Best Burials Poems
Isn't it about time that the West and NATO stepped in
To put a stop to brutal aggression by Vladimar Putin
Men bound and shot, with their hands tied behind their backs
Enough is enough civilised world, it's time to launch attacks.
From cities and towns the Russians are starting to withdraw
Journalists are reporting on the unspeakable horrors they saw
Russians are preventing burials and bodies are left decaying
War crimes are being committed and we're doing nothing.
Horrific war crimes were being committed, by ISIS in Syria
Now the Russians are doing it and claiming it's fake media
Saying actors are being used and what you're seeing isn't true
But Russia we are not stupid and we can see what you do.
We see the evidence from satellite images of a scorched earth
Many bodies were thrown in pits and then covered with dirt
We see many burnt out cars with charred bodies left inside
Just some of the atrocities that Russians, are trying to hide.
Men, women and children have been tortured and left lying dead
And on the roads and pavements there's pools of bright red.
Women and girls raped at gunpoint, in front of their families
The West and NATO should act and bring that scum to its knees.
Russians are spineless with yellow streaks down their backs
They run for cover when Ukrainians launch counter attacks
They carry out abuse because it makes them feel like men
And target old men, women and defenceless little children.
I don't believe for one minute that Russia will go nuclear
All they're doing is sabre rattling and trying to instill fear
We're giving Ukraine arms but I don't think that's enough
The West and NATO need to man up and start getting tough.
There's no need to invade Russia, so it wouldn't be a threat
Just staying within Ukraine's border would be our safest bet
Drive out those psychopaths who've caused so much pain
Stop the horrific slaughter of innocents, and restore peace again.
Even if the Russians pull out robust sanctions must stay
Because Ukraine will need rebuilding and someone must pay
Everyone thought the mighty Russian army was invincible
But they're all cowardly, spineless and utterly despicable.
Written 7th April 2022
Blacked Heart
Within the blackness blissed lies the love that has been missed
For within the miasma mist a darkish deprived heart does resist
Of the silenced sounds heard escapes a lonely wounded word
Of the slumbered souls spurred amidst the dormant eyes blurred
Amongst the burials buried blind my lamenting love is left behind
In a clustered cave confined echoes of a manqué mind maligned
For in a cathedral chastised chant my thoughts in a ravaging rant
In a primal punitive pant bled emotions erected in a penile implant
Where my apocalyptic asylum stands ruling tyrant of sin commands
And demons dream of wastelands I parochially pray with idle hands
My heart a deeper dark by the hour is left in a storm a fragile flower
Upon this shattering shower ardently abandoned with a dying dour.
Music by Enigma - 'Amen'
June.26.2018
Abandon 2
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
The flood of human remains plummeting downwards. Horizon blackened, jolted from the sky. Towering waves of obscure aftermath swarm to the heavens. With a slight endeavor, kingdoms turn to squander.
Ravaging paths meet and become hordes of ailment. God’s hand has erected the retched bowels of man’s mass burials.
An avalanche of skulls,
Rain down the exhumed past of lost ancestry. Prophecies fulfilled to our graves of dispersed dead.
All regrets, in every backward flashback
leave bitter tastes like remorseful morsels
left drowning in your tear welled eyes
each day was longer and lower
lower and loathing
exposed naked in clothing
open and empty without your
....trusting
All regrets, in every backward flashback
chisel names on tombstone with unforgivable clarity
leaving unbearable burials beneath these wretched feet
reincarnated daily sleighing me repeatedly with growing fervor
fervor and hate
filthy face washed over in angst
closed off from safety and salvation without your
....understanding
All regrets, in every backward flashback
grimacing sneers returned in mirrors like evil staring contests
every showdown lost in landslide fashion, reflection laughing
devoured each hour as they slip by consuming
consuming and draining
worlds worth of words and deeds beyond explaining
I'm only half as good and partially whole without your
....forgiveness
Inspired by Mr. Michael Jordan's "Untwisted" contest
The clouds above
Reflect on your waters.
On your rough shore
Walk mothers and daughters.
Indians roamed here,
In distant past.
Their burials are near
Spread across lands vast.
Your waters, cold and clear
Softly caressing the sand.
In the light you sparkle
like diamonds on the hand.
Jealous others are,
As they pale to you.
Your beauty and grace
In your deep, hue of blue.
