Best Burial Poems
Once, in a thought, it seemed how everything
stood without color, either black or white
or marbled grey, were sparrows tipped in flight
then pitched to the barn by a bastard wing
as feed for that, that unthinkable thing,
that thing which hunts and haunts confounded night,
and taunts with words, good morning, impolite,
on afternoons left without anything.
And in that thought, I think, I ceased to be
a thinker, but a thoughtless totem-pole,
stacked to the measure of deformity
forced on my feathered friends if lacked a soul,
their judgment passed at trial exclusively
not by a robe, but pigeon shot and coal.
blue skies smile at me
white fluffy clouds lift me up
lay me down in sun
Written October 2, 2022
My son went to church
With his friend
Then came home
With excitement in his eyes
He is getting baptized
What a blessing the day before
I took him out for breakfast
Then we had to go buy him
Some white shorts and t shirt
In this time being able to explain
This is like your funeral to me my son
There is more than being dipped in the water
The old man that kept you from God
Is going to remain in the grave
Under the water to remain
When you come up
This is the new beginning
For you will be baptized with a Spirit
That will guide and mold
You unto a Child of God
With new vision and ears
To distinguish between light and dark
Buried in baptism raised to Life
Crucifying old man that God
Might create within a new creation
Old things have passed away
From following desires of the world
New heart and mind to seek
Love in unity of the Family of God
God will show up to anyone
And place the promised spirit within
Seek and ye shall find
Call and ye shall receive
Love all of you,
May God bless, comfort, guide and fill
You with His peace, love, spirit and joy in abundance: )
Neanderthals and
Torajas
Buried the dead
With no cost...
Within
Cave-like holes
The dead did easily
Exhaust…
=====
===
Lying posture
Or standing
To a corpse
Does this matter...?
Does the dead know
Whether their souls fly
In airplane or
Helicopter…?
=====
===
Like Shahjahan
And Taj Mahal
Egyptian Monarchs
Built Pyramids
Tax of the poor
And their labour
Were flown like river
Monarchs, yet, are never culprits…!
=====
===
Whether kings die
Or queens
Doesn't the burden go
On common-man...?
History always isn't
Cradle and swing
As we proclaim
As romantically as we can...!
03 October 2022
BURIAL AT SEA
A poem by Jina Mahalatinia
I witnessed Mama's body
As Angels worked her flesh
Preparing her for death.
And when her flesh was pieces
She was scared of being eaten
(Remembering Viking spears
That killed, not ate, those fish)
So I cried to soothe her fears.
The cold damp day seemed so awry
as rain was falling from the sky;
the thoughts within his mind distraught
with memories of times gone by.
His hopeful dreams were filled with fraught
as reasons deep within he sought
to understand the meaning of
the lessons that his dad had taught.
But now no lessons preached thereof
the meanings of this life and love
for somewhere deep within the mist
his father watched him from above.
Alone with no one to assist
begin the struggles to exist
he now must face within his spheres,
and all his inner strength enlist.
He’s hidden all his deepest fears
as raindrops mixed with salty tears
cascading down his pallid cheek
while mourning all those long-lost years.
May 18, 2022
I bade her last sad goodbye
Even the drooping yellow sunflowers hang their heads,
Could I imagine her lovely soul, so sweet, upwards fly?
How I wished I had a perfumed bunch of reds!
Would scatter them on her tomb.
She deserved better, for she was kind, deserved no gloom.
Yet from afar some bagpiper played his dirge of doom.
A soft north breeze blew to ease the terrible pain,
Though there was no hint of impending rain.
Only listless leaves littered all again.
Emotion got better of me as I wiped my eye,
The blazing sun came out to wither, and flower sheds.
My love, your death cannot assume?
Truly, my peace of mind does but complain.
