that she was grave and sculpted by your labours
death which bathed you with her tender arms
that she was tall like down in the depths of the lakes
and that your rivers ran sweet on her ivory
How difficult was the offering of tears where to be
to be betrayed down there in the darkness
How she was superbly black this heavy calice
raised by two hands of blood over your sin
from the other being never useless
is the tomb
Lord ! You looked for me
in the vacuous waters of a woman
under the searing myrtles You stifled her
the youthful dead drenched in tears ! And you cried out
more desperately than the light
and You laughed at the earth one could hear
Your heart beating ferociously amongst the stones
Father of my pain ! You tear apart my demise
but why destroy the cadaver since You want
the blood ? and why the emptiness ? and why
do You let me have this victim ?
Hands sullied by the night Am I the murderer
am I the cursed priest of this death
have I eaten the bread over her and drunken the wine
have I shed Your blood over her
have I invented
her body cross of voluptuousness whereupon to have me
O ! jealous gods ! what is my crime ?
I loved her
She was a sword of fury between us
in times gone by,
but dead what can she still retain of my likeness
this forgotten rock pounded by her kisses ?
Is this blasphemy
that these rites of a pious heart
serve as down under the stone’s wing
a black sun in her hair
a sip of shadow at her lips
a portion of autumn in her hand
But O !
You aren’t at all deceived by these environs
of alleys of tranquil slumber : and You require
that I were naked in the battle !
Here I am
made glorious, a great flag of adorable countryside
at the highest tower of the impossible,
laid out for her !
I am the fort on which converge all vistas
raised on the naked ire of memory
hymn of stone and the resounding tomb
where adorable Easter rises protected in You
she who was death
O ! Sacred One !
You Lord, march into crime !
the detonations of the soul and the mammoth
explosions of the depths,
hurry up with the profanous dénouement or the darkness
or it hardly matters the resurrection ! and don’t ever
lift eyes towards the curtain of the theatre.
(from the collection : Tombeau d’Orphée, 1941/1946/1967)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 1, 2014
(from the collection : Tombeau d’Orphée, 1941/1946/1967)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 1, 2014
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014
Lies built - unto the throne
Living without guilt
Dying all alone.
Whatever she finds
Like god throwing stones
Brakes are broke
No chance to show
Vehicle now disabled
Watching us go.
February 22nd, 2008
this is dedicated to my sharp bud Christopher T. we hung out all day and tried to change the brakes on his van. Inspiration hit me with 3 short poems I'm posting. It was a good day and I had a lot more fun then anyone else. Including you ::points out of screen:: what did you do that day? Didn't hang with us, well,
that's too bad.
Copyright © Joel Thornton | Year Posted 2014
… Sometimes, a spring breeze softly blowing
whispers that a presence needn’t be seen to be felt …
… And sometimes, the people piling onto the benches
of packed bleachers sense that a sacred space
is simultaneously filling …
… And often, clustered families gleefully
crane to glimpse their cap-and-gown-clad graduate,
but once the band pipes up
and you triumphantly take the field,
you’ll know you’re in perfect view
of missed and remembered mentors rejoicing
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating …
… And usually, principals and presidents will proceed
to spawn perfunctory speeches … politely received …
by the assemblage patiently waiting …
… But always, always, count on this classic climax
creating an incredible crescendo:
Thunderous applause will
rumble through the bleachers,
rambling onto the field, and
rocket through the air,
rolling onto the heavens
as a sprinkling of caps rains
up, up, up so high, so very high
and … for a slice of a second …
before starting to tumble,
mortarboards are a sea of confetti
tipping their corners in displays of gratitude
to the angels smiling upon you … from
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating!
Copyright © Elizabeth Wyler | Year Posted 2015
O God, the pangs are crushing body, soul
And spirit—working deaths where sunlight fades—
My arms are trunks of pain and taking toll,
While tortures, stings, and sickness hauntly raids
To close the Gates of Hell to shut me in,
And heaven bows to greet while Hades seeks
To send The Reaper with his failing grin.
