Best Crematory Poems
It is the night, in deepest dark, that death foretells
the demon heart in which all lonely feeling dwells.
Yet, in plain sight, our eyes can’t see what life impels,
emotion’s plea, our deepest sorrow love dispels.
Blind are caustic ink filled visions, all light repels,
like charred decisions, ash from crematory tells
a tale where quietus intrepidity sells
the silent impetus toward a life of many hells.
Walled inside this ebon murk, my emotion wells;
beyond they lurk, those who are sane, their tale retells
how life is to live, and the end but brief farewells.
Though my will may bend, it is I that death compels.
02/16/2018
Fickle Art and control Freaky
Don't play well together
Tolerance was not accepted
'Cause he wore pink shoes
Cross the street each day at the same intersection
Fickle Art and control freaky but the road was not
And never could be big enough for these to share
Time square and Big Ben don't speak the same lingo
Don't hold the same values to be sacred
Dust will blow and dust will go
Huff and puff, back to the dust
Medical examiner: What stopped his heart?
Lack of tidal volume, puffed too long
Collapsed a lung...Fire up the crematory
Is it dusty in here?
***Artist note: Ever get tired of the windbags can't let you live your life and them theirs? I sure do.
Thing About It for a While
St. James is determined to be demanding
Resulting in a mysterious misunderstanding;
At Midway and Two Eleven much wind blows;
Have heard there won't be the likes of Lowes.
Also, is some news about an elegant story
Resulting from the presence of a crematory
And on my patience is now wearing thin;
Were people in St James really dying to get in?
Two Eleven and Midway are a combined, central hub;
They need a place there to read poems at a pub
But St. James have supporters who are staunch
Like buying up Brunswick County carte blanche'.
Then time after time and question after question
Having a major seaport is an outsider's obsession
Who in the area does not and prefers not to live
And up anything will never have to give.
Now that Southport had their day in court,
Why should some outsider want to sell them short?
Not only that, many fine tourists it will bring
After they may install more then one swing.
So try to think about it for a while;
Southport sure has such a lovely lifestyle
But meanwhile for present which is now
I am sure Southport will get by somehow.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Bolivia, NC
RiverSea Plantation
Invasion of tears on a lonely street
I crash spheres of sadness that burst with a sigh
There's no one to tear me apart I can meet?
..a Lexus is lost and the driver is shy...
The freezing orchestra plays in my head
Police sirens as one play with my memory
A voice seems to utter " They will give us bread !!!"
As tearing, lost souls head for the Crematory.
I dream I wake up as pure as a kid
"No More Tears" - a shampoo bottle promises in vain
This time though white traces of a salty skid
Releases my heart, my hopes and my pain...
by: iolanda scripca
www.scripca.com
for Paula's Contest "Tear"
Behind the barbed wire
Behind the barbed wire a cherry tree blooms:
bustling petals in the land of death.
Behind the barbed wire a gradient runs
between the scent of flowers
and the omnipresent stench
of burning flesh
wafting from the crematory furnaces.
And I wonder:
if there are pillars of clouds by day
and pillars of fire by night
and loud cries
and pleading prayers,
then where is God ?
Where, behind the barbed wire?
Does he know about žthe walls of Treblinka
and Osvetim?
Does he know that Arbeit macht frei?
Does he know about the Final Solution and
forced labou
and the horror of the Holocaust Trains?
Is he, too, in the gas chambers
gasping for breath?
Is he, too, starving to death,
wishing nothing more
than something to eat?
Is he, too, behind the barbed wire ?
And I wonder:
despite the machinery of brutal killing
in staccatto of bullets,
could they not kill humanity
to the mass graves
could they not bury hope
Because cherry trees bloom
even behind a barbed wire.
cars pass by
the hospital
by the crematory
and emit exhaust fumes
and the chimneys
by the crematory
they emit smoke
emit the dead
from Dante's Inferno
and we breathe them
we breathe death
and sneeze a lot
The temporary altar, Translation of Etiemble’s quintet: Le reposoir by T. Wignesan
For us
As for me, I have renounced the noxious vault
where the other life child concealed a father
whom he had sometimes betrayed his mother
who took him for someone else
the baby she sensed to be a clone.
