Best Cremate Poems
“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.”
David Levithan
I will forever be as pure
as white virgin fibres,
in your onyx
field of ravens.
When the
star-crossed
silhouette of
bleeding ink,
ricochets like
vindictive arrows,
within your
hollow walls,
quenched with
muted echoes,
I am reminded of
your ebony eyes,
cradled under
black decomposing flesh.
I shove my
misunderstood identity
into a pocket journal,
embalmed with a
fragrance of peace lilies
and rhapsodical prose,
amidst doleful dusks
painted with
past mistakes
hidden beneath
narratives of sinful
tangerine nights.
But, remember
that your fallacious
name is an
erased footnote
in the history of
relentless runes.
My tormented tongue
has become
immune to
your false screams.
There is no need
for close-fisted
fingers to flip
through pages,
of the story
I left behind,
as visions of
venomous verses
cremate into
ashes in my mind-
as mere memories
of monologues from
ice cold monsoons,
which don’t define me.
I’ve sculpted fragile
paper boats and
watched them ferry my
demons,
floating on daisies
in a ravishing rivulet
of truth and tranquility,
whilst you chase
impassioned imprints
within chapters
written in patterns
of insincere phrases.
I am a survivor of
your storm,
drawing dreams in
drowsy darkness,
blooming my
amethyst artistry,
which vibrantly
beats to burgundy
evolutions of a
blossoming flower,
who's scent you
will never savor.
My petals
may be fragile,
but I refuse to remain
prisoned in toxic
traits of a
weathered wildflower -
I only attract
majestic butterflies.
My soul is my guide.. Rumi
I once adored the warmth
of unreachable desires.
Ascending too high,
I fell from the sky just like Icarus.
Suffering from the flames of fate,
my eyes resembled a million candles
burning tears of wax.
But, I've always been familiar with fire,
as I was born scarred from internal inflames.
It's a blessing when strings of attachment
cremate into ashes.
Love is a vintage gold rose,
an irreversible ideology,
where thorns grow upon petals of pain.
In an autumnal aura, all scents fade,
so I remain in pale blackness -
my sighs as heavy as smokeless tar.
Yet, I know my soul will blossom,
once again with robins in Spring,
as scents of sweet almonds return
with the rebirth of roses without thorns.
In a world of imagination
the colours of love are boundless.
Romance is an opal rainbow over
stormy oceans yearning for turquoise tides.
If my heart was a gem,
it would reflect like a scarlet diamond,
walking upon malachite meadows,
full of ivory orchids with purple lilies,
admiring aquamarine skies,
with hues of amethyst and citrine.
We were all born to sparkle..
Under tones of indigo moonstone
with hints of pink,
my quill will scribble in lilac ink
as love always returns.
Simple Musing.
when i pass
i will linger on in a few memories
a few nanoseconds in man's history
place no stone above me
with some name easily forgotten
never bury me in the earth
in some hollowed-out cavity
waiting for some delusional day
when cemeteries reach some prophecy
looking like a Wack-A-Mole celebration
cremate me and scatter the ashes
in some pleasant meadow
where i may luxuriate in bathing
in the Bose-Einstein condensation
as the sun rises with the solar wind
perchance an ash lights upon a blossom
a bee gathers pollen
i cling to its toil and escape in flight
hither and dither on the hives path
let me spend a full moon
in silvery shadows that dance
amidst the mockingbirds' song of the night
or rejoice in a tempest roaring
as the trees dance in God's metronome
His power dancing across the sky
in a glorious burst of light
please a meadow of promised halcyon days
where the mortal is scattered in gratitude
of what was so miraculous
to touch, to see, to taste, to smell
blessed with the senses
yet the grandest of them all
for i was given an entitlement
graced with the gift to love
in that first breath was my eternity
when the sun runs dry and expands
all have perished at Jupiter's gates
let my mortal existence return
from which it sprang
the fruition of that breath is home
where space and time harbor no path
where it was commanded
let there be light
OKC 9/22
In an endless night,
time is my nemesis.
In the realms of sleepwalking nightmares,
where trumpets blow an eerie tune,
I can see the Grim Reaper,
perched upon my tomb.
I search for the sandman
in the domain of dreams.
Where hope is an alchemy of potions,
igniting stars to cremate calamity.
In the marketplace of hallucination,
I barter with misty, moody moonlight,
before reality returns to spoil an ephemeral fate,
wishing to remain where imagination illuminates.
Sprites and Sylphs guide to a secret passage,
a labyrinth where ancient secrets sleep.
Yet their black gates are like Hercules' Twelve Labors.
Constant knocking results in the death of spirit.
Defeated by delusions of utopia,
I surrender to a tangible conclusion.
a journey
arrival
The cancer within.
Just another place to be.
(Whatever that means).
hello, now
You look different
than I imagined, filtered
through those gamma rays.
what's up doc?
Shall we slice, dice or
nuke today? My good doctor,
practice on me, please!
calculating cost of repairs
What is the value
of a human life? Do you
have health insurance?
another round of jose chemo
Only kidding, doc.
