Grave Baptism Poems

These Grave Baptism poems are examples of Grave poems about Baptism. These are the best examples of Grave Baptism poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |
A full moon night to my delight what is so wrong with doing what's right nothing is right after so long no use in complaining time to move on The Dream Water one day might take me away farther from the comfort of familiarity I float on my back then shut my eyes my body now sinking into ocean arms open wide Now swallow your son back to his nature when he is no longer needed to stay here the next generation are dooming themselves they need my experience to guide them through hell Why should I bother on my own, I strive through I turn my back on the thought of bothering to save you alone in this world my, is it spacious I'm finally smiling, never so gracious.

Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013

Details | Pastoral |
The watery grave
Is proof I was saved.

It wasn't my death
Only the funeral
For a life on Death Road.

God is so practical.
Doesn't use dirt
Only a liquid grave:
A useful coffin
For useless life.

Then a watery resurrection 
Something that has never existed before
Rises powerfully,
To an endless life
With unnatural desires
For a consummate God.

Exchanged offering
Exchanged capacity
For a watery entrance;
Wonderful !.

Copyright © Peter Hall | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
I saw it in dark mornings
And I let my friend to see
Its darkness lived in me
My friend cried and tried
But I kept behind darkness
I could see his tears burn
And I saw it again in me
I wanted to stop its glow
It grew so high that it seizes me
But with soft touch of desire it died
I thought it would end today  
But it grew through dawn and twilight
My friend don’t let me die in darkness
Let me die in light to see stars shine

Copyright © Zakhe Michael Mcunu | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
Making they twice damnation's child than themselves ? When....
An evil entity leaves their abode left wondering amid the wilderness
Determing time's cost while weighing out another thirty sheckles be irony
What's the story morning glory need a little spot to wake up: naked atop her shores
Derriere due north his alabaster box's great divide; sand pebble eyes parched lips choking
Upon her starfish holding tight a golden statuette and how their west was won ? Champagne tulips
Running through fields of mars trekking about another seaside resort sparkling sails banners wavering
Blue red carpet rides gathering seven tides washing away flowers which never were in her hair: gray ghost.

Copyright © Jeremy Street | Year Posted 2014

Details | Rhyme |
within the under belly of
this hob bull ling Leviathan beast
induced roaring hungry soundcloud issued
within abdominal folds
finding they in creased

never diminishing, matter
whether I turn north, south, west or east
this adult desired,
soon after he envisioned
buttered crispy dish eyed fancily feast
culinary cut throat Michelin meisters
(pit a less lee) pitted
against Pillsbury doughboy greased
imaginatively gobbling hectare
thousand island inlaid
juiced kickstarting least

unable to pay thee Monsieur's consigliere –
damn, hard cold cash just shy by a nickle
aye first taken got taken hostage
as a wreck loose poet,
the anti write cadre
strip searched
every stitch of clothes I wore,
then subjected me to an aye tip pickle
pun hush ment,

where this deplorable basket case
stood aghast as hounds from hell
got loosed by thee Don Rickle
lathered canine chops
slapped by foamy salivating tongues
poised to ham er and

make mince meat out this pop sickle
but...lo and behold, as vicious
snooping doggy dogs
approached within a hair breadth
minecrafted fingers fluttered
in the air asper ready to tickle

whereat the snarling killers (bon jove)
rolled with faux pas in the air
kicking, laughing (or a similar
fox simile thereof),
inciting Major Domo tuff flair
his nostrils (like...well
an amazing dragon)

with blood red eyes didst glare
while fur sprouted over his bare skin
honor ably dispelling every last hair
which bizarre circumstance, an opportunity
to escape from this thieving Magpie lair

approved by the ghost of Rossini,
who suddenly prestidigitatiously
magically brought to my defense William Tell
(in the guise oven
instant activating App) pull lick caisson
thus juiced by a whisker avoiding a scare.

Perhaps the realm where dormant ideas germinate
will coalesce into sturdy tomes even if posthumously late
recognition gets affianced with a memorialized slate
where no body will lie,
cuz this mortal will get his ashes sprinkled
intermixed with wildlife,

who will unknowingly consecrate and sanctify
rack and pinion traction, 
where dost dust will fertile lies
to become reincarnated
via blessings sans creatures who defecate or urinate.

Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017