For you, I have renounced the death mask
which earlier on I yearned leaving on this earth,
baked dust. Pride? But tomorrow you wander about
looking for me in this me, void of feeling,
i‘d rather leave nothing: all: my image in you.
For you, I have renounced the common grave
where, in me, eponymous heroes mortify themselves.
Pride of another kind – hero and zero, these rhyme! –
which provoked me to disown my verse thanks to theirs
in swarms: for you, my passing is not news in brief.
For you, I have renounced the morgue’s formalin:
life lingers on in me as a Sorgues medic
glides me in a body-bag after the great organs
of the death mass. I’d hardly serve to
disgorge your viscera live, and dead, to undo you.
For us, I’ll burn in a crematory oven:
not love’s fires which burnt their poems:
not loves gone cold which had me in thrall
-the floodtide of sperm and blood, mixed with anathemas-,
but of wood and for you. Death, where’s your victory?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Two palm shape a bowl for wound.
My mouth is a big hole of cry
Ruminates in the dark the sorrow
My legs flint-stone-
The hammers of night sparked
The cry from my chest
The sleepers of the graveyard heard it.
This is the hell where heart melted.
I see the dark, cleaves the silence
From ear to ear, like an old warrior,
Grinding the memory, agitating sadness,
Striping a heart of its leaves
The shadow lays his head on the wall.
The ravens are cheerful.
On October the little squirrels come
to trade their love for hazelnuts.
Love warms up the lonely hearts.
Love is crematory of loneliness.
Love is the crematory of my heart.
Two palm shape a bowl for wound.
My heart's stitches itch,
Forgetfulness is the heart drug.
Tomorrow I shall be different.
I shall be good as new
Written by © Fatima Nusairat
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Such egoistic heads tell not to worry
And at our back talk oscillatory
Bad about us, creating a crematory
Where they bury their own glory.
They have a bad attitude of sanatory
Coward, showy, deceitful, predatory.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
I too had such a mad hoary
Who was ready with an itinerary,
Where all bad & deceit come corollary
As she had a base habit of obfuscatory.
She knew less concepts contemporary
And thought herself vital primary.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if I hunky-dory?
We knew those emotions were vapory –
Happy, then sad, angry then nugatory!
Her emotions changed as witch’s allegory,
Hate, spurn, prune are her favourite mandatory:
Now singly fights with colleagues hortatory;
Alas! Does not know her faults & category.
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if hunky-dory?
At first I tried to be a promontory
So that I can save her crematory;
Blind with pride, less corroboratory,
She spurned me having derogatory.
Now also I pity her as she is a hoary
But wish she improves her oratory.
My daughter heard
a Decent Cool-lio smart phone stranger
(with an African sounding name)
give a four fifty one Fahrenheit warning
Some said: the fellow was loco insane
Others said,
not taking heed was the crux to blame
Mr. O Mgeni
said he saw a sickly pale man,
in an ivory tower,
feverishly delirium shouting
And each time he opened his mouth,
everything went up in flames
When the spit started to gushing out,
it petrol-fyingly
burned down the calcium frames
Mr. Onyo
sadly viral said,
the charred voting remains
was carbon dust crematory claimed
Some said this stranger
was a Pygmy green card provocateur
Others said this Mgeni fellow
was a temporarily sworn Masai allure
But, I believe
what my daughter said
Shavola told me: Daddy,
the burning photo negatives don’t lie!
Each time he opened up his mouth,
everything burst into flames
When the spit started to spray out,
it gaslight-ingly
burned down the calcium frames
And I bare witness
to what she said
Mr. O Mgeni avowed:
The 451 Fahrenheit early warning came
Some listened for the ominous, approaching sirens
Others didn’t ... too their crying shame
The holographic records retinitis-ously declare:
When the ground-zero man spoke ...
everything not fire retardant
quarantined,
went up in a green pyre of flames
Every wouldn’t osteopathic frame
Tho’ the early warning foreign aid came
Nevertheless, the charred voting remains
was hot-white coals crematory claimed
The dust blends with
the humid specks.
Smoke twirls. Hangs for a
while, and then departs.
Something was burning far away.
Inside me also. To ashes.
I release the crematory.
It was over.
I will scatter the years,
spent with you. On a sand bar.
Where we stood when tide was
low. Now it is overwhelmed,
the bank. The seagulls don’t
leave ther engraved, gender signs.