Art from the heart, a religion of ritual,
where One summons God and glory to center stage,
your spirit enriched by the self confidence that ensues
as inspiration smells like cedar and feels like sanctity,
the physics of mystics in an eye the mind won't deny,
whence a penny is a prize with a wish
to ventilate a voice of sensitive wisdom,
sensational seeing into the human condition,
visions of vinegar in virtue, visciousness in victory, mercy in the face of malignancy,
pleasure in the panic of risk, pain in the placid avoidence of adventure,
securing an ownership in a Universe from our births unto burials
worshiping composition and the partnership it represents,
Vermeer & Vivaldi, Beehtoven & Bosch, amatuer & adept,
feeling like an angel with demon bones, fusing two atmospheres together,
a holy parade of brazen beliefs putting a new world in order for all,
a micro euphoria, a macro excitment, accomplishment ambrosia,
happiness warm and wakeful in hearts pumping for promise,
for a covenant crafted in a workshop outfitted for you, for what you were ment to do,
volunteering to be a lightning rod of a Goddess crazed with passion,
a power placed in One's fibers for maximum purpose by a trusting Deity,
raise humanity's awareness to the truth that existence is an exercise in artistry,
faith framing futurity within the purity
of knowing that I am where I belong, I belong where I am -
J.A.B.
I took a trip to Paris, France and of course I wanted to see all the attractions,
walk the boulevards, see the museums and art galleries, linger at an outdoor
cafe watching people stroll while sipping on wine and munching on cheese and
bread. I wanted to float down the Seine by boat at night. But my reason, for
this trip was to go to Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery, for that is where my family
ancestors are buried. I knew it would not be easy to find them as this cemetery
is huge, spread over 110 acres, over one million people buried there since 1804.
I walk the paths
lingering at mossy tombs:
a thousand birds sing
It is an amazing cemetery with many famous people buried there like Chopin,
Oscar Wilde, Monet, Voltaire, Degras and thousands more, but also ordinary
people. From simple unadorned headstones to huge towering monuments.
One needs a guide map to navigate the roads and pathways through this maze
of stone. I finally had to go to the office for direction and help to locate my
ancestors grave sites.
death has no time
for in my heart you exist
the smell of decay:
I found out some disturbing information, the plots are leased for 50, 30, 10
years and if not renewed the remains are removed, boxed and tagged and
moved to Aux Morts Assuary in a single tomb. When the Assuary gets over-
crowed the remains are removed, incinerated and the ashes returned.
And that is where my ancestors are, nothing but ashes in eternal storage. The
Aux Morts (To the Dead) Assuary is closed to the public, I found that very
odd and it made me quite sad. Why, what are they hiding?
And those plots where the remains were removed from are re-leased to others,
well that is how the cemetery can keep up on the burials, apparently there is a
long waiting list. I am happy my family plot is in a cemetery in Canada where
the remains of those buried will never be touched.
___________________
July 25, 2017
Haibun/Le Pere Lachaise Cemetery
Copyright Protected, ID 923378
Written for the Haibun Contest
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
First Place
Once there were two friends dirtywitch and filthywitch,
never been to crossroads and burials, crazy witches!
Spell casting is greek for’em,
Conjuring the dead is a disorder for’em,
Bloody how could these guys prosper? Pray “kitsune-mochi”
**kitsune-mochi is a fox witch of Japan with great powers!
The Forgotten ?
To live with this conscious contusion
and forget how babies cry
Become so untouched by horror
commonplace a communion with nothing
Care less for hunger
and wish the lacerations pestilent
Abjure the reminder
and seek instead disjunction so cognitive
Every scream drowning
in the approbate applause of spectators
By percentage defame intelligence
and baluster half-whit
Better to forget how babies cry
and how a child's innocence
can be turned into cold splattered meat
Better to recount such heroic deeds
and send the fools battalion to complete them
All laid to burials garden, the disregarded
faceless unnamed the forgotten
And for a price
no soulless may seek redemption
Such a carnage is wrought in the heart
and may brand us all unforgiven
Echoes still the terror
impudent inflicted the weak transgressor
But dragged all to quivering knee
with its spike so driven by denial
Better to forget how babies cry
and how a child's innocence
can be turned into cold splattered meat
At the foot of the unknown soldier
I heard them speak about the past
The generation born after the war
I heard them sing of warfare
Like children recite rhymes
I heard their threats of war
Even from lands abroad
I heard them talk about
Fighting to the last man
As though they knew
The pain of a mother letting her son
Go to fight for the fatherland
Or the anguish of comrades
Falling to foes in battle
And embarking on lonely journeys
Into immortal provinces
The generation born after the surrender
Speak of fanning the embers of war
And lacing the drums hung for decades
They say war is the only path to freedom
Unknown to them that
Men fall like cattle in battle
Where rifles rattle in senseless rage
And men long to return home to
Laugh with families and neighbours for
The gory sight of blood and torn flesh
Is not worth the hopeless glory
The commanders seek
It is not a tale for one’s children
So, when I heard them say the ended war
Needed to be revived because
One clan lays claim to perpetuity
I knew they were oblivious that
Those who started the war
Were absentee members of platoons
Whose children mounted no wagon
Destined for the warfront
Where helpless soldiers turn to dust
While the new generation yet spoke
I heard the voices of many unknown soldiers
On both sides of the fraternal war
Echo from unmarked graves on the battlefield
I heard them ask if the war was a good cause
I heard them ask if any side won the war
I heard them ask if we won freedom
I heard them ask if they were given
Heroes’ burials with the band playing
I heard them ask if those who started the war
Were now satisfied and cared for their kith
I heard them ask if they had not died in vain
And if this generation knew not the woes of war.