As far as hangovers go
this one's a doozy.
the good news
Well, at least I did
not lose my hair. (Inside joke,
never had any).
the bad news
I will not succumb
to a natural death. Nor
will I fade away.
cremate or inter?
Suit yourself, daughter.
Either way, I doubt it will
bury my huge debt.
legacy
You win. I lose. So?
Goodbye, now. I think I'll have
that last cigarette.
meeting god
She smiled at him
and said: "Hey there fella, was
it good for you too?"
A lifeless life
dawns through my eyes…
with nothing but wrongs
and no birds in flight
the trees are bare
the wind is zilch
there’s a common wisp in the air
that makes the
oceans lie flat
grass won’t grow
diamonds are coal.
Amber is the dust
of the crust
where the gold
dies and cries…
Fires cremate
but won’t create…
Fables are fibs
and absence…
is our new…
Light.
we never said anything as the Goliath of good swept our heritage.
No! We never said anything
we never said anything as the twentieth century spirit cremate the hearts
of the good and the kind alike
we never said anything
Keeping tight reign over our tongues we watched
-watched as the innocence of our children grilled by the flames of hell itself
we never said anything
we tried but before we could utter the pleasure of gratifying self-played us like violins and
so we watched, silently we watched and silently we never said anything
We watched as the loving hearts of the old and the young alike corrupted by hatred
we never said anything-
silently we watched as the saints’ compromise truth
we never said anything as evil takes victory over good-lies over truth-immorality over justice
silently like the statue of liberty we chose to watch
Words of truth-words of God not failing us but we chose to watch-
watch as the pure wisdom of the old drained into endless drains
NO we never said anything-we watched thinking it nothing more than just swag;-style
This is where black breaks open into bright bleeding feeling
as souls suffer the fire of flesh to enter arena Earth screaming
searching the ether for Adam and Eve's answer to forbidden fever
while angels wear snake skins of war to remember the carnage of this theater
and demons adorn their horns with the rose thorns of newborns,
in the blue garden of aging Eden every breath has a burn, every flame forewarns
denuding knowledge of it's pretenses, unveiling appetites and their prices,
we begin to realize that the Great Mother is a killer as well as a provider for our vices
feeding us the fruits of fortune along with the fate of decay
building our bones, branding the brain, electrifying, crucifying and rectifying our clay,
she communicates, educates and fascinates with looks of lightning and sandy kisses
the Mistress of Lucifer and Christ, she supplies the wood, nails and rain for our wishes,
civilizations rage, rumble and crumble in the judgment of her storms
there's mud and rock for every foot of fury, a cave and castle for all who defy the norms,
in her imperial urn she will cremate your eyes in flames of crude oil
baptise hearts in pools of rose water filtered through eons of soul soil,
her gravity will grind you to the ground where grief grafts prayers from tears,
in the sanskrit of sunrises she will summon songs that give your love ears,
this cradle and cataclysm of her erratic elements is where hearts are born and buried,
Earth, a womb and tomb of ancient bloom, oasis in eternal space where life is carried -
J.A.B.
Instead of breathing air--It is tears I take in.
I can feel them, taste them.
How does one taste their tears…
They slip down your throat when
One weeps on the inside all day.
It has been so long since I heard his voice
I repeat in my head, his last words I heard,
I am afraid I will forget.
“Mama, I love you--I am not going to die.”
I think what we would do if that call came…
No planning a family vacation, a graduation,
There will be no exciting baby announcements
Or wedding invitations
Instead, I wonder will we have a service... No… No…
We will not--
Because in the end it is only us that care.
We will not share you anymore.
Those so called friends will go on with their lives.
They will tell stories of what a bad ass you were
And how you were too cool for school.
They will say words, but will not feel the pain.
Nope--they just keep getting high--as if nothing has changed.
Omg-If they knew we may cremate you,
They would ask if they could smoke you.
Yeah--that is what such good high friends do.
Copyright © fonda anne….mooreofme....mamao
EPITAPH
If I die in India, the following Bhagvad Geeta Mantra will be chanted, as we, the
Hindus don’t cremate the dead body but we burn it. Below is the summery of my
beliefs formed of religious books for the epitaph:
Weapon cannot harm the soul,
fire cannot burn it,
water cannot wet the soul
and the wind cannot make it dry.
=======================================
But in case if I die in North America, the Epitaph would be thus:
EPITAPH
Here lies Ram Mehta
Who took life as it came to him
And left for the heavenly abode
Without regrets
===================================
Sixth Place winner
Contest:POETIC EPITAPH (Subject "I")
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
The eyes are the windows to the soul
My ardent desire is to keep her eyes
Eyes so beautiful
Eyes so omniscient
But how can I conserve it?
Is there any preservative?
Can a hospital do it?
When they cremate her
How can I look into her soul?
Or she can look into mine?
I can’t think of her to be lonely.
She believed in pure love
And she also said “No love without a touch”
She even refused to accept flowers
As they need not be considered the proof of love
I am much agitated and unhappy
As in death even her eyes sparkles iridescently.