Satish Verma
To be a poet, a sagacious sage
Who spills his blood across the page
That tells his tales in black and white
Where wrong is wrong and never right
He knows each breath could be his last
How quick today becomes the past
Love doesn't always conquer hate
And choices made, determine fate
A visionary who can see
Whatever there will be, will be
That Father Time will never wait
The Angel of Death is never late
He thinks that love is like a rose
That where one dies another grows.
Unlike the rose that grew before
With sharper thorns that prick the more
We laugh, we cry, we live, we die
We say goodbye with one last sigh
And all we do and all we learn
Adds not one ash to the crematory urn.
Daniel Turner
Sometimes,
sailing in ebony blades
of saturnine seas
brings forth a forsaken froth
of scarred reveries,
when musk-ochre
tints of sunshine cease
to slice through solemn
scarlet skies and
cruelly-coloured black-pearls
shimmer as an obsidian beacon
of forest-green intentions,
caging pantoums of peace
in glass-jars of
bleeding sandalwood-scented
butterflies, entrapped in
sapphire patterns.
My spirit is often ablaze
as a crematory where
opal-gold truths are buried
eight feet under the raven crusts,
and I rise as feathery-flames
in hot-bronze furnaces
of diamond-dragon's
chauvinistic cave,
so that heart's papier- mâché
cells never sacrifice their
rosemary plasma to
eagle-edged egoes and
noiseless yet suffocating
sonatas of narcissistic
nestled woodpeckers.
I believe, life is wistful
like wilderness of a white-wolf,
growling besides midnight's
brim and howling to the
carmine moon, wrapping
peach-sunsets of serenity
in fluid-time, unfolding
scattered shades of
sonorously rustling foliages,
shimmering in breezes of
crumbling claret twigs and
satin seedlings whining
to the list of traitors,
for their unborn lavender buds.
So, swear not under the afterglows
of august skies and
let me float on the
crest of azure waves, in my
snowflake-capsule, being
immortally evanescent,
As every promise is like
a betraying magenta melody
of crepuscular youth, fading
in forged futuristic pastels.
It seems old age has filtered in
without so much as fanfare--
rapacious, unforgiving, feeding
on my body everywhere
like those precocious maggots
standing by in ignorance,
their bit of consciousness
still unapprised of my arrangement
with the crematory down the road.
Ah, poor fellows, that you are,
I have no fear as I deny your table
in my final earthen home.
Something I like
of going out with fire...
Something to refine my years of lust,
my trust in paradise
laid down upon my breath,
and then dispatched in breathlessness
at every spasm of creative power
that I released for Adam's glory,
or carnality.
What then, do I bequeath to you?
Not fortune, clearly,
not subjective wisdom
that you must encounter on your own.
To you my hearthside chats with God
are something alien that you would
crumple and consign to flame.
My love? Of course there is no doubt.
No, I pass on to you
that which was given me
within my loins, and yours to be
within that strange eternity
that we address, and tremble
that it lowers upon us all,
beckons like a lorelei,
makes food of fantasy,
and of itself becomes
the towering acumen that we
breathe in the far estate of God.
~
This Poem about an instance of pain and plight of Sex workers.
Red Frozen Flower:
Multiple cars flashing the red lights,
Coating red lipsticks on street.
Decorated like a model,
Hair perfect as a wig,
Eyelids having shine of summer sand,
Eyelashes curled like a wave,
with a red rose smile.
While neck loaded in golden figures,
she was garbed in red glittered dress,
in heels giving her ache of a ninety year old.
Several cars slow down,
Pricing her worth,
Touching their crouch,
Ogling with dripping saliva,
Having thought of,
mounting her like,
A lion on it’s prey,
tearing her spirit bit by bit.
Every time a car stopped,
Her heart’s beat hopped,
As the ordeal of,
prior days still haunted,
Gathering her scattered guts,
She hopped on in a red Skoda,
Naive to her future.
When arrived at crematory,
The human mask melted and sinisters appeared,
Advancing to rip her clothes like a bandage,
while they took turn like on a fiery.
She felt the pain of frying in hell,
stabbing of multiple knives,
the crush of several mountains,
and slipping into coma.
The terror went on,
filling the night's silence,
with the ring of her,
pig’s alike squeal.
As she bled lying on crematory,
In the shivers of the naked night,
Like a Red Frozen Flower.