14 July 2021
Placed 1
Writing Prompt - Fragmented Spaces Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The Indian rounds the corner of the room
Seeing the sadness through the eyes of a girl
There are a lot of things about this world that we don't know
the truth behind humanity the heartbeat of ones last breathe
or the pain one suffers mentally
I don't even know if people can see the truth
Or if they shut themselves out of the real and into the fake
We all know the fakness of what a human can put off
We all know the sickness one stores inside their skull
Can we all see what's going on? this day I see some that are still blind
some that are so blind they can not imagine!
The things one can do
The things one may hide
A life filled with questioning
A life full of hate and despair
A life of several lies
A life with no reason of existing
A series of depression
A time of regret
A worry of fear
A fear of ourselves
An unwritten book with no pen to write with
Voice of reason
Today is the day, years ago, my Father was buried.
Nothing seemed right in the world any longer!
I cried, prayed and wished, I were stronger.
With grief, I saw his casket carried.
………………
No, no, I so wanted to shout!
Do not put him into the dark, deep ground.
Where Lord knows what crawls around!
I said not a word, but closed my mouth.
…………………
I wanted to open the casket and take him out.
He was the best Father, that could ever be.
He taught me honesty that set me free.
But sadly the truth no longer counts!
……………
So on this day, Dad, it is no time for poetry.
I need family and a few true friends.
But I shan’t see them till my life ends.
And I shall be magically accepted, again, amicacblly!
Till then, Daddy…
Panagiota
With a strange, strangled gasp, we gulp the cold air
Crisscrossed by bats in their mad zigzag dash
From out of this cave, out from under this trash
That suffocates us, up our noses and hair;
Blind in the pitch-black dark, we make out the glare
Of bright, shining people who turn into ash,
And ashen-gray minds that sparkle and flash;
The death of the light is a tangled affair.
So we stumble on, tripping from day to day,
Seeking sun in these pits of shadow and strife,
Nodding and smiling even as we decay;
As we go on walking the edge of this knife,
It dawns on us that this anguish will stay
Till the last shovelful of this burial called "life".
So this is where the
fallen lay. Below the earth
they have to uphold.
The Burial, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : L’Enterrement
I know nothing as gay as a burial !
The grave-digger who sings with his pickaxe in bright thrill
The church bells from afar reverberating with their svelte trille
The priest in a white surplice whose joyous prayers hardly in denial
The chorus boy with his voice fresh as a girl’s,
And when at the bottom of the hole, all warm and snug,
The coffin nestles in with the tumbling in soft tug
Of earth making the corpse’s eiderdown, the lucky devil’s
All this looks to me quite charming forsooth !
And then, all those, stuffed plump in tail coats’ sheath,
Mourners whose noses redden while receiving tips
And then, the proper concise speeches stuffed with advice rare
And then, with bulging hearts and glorious foreheads glistening
Hail ! The sparkling heirs !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
A straggle of figures litters the path
Stumbling, windblown, straying apart,
A ragged assembly against graphite clouds,
Inky - black smudges blurred by the rain
Flapping dark shadows, crows circle above them.
Struggling, the figures cluster together
Wearily shuffling, standing then slumping.
Rag dolls with stuffing steadily leaking.
Far away faintly, a wind-torn crying,
The fading call of a solitary bird
Nearer, the sound of someone sighing
And the soft thudding of falling earth.
the Burial grounds
punctuation. marks. on the walkway of life, an ending
we Thank our friends with Kisses
pretending to sl e e p
quaking with terror as
we s t a r e down the drain
creeping Things on stone s
t
e
p
s whispering
Go Home
When you die, where will you go?
Up above? Or down below?
Will you go to feed the worms?
Will you join your friends in urns?
All those years of Godly deeds
All that work to feed the weeds?
Your final breath, a rasping gasp
Your soul shrugs off its mortal grasp
A lifetime's memories before your eyes
Go to the light, before it dies
I hope the vicar's words were true
All those Sundays in a pew
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
A life of prayer, in God you trust
A faithful man ponders his salvation
The atheist merely the cost of cremation
The light eternal? Or forever dark?
One path good, the other, stark
So, tonight, from the comfort of your bed
Ask yourself, “Where will I be when I'm dead?”