Best Churchyard Poems
Twas darkness upon the quietly residing heath...
And deathly was the sullen red sandstone tower...
Standing gloomily inside the masons dry-stone walls
Amidst toppling granite slabs and the faded, wilting flower.
Solemn was the chime of the hollow, mournful bell
When tolling out on midnights grimly sombre hour;
And thinly the swirling, unearthly mist
Did so wend abouts her silent, melancholic bower.
Where from a fronded yew of venerable years,
Besides ancient trunks of ivy-entwined gnarly oak,
A chilling screech from a sudden ghostly apparition...
Summoning upon waking resident souls - did thus invoke!
For pale his form in soft white downy flight...
But none paler than that of me...
As across from the stream, held by an unblinking stare -
My shaky fears are transfixed so unnervingly!
Oh wise old feathered sage of long owl-lived age,
Unctuous incumbent of learned perch within black night,
Allow this the moment to calm my pounding heart...
And catch upon my fleeing thoughts - after such a wicked fright!!
Hullo, folks!
Do you hear me?
You didn’t hear me when I was dying.
At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried.
I am, as you know, Jinesh,
Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura,
Buried on Sunday—
Like Solomon Grundy!
I did hear you when you were crying—
During the recent floods,
Rushed to your help,
Saved more than a hundred of you.
You all praised me, called me a hero,
Lined the street I lived in
With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot.
Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider,
Was hit by a passing truck,
Which further ran over my helping hands,
Crushing them—
Thus, adding grievous injury to injury!
I lay there on the roadside,
Crying aloud for help,
Which fell on your deaf years:
You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry—
Off to Timbuktu!
I wept and cried for help, by turns.
But I was left there to die unwept and unsung,
Though I had been honoured.
Now you all may say: RIP
But, you see, I remain restless!
***
The clock is striking twelve;
A breeze begins to blow.
I hear a heavy tread:
Someone I used to know?
A hand upon my arm;
I dare not turn around
(Remind myself that graves
Are dug in holy ground).
The fingers bite my flesh;
A stench envelops me.
I ask, ‘Who’s there?’ and turn,
But no one’s there, I see.
I hear a cackling laugh.
The clouds conceal the moon
As voices whisper then:
‘You’ll join us here and soon.’
I sense I’m in a crowd.
It starts to pour with rain.
I gasp and clasp my chest:
My heart can’t stand the strain…
For Kelly’s Ghost Story contest
The dainty hills surrounded a level slice of earth
Where cocooned in times’ misty distance
Ancient gathering concluded that this flat gift
Would provide home for their number.
At the physical, but no longer spiritual centre,
Of the village, was an old country chapel
A monument to a bygone age
Sparsely populated by gently ageing folk.
I am here for a special ceremony
The son of a friend is making his communion
A step on the road to maturity
For the young man of the moment
I sit in my pew at the rear of the chapel
Too many yummy mummies in their finery
Distracting me from the main event;
Irreverent thoughts amongst the reverence.
Presently outside into the sunshine
The young lads return to their immaturity
Bedecked in their communion suits,
Playing football in the church grounds.
The sun stole behind the spire
As shadows strolled
Along the rows of flowers.
Every bouquet,every blossom
A blessing.
Every posey,every petal
A promise
For a brighter tomorrow.
Half way along a line,half in prayer,
I paused on a poem
As an older couple behind me
Read to one another.
Somehow I asked them
How they felt
In respect of the tributes
But they could only let me say
In my own vaque way,
How I felt,
Overwhelmed
An understated.
Forming a farewell to starngers,
Strangely familiar for those moments,
I made my way away
In silent solitude.
I love to visit the church; to wander in the graveyard…
Flitting fleet-footed amongst the copse of corpses,
The grey stone groves of death –
I love those humble long-suffering tombstones,
They rear their bleak blackened heads towards the eternal sky
And remind me of the redeeming comfort of oblivion
I find it soothing, to wander in their company, to reach out –
And lay a soft white hand upon their immortal chill
Each footstep of mine cushioned in bone-rich moss,
Each breath adorning the air with gauzy veils of fog;
I love too, the churchyard chorus, of robin’s peep
And raven’s haunting harmony
And the audible acrimony of ghosts, sitting amidst the trees,
Watching me with curiosity…
I love to consort with them, the silent silver spirits here,
Those who drift, lachrymose, beneath boughs bedecked with blossom
With the pretty pink buds of May
They seem to embrace me as I wander, seem to hold my hand,
And their cool breath upon the nape of my neck comforts…
Soothes away the stresses and strains of this insufferable mortal life
They understand my pain you see – for they have seen it all before,
They learnt life’s cruelest lessons and took them to the grave,
Where they pondered and reflected upon all the reasons why…
Now their worm-eaten wisdom drenches the soil underfoot,
And hangs from the stones themselves in silver trails of starlight
Waiting for me to pluck them like cherries,
To devour the flesh of their knowledge,
And then swallow the kernel of cunning consolation the dead have left –
The ghosts have left – for me…
And so you see, I hold the graveyard dear, and love to sit there
Among the wakeful dead, my feet cushioned by corpse hands
My heart cradled in a nest of ghostly fists…
Churchyard child I am, at home among the amorphous,
And sometimes it seems to me that when life becomes too much to bear,
And poisons my heart with dread,
Then I can come to the graveyard – and find my cold eternal bed
Long grey stone around the Church
festooned with ivy
and marked with lichen.
