Best Dead Poems
Dead Men Do Tell Tales
I saw, the rot of sad, deep selfish desires,
burning endlessly in clever fires
Piles of cash a tall mountain high
stolen by those that cleverly steal and lie
six lying days every week ,
while they race into church pretending
to be ever so mild and meek
The preacher crying all to give so much more
while he lives in a mansion with a golden door
drunks living with no other life
have sacrificed family and wife
naked women on the the street,
selling their pride and body like meat
hustlers getting rich selling poisonous dope
as they hang themselves with an evil rope
I looked for solace and found there was none
just endless cowards crying on the run
A world teaching wrong is so damn right
blind monkeys never seeing the light
dancing in fruitless trees,
tree-rats eating with relish their rotting cheese
Looking for Spring to bring life anew
I too am blind and without a damn clue
a fool holding onto a false hope
on a tight leash and even shorter rope
Where is the miracle we each think can come
we see it shining there for some
A treasure glaring in the glimmering Sun
gifted not stolen by guile and a gun
So I finally turned to family for relief
ease my Soul, winter in my long lost belief
that Life must give us all a saving line
other than more food when we sit to dine
R.J. Lindley
Nov 9th, 1984
Before I die, I want my grandchildren to know these things.
Believe in yourself and be your own best friend.
No one else can keep your secrets like you can.
And if you do not believe in yourself, it will be difficult for others to.
I want my grandchildren to know this:
When you get old your hearing and eyesight may fly away.
Like birds on an almost weather day, never to return.
So do whatever you want now while you are fresh and young.
I want to will my five hundred paintings to my grandchildren.
For I feel my children will pluck them off my walls and burn them.
They know how swiftly I paint, and do not have a love for hippies.
Grands appreciate my neon colors, unicorns, dragons and faeries.
I want to apologize to my children for the mess I am leaving.
I did not bother to clean anything,
It will be a bonding experience for you three girls
A week or two of cousins getting together, which will amuse me.
I want to assure you that I will be in a catbird seat, watching.
I will listen to what you are saying about me, and I will laugh with you.
I never took myself too seriously, and it will be a great time for me.
Because life beyond this world is the real living. Earth life is confining.
Letting you in on a secret. I am an astral traveler in my slumber.
I am not in my body; my spirit is outside, travelling at great speeds.
I do not believe in death, because I am also an empath
I am not “dead” – I am actually more alive than ever before.
Leaves of the Dead
Les feuilles mortes
They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
My voice is weak, my hand falters
as I attempt to speak of my Father.
Each night sleep takes me,
then truth awakes me –
my Dad is gone, now dead.
My heart hears this from my head.
Wrapped in numbness, walking in nothingness,
I search for his presence.
The chain’s now broken, its brightest link gone.
My Dad was security and so mentally strong.
His mind quick, his wit sharp,
he always inspired my young heart.
Pleasing my Father was to lasso the sun.
In him my pride was first begun.
I picture his hands, legs and arms –
my protector from harm;
wisdom was his voice,
comforting his every choice,
willpower his motto, sureness his step.
He was a man of incredible depth.
Knowing I am my Father’s daughter
is a thought to be tenderly kept.
His final, “I love you” words,
the most emotion I’ve heard yet.
I will miss you, Daddy.
Now and forever, naught will I forget.
I’ll see you each sunrise,
mourn you each sunset.
Images crash around me,
I’d have it no other way
Than your memory with
me each and every day.
IMAGINE you have Died
A Free SPIRIT without a CRY
Walking down the AVENUE
PEOPLE passing Straight through YOU
Hearing WHISPERING thoughts to BLIND
Some of GOOD INTENTIONS
Others INTERTWINED
EMOTIONS RUNNING WILD
The Same Old JUNGLE
Same Old SIGH
You BEGIN to WONDER WHY
IMAGINE seeing YOURSELF
An UNFAMILIAR face
SOMEONE else of ANOTHER time or Place
Somehow YOU could SEE the GOOD and BAD
WHY Hearts are BROKEN
The Inner SAD
IMAGINE you could LIVE again
Knowing FULLY well
No One LOSES
No One WINS
All the PATTERNS and DECEPTIVE roles
A CHAOTIC System
Way Out of CONTROL
IMAGINE you have Another CHANCE
To RIGHT some WRONGS
To UNDERSTAND
The WAY things REALLY go DOWN
Would YOU be the SAME
You'd Surely SAY
It’s IMPOSSIBLE to tell
Within the CONCEPTS of HEAVEN and HELL
Whispers and intrigue
and things that shan’t be said,
not uttered or stuttered--
minds shuttered instead.
You cannot, you shall not,
believe your own eyes.
You must put your trust in
our false facts and lies.
Sit down, and be quiet!
You don’t need to think!
Ignore feigned enemies,
when you catch them wink.
You must believe
what we say is true,
because we’re much smarter--
we’re thinking for you!
We’re right, and we know it.
There’s no doubt about it!
You can tell that we’re right
‘cause we’re loud when we shout it.
Ignore all the things
that come to light later.
If you should mention those,
well--you’re just a hater.
This is the story.
Now march to our drum.
All those who don’t,
are worthless and dumb!
* * *
One day some scholar
will take a fresh look
and write a best seller,
an award-winning book.
She’ll reveal the whole truth,
opposite all that we’ve read.
But don’t wait to read it,
‘cause by then we’ll be dead!
______________________
January 6, 2022
King Size Bull Crap Contest
Charlie Messina, sponsor
Standing on the broken cement of the back porch
silently staring into the skies
and talking to myself
Fingers struggling to keep appearances
windshield wipers across my cheek
watercolors gone white
Flippant, fanatical, furious
patient, protective, passionate
trying to love the beast
Sending dreams to the clean ears of the open air
returned quickly, clutched in your mouth, crushed
presented for reward
Dead birds delivered to my doorstep
my nature wants to heal them, bury them
yours waits and wags its tail
Imagine if all the krill
Beneath the ice shelves were dead.