+++++++
April 2, 2014
Form: Free Verse
tenth place win
Contest: Any poem goes 18 by Linda
Walking alone on this meandering path
not even a shadow of myself by my side
a cloud of silence surrounds me
I hear only my silent footsteps
as I quietly recite poems about our short lived past
Sometimes I stop, hoping to hear your footsteps too
growing towards my direction to harmonize
with mine as we walk together and reminisce
over beautiful memories of all the things we once dreamed of
but when I hear nothing at all I keep walking ahead
thinking that you might have left me behind
Walking alone on this broken path I wonder
if your love was an illusion; a mirage
I wonder if I should cremate these memories of me and you
or preserve them as architects of my future marriage
Sometimes I stop, trying to locate you
or at least the place where I lost you
but when I fail I keep walking ahead
hoping that somewhere not too far the paths we follow
will converge and there we will reunite
and agree which way to walk.....
My life, my apprehension
(1) Quietly, into this life, I came in creeping
The life my mother gave me, 74 years ago,
As a John Doe, while the whole world was sleeping,
Doing good deeds to the society, & becoming a precious soul.
(2) While I was young, to become a Doctor, I had learned,
For the society, I worked hard, with the knowledge I have earned
Treating patients, old and sick, operations were also a fun,
Whosoever heard me, may share the merits that I got in return.
(3) With wife and children, running my business
In my midlife years, I had enjoyed deceptively
Living happily like a celebrity, playing and saving my riches,
Spending valuable time, & getting old unexpectedly.
(4) It was natural that we were all recycled
Into the wheel of Sansara, we all lived and died
From dust to dust and ash to ash, Christianity’s teaching unrivaled,
Impermanence is the law of nature even Buddha could not shied
(5) So short is our life expectancy, by turning left and right
Unexpectedly getting ill, & unknowingly getting old
Anandathuriya wrote about the pleasures in life,
Its duration was like a bubble, coming out of the ocean floor
(6) Inevitably, our life will end getting sick & old, steady and slow
Do not bury, do not entomb, cremate my remains till it blends
My death wishes, to my family that I told
Summarily, with no exceptions, all in one day, till the end
(7) Even God entered Nirvana; for us mortals, leave alone,
Do not weep, and do not moan and groan
As we came in all alone, we go out in one’s own
Journey is hard… walk your path, you must be tough
Passing the abyss, stride till you strike the beaches of the bliss,
It’s the longest of all voyages that end all the creeds,
It is called the “Life’s Sansara Journey” indeed.
Dr Ko Ko Thein
Salt Lake City, Utah. U.S.A
I owned a funeral parlor and I earned a lot of bread.
I got paid a whole lot of money to cremate the dead.
Each cadaver that I got rid of earned me five hundred grand.
I cremated murder victims and for years I was in high demand.
OJ wanted to hire me.
But he didn't like the million dollar fee.
I always got repeat business from the Mob.
I fried those corpses when I turned the knob.
You'd better believe that when I cremated a body, it was much hotter than a sauna.
I'm extremely surprised that nobody ever wound up hiring me to cremate Madonna.
When I got through burning a corpse, there was never even a trace of evidence.
But the Police broke down my door as I was frying somebody and it was intense.
After being sentenced to fifty years in prison, people nicknamed me 'The Baker'.
If you need to get rid of a corpse, you'll have to call another crooked undertaker.
(This is a fictional poem)
LASHES TO ASHES IN SLOW MOTION
Might I please present myself as a prologue to death
Because unless I am terribly wrong…….
I can’t have too terribly long
And I’ve been lazy too long
But I don’t have too long to act crazy
Incredibly and indisputably inane
And drive other people institutionally insane
My days dry up like clay caskets caught in the Cancun sun
Leading to nights that usually end by me ending up with whiskey whisking away yet another weary evening
Witnessed and coerced by two dead soldiers made of glass
Who kicked my ass the night before
When fright came before a blackout
And darkness led to a morning of foul tasting coffee and a donut of doubt
What secret could the night before grasp tightly in its clutch?
Will people say my performance was a bit too much?
Is there a lady somewhere that I wouldn’t recognize if her eyes were made of fire with whom I let desire declare two bodies bare?
And precisely what did she and I share?
Was it something controlled by a lack of control?
Did we meld in mind, body and soul?
Did seduction succeed in its mission to maraud our minds and give making love the meaning it was meant to have?
Is there a lady out there who borrowed a snippet from my life and may have been complicit in the death of a dream?
Did we watch the world fly in fast forward together?
And sometimes in slow motion in order that our time together would be extended by the exclusion of the relativity of time
And a second could sing for as long as it takes a wedding bell’s voice to fade into the hollowness of night
And a minute might meander down the middle of a mercurial moment and remain there until you sigh deeply and chase the stars away for the morning’s sake
And oh to the music of mysticism your countenance is wont to make
Sung by a choir of questions and a chorus of conclusions
While a flute would fleetingly fade into forgotten confusion
Alas, my days decline by death’s design and do more than demoralize me
My only request is that you disregard my genius and charming manner and please don’t memorialize me
Nor commemorate me in any way
Simply cremate me and toss me away!
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