And illness ruins lives while havoc wreaks
The squalored throes of daily living on—
While body wastes away and breath remains
To sing your dirge while I still carry on…
Like trampling cattle trodding broken frame,
I live between the sunshine and the grave—
Like flowers cut and dying in the vase
Copyright © J.R. Dawson | Year Posted 2013
Warriors are no longer raging,
Women are no longer singing.
Firelight prances inside Seth's eyes,
dancing over Giza he cries:
"Fire! Fire! It will find you all
Even those who refuse to fall,
So even if you escape my deadly chant
Your ashes shall lie where living things aren't.
"If you would try to save the day,
It will be hell you'd have to pay.
I shall breathe my fatal breath
Upon those of you who run from death.
"Your pharaohs shall kneel before me crying
To be set free without you all dying,
But my deserts remain hot as ever
And none can escape - not even the clever.
"Only the faithful to me shall be spared,
So yes, the ones who have never cared.
They'll ball their fists and bare their teeth at Ra!"
"Forever obeying me."
By Leanne Walsh
Copyright © Leanne Walsh | Year Posted 2014
In peak summer,frightening dark an Arabian night,
Khalif Omar busy,putting his things in black and white,
Under an oil lamp throwing not much but little light,
Suddenly gained access his room his wife with Omar to sit,
Omar screwed his hand and ceased the lamp that let to lit,
Why?asked his wife,Omar in a voice like from a well or a deep pit,
Oil from the state's coffers not to burn for others,said Omar bit,
This teaches a lesson for all in power to make their seats proper and fit!
Copyright © Muhammad Safa Thajudeen | Year Posted 2014
Some Solemn Sailor
Some solemn sailor was born and bred,
And no one on him did he want to tread;
He had fighting spirit both day and night,
On open wide ocean such a pretty sight.
Many things about ocean became to fear;
Took away my father who I loved so dear;
Had left my whole life in a complete wreck,
Caused when he did fall from a carrier deck.
Wasn't until morning when orders were read;
My dad was found missing and assumed dead;
He had been there in ocean, for many days;
When found they offered all of their praise.
From flat ship surface soul they soon did send;
Now both remains and body in ocean do blend;
My wonderful father who I have loved the most,
Is down at bottom of deep ocean now a ghost.
Father had been buried two hundred feet deep;
There forever constantly will continue to sleep,
In ocean where God keeps all women and men;
Hearts and souls return back to heaven again.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015
His faith was solid, deep and strong
Held a Divinity degree
But watching as his wife held on
Was difficult and hard to believe
With her, in Christ, his life was filled
With joyousness throughout the years
Their deep, abiding love was built
Through faith the soul will reappear
Now, as her flesh begins to fail
His wife unconscious, on the verge
Of casting off her mortal shell
A creeping doubt starts to emerge
Despite his belief, his human eyes
Have seen but one side of God's plan
An unfamiliar paradise
Is very hard to comprehend
And so he prays for miracles
Another chance to hold his bride
But, as regards the spiritual
There is but One who shall decide
And if it is her time to leave
We pray our friend will soon rejoice
In what he sees beyond the grief
His wife, at peace, on Heaven's shores
Copyright © ben burton | Year Posted 2015
Feel their presence near
Holding you so dear
Hands cupped catching tears that flow.
Always at your side
Hearing when you cried
Thank you for the love you show.
When you think of me
Know that I will be
Rushing to be at your side.
In time you will know
Why things happened so
Blessed is the tie that binds.
For Dave and all those who have lost loved ones.
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
We cannot separate Mother Mary and Saint Joseph
They’re having so much connection
With the mystery of Incarnation of Eternal God
Joseph, being guardian of the Virgin’s spotless honor
Foster-father of the Divine Babe
Mother Mary’s family thought be made known
She might not be stoned by the Jews as an adulteress
Thirdly, that in her flight; have the comfort of a husband
St. Ignatius add yet a fourth reason namely that is birth might hid from the devil
Looking for Him to be born of a wife and not of a Virgin
Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2011
Faith, a mythical bird of your imagination
Sent by an imaginary friend to defend you
who will only help if you have heaped on adoration
I'm not sharing inside information just a realisation, faith isn't your friend !
did faith cure cancer or stop amputations its very over rated
did it save your relations from cremation and stop the emotional devastation
nope !, faith isn't your friend, It promises to deliver you from damnation ,salvation
yet dare to question and excommunication without no questions
so in summation have nothing to do with faith related observations.
because faith isn't your friend
comp entry 04052016
Copyright © stephen pennell | Year Posted 2016
You were so genuine when you shared your soul,
I wish there were more like you,
Instead there is one less.