Marking its perimeter.
Long lines of ancient yews
closing it off from our world.
The Church stark, forbidding.
Its Norman tower against the sky
but abandoned bereft of worship.
Down in the Churchyard
the graves are old and scattered
and all round them grow
sweet forget-me-nots
tiny, so blue and shy
so like the sweet souls
that have gone before
but still they are in our hearts
I wander, blindly seeking
where does she rest?
There is her grave
Oh my love
Why did you go?
There are more blue flowers of remembrance here
You are always in my heart
and I’ll forget you not.
in a churchyard
the pink dogwood
sheds it's blossoms
Ah! To be buried in an old English churchyard
With the dark green ivy and wild roses
Where the sweet nostalgic aromas hill the air
And the church bells ring their clear tolls
My soul with the LORD in heavenly glory
While my aged weary body rests
Under the soil of my ancestors in England or Wales-
Sweet peace with trees and birds in their nests
I would like a little bench under a willow
For those who wish to stop for a visit
Perhaps, a kind word or amusing thought
Every four or five years would benefit.
I'd like a pretty gravestone - not too tall
Simple elegance - my life portraying-
Complete with maiden name and husband's name
Birth date, death date and a few words saying
I came; I lived; I loved; I parted
That I was kind, fair, honest in word
And I cared; yes, that I cared - Listen to the bells!
Glory is absolutely exquisite with my LORD
Evelyn Pearl Anderson
This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
Sitting snugly on a smooth,soft slope
Surveying a stretch of sea eternally still
That moment memorialised in my mind
As the sun- sinking silence soothes the trees
Stand the monuments to shrunken lives.
The plots define within strict limits
The tales of beings whose remembrance
Provides what amounts to no more
Than their names ,ranks and serial numbers,
Their joys and sorrows only to be surmised.
Gloriously the sun bathes the glistening stones
Giving them their moment of glory
Resting softly upon the chiselled legends
And then plunged into the darkness
Of the dead of night
Until their resurrection with the rising sun.
Walking through the churchyard, eerie midnight,
Totally overcast sky, didn't want any spooky fright!
Always considered myself tough and brave
Why getting a shiver looking at the graves?
Why is mysterious moon shining so bright?
Are those ghosts and goblins…wandering in sight?
Hear werewolves howling, and gnashing teeth,
I want to run away, I hardly can breathe!
Never knew there was a castle on top of that hill,
Does Dracula live there, getting a shuddering chill!
I want to scream, someone's freezing hand touched my back,
Oh no, no, please let me go, around me all pitch-black!
Ha ha ha! Who laughs like that in a menacing voice?
Is that my friend, Rob…who made me run leaving no choice!
"Boo" he shouted with a piercing cry, and uncanny grin!
"It's Halloween Night …the real fun is gonna begin"!
Crystal dewdrop jewels pendent from leafless Hawthorne
over snowdrop pearls and early golden buds of daffodil.
A blackbird upon Sparrow, Peggy Gladys does adorn,
while morning light accentuates the name of Mitchell, Bill.
I look behind, my footsteps in the dew a path have worn,
past Throwers by the row, as well as Bunting, Jane. Stowe, Daniel.
There once was a sensitive vicar,
who said, "I'm not one to bicker,
but the peal of that bell,
makes me feel quite unwell,
and plays merry hell with my ticker."
An incensed old soul by the spire,
preaching incense-igniting to the choir,
exclaimed, "There is but one catch,
when striking a match,
don't set your surplice on fire."
A parson spoke from the nave,
"Spend all you can, do not save,
if you've spilled all the sands,
and still have time on your hands,
you can't take it with you to the grave."
A wise minister in the kirk,
enlightened, observed with a smirk,
"When it's dark out there,
put your hands in the air,
as many hands make light work.”
Shall find some space upon this yard
It is just a matter of days,
The inmates here will give no room
For they are stubborn in their ways.
Fit in here is a task I must
Though I have not the faintest clue,
Of how on earth could that be done
But do know I am stubborn too.
***********