Millions plus millions of krill
Fodder for ocean’s creatures:
Penguins, walrus, whales.
In the end all will die and the ocean
Will be a poorer place for all.
Imagine if all the trees
Would lose all their leaves for ever.
No Autumn splendour,
No fruit, no place where to hide.
Would we not be living
In pure disaster?
Imagine if there would not be any wind.
No music to inspire,
No words to adorn the arias,
No emotion on men’s faces.
We thrive on emotion.
And what is emotion if not poetry?
We simply cannot live without it.
20 January 2021
Placed 2
Can You Imagine - Any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
On days I read…
O dread
The poets are dead!
A taste of bitter
A tatterdemalion squalor
A thread
that dangles
in black death
in the abyss
The art is lost
in those times
The craft
on a cliff
Words swish
then spit
without mystical scope
Spring forth
O poet
Prepare thyself for thy muse
the amusement of thy readers
If thy words
hang upon
thy precipice
let it be stupendous
spectacular
Let them peer
perch
leap
glide with whimsical wings
Fly, poet, fly
Nose dive into the sea
Capture the depths
of eternity
Put a pretty bow on it
or a ghostly hue. Abscond
into the spider’s closet
fiddle on the roof
hang on baby
until you're foolproof
ne’er perfect
leave room for edits.
So the albatross
went diving
but it is the fisherman
that is thriving
up, up, up he goes
into the blue nose
his line
divining
reeling in silver and gold.
Treasures
to share
No dread!
The poets live! Live it up to the end!
It was reported that she had died,
but I saw her
months after the obituary.
She came to me in a dream naturally,
the mind has to be as relaxed
as a three-toed-sloth
before it can report any intelligence to us.
I knew her, the way a distant relative
knows you from an old black and white photo.
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually quite common
in the long buried book of Celtic Memories.
I was hanging-out under my eyelids,
the way a winter sun hangs under a winter tree,
or a sloth hangs from a moist lichen reverie
maybe.
When Anastasia - her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams
came to me,
a pitter-pattering of soft rain
falling onto my big, round, brown,
dreaming eyes.
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
She said.
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself answer:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak:
“Did I say that”?
That’s all I remember.
Later, just for we big thinkers,
I commenced to rummage
through the long buried book
of Celtic Memories.
It was then that, ever so slowly,
I remembered.
"AI has stolen my words and my imagination. As a human writer, I write from my heart. AI can not steal my heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
With a writers human heart,
writers pen in hand to start.
AI machine that is cold,
made out of tin and not gold.
Tell me this is a bad dream,
before I let out a scream.
Muse and pen will always stay,
a human voice all the way.
Abandon Dead Trails And Thy Sybarite Lust
If Nature's earthen-fires thy bosom holds
and thy heart's countenance mind's eye thus sees;
life serves best those adventurously bold,
walking worn paths, resting under its trees.
Seek in truth the great beauty God has made
the opulence of colors in blue skies;
let not dark, thy human empathy degrade
to sorrows that in turn, love's joys deny.
Instead, denude kings of their purple cloaks
and the golden castles they have stolen;
take time to visit regale forest oaks,
ride the rapids of rivers swift and swollen.
Abandon dead trails, thy Sybarite lusts
in Nature's awe, seeking heart there adjusts.
Robert J. Lindley, 8-18-2018
Sonnet, ( Nature's Great Gifts And Its Awesome Healing Powers)
Halloween is a time to let the imagination run wild
Halloween is a holiday shrouded in darkness
linked to the supernatural and known for inspiring fear
Dress like your favorite fantasy creature
or tell ghost stories in a dark room
But Halloween is not just about
to dress up in costumes and ask for candy
A favorable time for predictions about marriage,
happiness, health and death
An evening of spiritualism, ghosts, vampires and goblins
From old time it was a holiday steeped in folklore and customs
Poisoned candies to vampires and goblins
Carving pumpkins to trick or treating at your door
Masks and costumes to scare away ghosts
or to be recognized by them
Happy Halloween and good luck
31.10.2014
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
When life is this tough, you may long to die.
The Grim Reaper beckons, like he's your friend.
Try to remember, dead people don't cry.
A bad beginning, may look like the end.
Your soul is anguished, every night and day.
The Grim Reaper beckons, like he is your friend.
Try not to listen, he'll lead you astray.
It's hard not to follow, his dark allure.
Your soul is anguished, every night and day.
Death's not the answer, it offers no cure.
Filled with sadness, you're not able to think.
It's hard not to follow, his dark allure.
Fill your cup with love, it can be your drink.
Refreshing of mind, dancing with the light.
Pouring out sadness, now able to think.
You have the power, you're able to fight.
Refreshing of mind, dancing with the light.
You thought life was tough, you wanted to die.
Still you remembered, dead people don't cry.
I have heard "when YOUR dead, YOUR dead"
So why is Your memory still in my head
Why does my Heartbeat (still) with YOUR LOVE
It has been 42 years since YOU joined GOD above
My hands still caress YOU, my eyes Beauty sees
Each morning I speak to YOU from my kneeling knees
My nostrils inhale Your most Glorious scent
Will I ever go where YOU have already went
I speak to YOU daily of our LOVE in the past
And the years keep rolling on faster than fast
At night I feel you rubbing my chest
As I lean over to Worship YOUR Brest
I Whisper I Miss YOU and I Always will
Lenore my beloved Wife I'm LOVING YOU Still
The Title is the Words of "Mandy Tams ~The Golden Girl~"
Inspired by : Mandy Tams ~The Golden Girl~
Dedicated to Mandy Tams