"Very truly I tell you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life and will not be judged but has crossed over from death to life."
*This poem was written in memory of a friend.
Copyright © Kim Bond | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
There once was a boy, who was six years old,
Loving his parents, doing as he was told.
Church on Sunday, Mom during the week,
Learning about God, playing hide and seek.
Once and a while, they would take a trip,
To their special place, where they would sit.
Father not going, wishing them well,
The boy loved his Mom, he could tell.
Watching his Mom, the boy could see,
That she always carried, her rosary beads.
"Why do you carry those, all of the time?"
"So God will take me, when I die."
Not knowing about this, he decided to ask,
His father and friends, each up for the task.
"Be a good person" they all would say,
"Forget the beads. Continue to prey."
While loving his Mom, her words were golden,
He happened to notice, that she was slowing.
He said "Are you ok?", hugging her tight,
Kissing his cheek, she said "Goodnight."
Over the next few days, Mom lay in bed,
Door cracked open, resting her head.
As he sat near the door, adults came and went,
Hearing the "C" word, knowing what it meant.
"Not my Mom, not so soon,
There must be something, I can do."
She had said "God will take me, with my beads,"
He thought "If I take them, she can't leave."
Later that night, when his dad was in bed,
He snuck into her room and lowered his head.
"I'm sorry Mom, for taking your beads,
Back to me, your path will lead."
So the boy took the beads, and got into bed,
Dreams of Mom's love, filling his head.
When he awoke, he ran down the hall,
Her door was open, and that was all.
Her bed was cold, all made nice and tight,
She's probably downstairs, such a wonderful sight.
She wasn't downstairs, or anywhere else,
Just his father, not himself.
"Come here my son, your Mom has gone,
God has taken her, to be as one."
"She can't be gone, I have the beads,
God can't take her, without these."
He held out his hand and showed him the beads,
Tears in his eyes, just wanting to leave.
"God my son, doesn't need these beads,
Just like I told you, now let us grieve."
The boy threw them down and ran out the door,
Faster and faster, until he had no more.
He walked and walked, at a very sad pace,
Until he reached, their special place.
While he was gone, his mom laid to rest,
The dad was strong, trying his best.
He buried his wife, with a token of love,
A cross made of gold, to help rise above.
When he was through, he began his search,
Many friends to help, all they were worth.
The boy found their place, wanting to try,
To bring back his Mom, from the sky.
After hours of trying, he said "God I know,"
But right just then, appeared a glow.
A glow on his face, so warm and mild,
All he could do, was cry and smile.
His father now knew, where he should look,
Over the hills and past the brook.
Through the woods and past the creek,
To the place, the two shall meet.
He never went, when she was alive,
Wishing now, that he would die.
When they arrived, he found his son there,
Dancing around, without a care.
He said 'Son, are you ok? I've missed you so,"
"Dad I am well, I've seen the glow!"
He said "Mom was here, everything's fine,
She said she'll be here, all of the time."
He humored his son and said "Boy I love you,"
Now go with these folks, they love you too."
As the son walked away, he began to smile,
He said "Close your eyes dad and stay for awhile."
He did just that, standing all alone,
And right just then, appeared a glow.
So warm and mild, he could hardly stand,
For a cross made of gold, now laid in his hand.
Over the next few months, they would make the trip,
To this place, and here they would sit.
Eventually building a house, for them to live,
Two men, a cross and love to give.
Now and then, the glow would come,
Checking in, to have some fun.
Making sure, her men would see,
How important it was, to carry their beads.
Copyright © Todd Gencarella | Year Posted 2017