The barbed wires gone the craters filled in
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
men's tears have been wiped and burials done
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
young men died because old men lied
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
A nation bows its head in prayer this day
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
stop the killing end these wars
and you will not need poppy's in a hundred years .
The soundless rhythm of my hidden thoughts
Punctuates my strides on the unfeeling ground,
The chorus of my countless unwritten poems
Have a place in my private recesses found.
I feel a poem in the chirruping of the keen sunrise bird
And another in the sickening brutality of heartless men,
A couple of verses in the little-noted burials of great souls
And endless sonnets in the mystic things beyond my ken.
Many moons ago the island was born
spewed up in a volcanic eruption
it was perfectly formed out of rock
five nautical miles from the mainland
A barren isle with no life on it
visited sometimes by birds and seals
over time the dung from them all
provided a base for tender shoots
There was but one stream here
which flowed from the towering rocks
cascading joyfully down into a pool
a stunning splash of viberant blue
Around it started to appear flora
the seeds carried in by the birds
were now taking root and tranforming
life now has a grip which in time flourishes
The barren island soon attracted life
first the birds who started nesting
in the newly grown lushious trees,
their songs bringing musical sounds
Then came the many different insects
most importantly the honey bees
fertilising starting new species
covering the land with lush greenery
Gradually the animals swam over
getting busy finding homes
now the island was flourishing
gay sounds breaking the long silence
Here nature has triumphed over all
transforming a bare rocky isle
life has been yet again reaffirmed
from nothing comes a veritable paradise
Man attracted visits collecting eggs
fishing the shores and lakes
Yet none set down roots here
there is a strangeness that unsettles
Instead they use it for worship
and for their native burials
for they had knowledge of nature
this was not for man to spoil
All was well in our island paradise
until white men found this little gem
desecrating the graves and plundering
the island until it was almost bare
Furious witch doctors set a curse
that night screams could be heard
the natives huddled together shaking
by morning, deep silence reigned
Looking out to the island
they saw new razor sharp reefs
completely surrounding the island
Nature had reclaimed her masterpiece
The light aglow does shine, within the wagon train,
Many voices sing, to the tambourine's enchanted beat,
Playing along the fire warmth, of their encampment.
All together their rations share, with one another, breaking
Bread with an evening prayer, over warm cider, to keep the
Nights chill away.
These are the lost people, searching for a homeland beyond
The horizons hidden path.
Can you hear the echoing sounds, of the cricking wagon wheels,
Or the wind chimes, blowing in the timeless mountain breeze.
The last wagon is the smallest, it contains a precious prize,
Of the Gypsies,
She is the magi woman, the heart of her people.
Fragile and bent with the curl hand of age, yet wise beyond
Her years on earth, a wondrous creature at one with nature.
Many winters passage have her eyes seen,
And felt the springs warming breath against
The raw flesh has she experienced.
Blessings birthing, and sorrows burials, has this
Lone woman been present for, the tribes
Precious Magi, named Mystic Rose.
Lean does she, against a willow staff,
Walking generations ancestral path,
Remembering a cultural heritage, past
Down by mother unto daughter.
Within this living monument of memories,
Beats the heart of a wondering people,
Whom have cried an ocean of tears,
Yet do they not realize they are freedoms
Children, knowing a liberation beyond
Pains and suffrage ultimate dream, to be
Free without boundaries limitations.
But she knows, the Mystic Rose Magi,
So see guides them along the well hidden
Venues, to the valleys evergreen, keeping
Them safe from apprehensions heavy yoke.
For they are the gypsies tribes and she
Is their precious gift the sacred Magi,
Named the Mystic Rose.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Walking hand in hand we pass a
Very old and abandoned church
That people gave up praying in
So many, many years ago.
Oh, my! The stories it could tell
Of births and deaths and tragedies
And sailors lost to vicious seas
In winter storms and gales of winds.
It’s seen the days of tall mast ships
With sails a-bellowing at sea.
It’s seen the steam from engine stacks
And generator powered props.
It has seen world war one and two,
Hiroshima atomic bombed,
Our rovers crawl on Martian soils
And satellites explore deep space.
It’s seen the farmer grow his crops,
Give thanks for them inside the church
And hosted many wedding feasts
As well as many burials.
Now it has seen a new couple
Taking first steps in their new lives,
Take a moment to remember
Then be gone as all other things.
W.C.Hull © 2020-I53-K53-22-L61-22