Best Deceased Poems
looking beyond discovery
within one universe
the dark side
faceless without moon
illusion shadows
taking you there
were a fire burns
heart burning dreams
nightmares of reality
a maze
of colours
begin fading
imprisoned eerily
invading black cells
opening hell's gate
eating the light
meaningless hurt
inflicted upon ache
the animal inside
begins to roar
deep churning emotions
mixing feelings
in a cauldron
slowly dying inside
to enter the land
of walking dead
love eats into pain
demonic torture
cold face
of truth
light within reason
slowly coming out
of the dark
clouds shedding tears
a crow caws
entering grey area
one bell strikes
tolling slowly
echoed in
the deep cave
a heart died
out of love
here lies
one broken heart
buried
Late last night
I received a text message
from my deceased wife
six feet under
from her coffin
It read
"Hope you find love again"
She is always thoughtful
she says
It's to help me find peace
and not to
look for love
in all the wrong places.
As long as I don't
change my number
she will
keep in touch...
Virgin
Chastity
Innocence
Integrity
Virtue
Decency
Dignity
Gift
LIVE
Pure Love
Transparency
Light
Glow
Enthusiasm, Excitement, Zeal
Passion, Love,
Obsession
Fervency
Flame
Fire
Cholera, Anger, Wrath, Fury
Strength
Forgiveness
Tolerance
Patience
Kiss
Sapience
Conduct
Behaviour
Delight
Enchant
Gratify
Joy
Happiness
Rejoicing
Bless
Gift
LIFE
Fortress
Affection
Care
Caress
Peace
Beauty
Sincerity
Honesty
Frankness
Deep dedication
Renounce
Self-abnegation
Tears
Laughter
Prayer
Grandiosity
LIFE
Deceased Energy
I asked him,
“Do you believe in heaven”?
Well he said “I think we go on,
something like radio waves.”
That’s the way he was when
he was here.
I turn on the radio at six-thirty pm,
when he used to come home from work.
About the deceased say either good or nothing,
Therefore at the funeral of the deceased chief,
The subordinates danced in full silence,
With happy faces, but slowly with grief!
You were so cold
Couldn't hold you
Bells tol(le)d life gone
After finishing a seminar based on demand and supply,
I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi going by,
and as I sat down in the seat, the taxi driver said to me,
‘my, my, your timings perfect, you are just the same as Terry.’
I must admit he had me thinking, so of course I answered ‘Who?’
‘Terry Parker’ said the cabbie; a bloke it’s obvious he knew.
‘Yeah, anything that Terry did, he was right on every score,
he lived with perfect timing and Terry never had one flaw.’
I had never met a bloke like Terry, so I’m wary of the fact,
so I subtly gave me answer in a way most would react,
‘None of us are perfect mate,’ but the cabbie did insist
That Terry, he was faultless, and so few like him exist.
I heard that Terry was an athlete with the most amazing skills,
His golfing matched the pros, and his tennis playing simply thrills,
he could sing like Johnny Cash; and even better so I’m told,
he danced like Fred Astaire; his piano playing…simply gold.
I could only think he must be special, this Terry Parker bloke,
and the cabbie uttered ‘hang on,’ and once again he spoke,
‘there’s more to Terry yet, you see his memory never failed,
he remembered every birthday, and every one detailed.
‘He was a connoisseur on beer, and knew everything ‘bout wine,
He knew how to serve the finest foods; all simply pure divine.
And if anything needs fixing, then Terry was your shining light,
he was streets ahead of me, ‘cause I can’t do nothing right.
‘He could always read the traffic, and you’d never find him stuck,
not like me when I am driving, for I had none of Terry’s luck,
and I ought to mention women, and how he made them feel so good,
he was the ideal gentleman; he treated women how I should.
‘Terry would never answer back, even if the woman’s wrong,
he was a charming butler, and his charisma it was strong,
he kept his house immaculate, as no other person can…
no one could measure up; Terry Parker was the perfect man.’
When I reached my destination but before I stepped outside,
I paid the driver what was due, and then I thanked him for the ride,
but I thought it best I mention, at more or less a parting whim,
‘this Terry Parker is remarkable, how did you get to meet him?’
The driver took my money, and then he muttered deep and slow,
‘Actually I never met him, but I’m married to his widow.’
The mossy fields host
Refreshed animal spirits
Now they all lie here.
This no-bituary appears in print,
not to tell you where and when he went
it's merely just to give a hint
he's started on a brand new stint
Forget-you-not's at all his intent,
you'll still see him if you kind of squint
please do not cry; do not lament
he's merely paused on this ascent
In lieu of flowers, please do consent
to a donation of roughly ten percent
(as long as that won't leave you skint)
fond memories, for to supplement
Merciful Deceased Mother - Father T'will See Thee Anon
Atheism underscores bedrock
schema Holy Toledo
encompassing mine secular humanistic credo
simultaneously tricking elusive illusion, sans
supernal radiant quintessence
blasting damn ming the torpedo
didst alight kindle linkedin skepticism,
asper this son kissed faith no more,
(nor e'er didst I believe)
with irrefutably blinding albedo.
Though both parents
predecessors theology, included prayer
purportedly distilled within
Eastern European Jewry, where
without bonafied definite
certainty doubts to square
lee dismiss, this mortal
forced to conjecture dare
ring declaratively, while
sitting in thinking chair
(bet my bottom dollar to air)
course, I take leap of faith here
me forebears most likely
modus operandi did adhere
practiced, skewed, premised
Semitic virtue and vice
towed toward theistic obeisance suffice
hath to claim parochial paradigms mice
self attests little doubt,
(no matter scant rice
sized grain genealogical details posit,
one granule pepper, or
other old World spice)
supposed speculative precepts
akin to bing as loose as lice
sen shuss behavior
precepts prevails precise
lee predicated on
(at the minimum Reformed) price
less cherished Jewish,
traditions as device
ordering existence, (perhaps Judeo Christian)
principled tenets to whit
and mention above sit
chew waited at down
chronological arc soon to quit
final chapter of life, though
near ninety year old papa will visit
death be not proud realm
after he doth exhaust limit
of his mortal tenure, I admit
he gives nary a fig,
his meager profit
will not be deeded to any church,
and this sole son
expects (dentured teeth to grit
tight and eyes teary)
to reed only commendable
comments asper his obit,
where spirit of Harriet Harris fuses
with that of Boyce Harris as one unit
Tarry yon forever!
Dear friend and poetess Connie Wong
wrote poetry as lovely as a song.
Reading others’ poems was her passion.
If words were clothes, she was always in fashion.
Sweet Carolyn Devonshire
was a poetess many could admire.
So generous was she
and also a good friend to me!
Sir David Austin, simply called Daver.
With me, his free verse was always in favor.
He joked that he was very old.
But it’s no joke his poems were gold!
Dec. 8, 2022
for Sotto Poet's Who Is Your Best Ps Poet Or Poetess Poetry Contest
Note: Sadly, I have no clue how I could ever find a picture of dear Daver.
I had to get the picture of Carolyn off the FB page of Constance La France. although I am sure Carolyn showed me a few recent photos before her death about two years ago, right now it's all I have. I will try to track a more recent one down! I decided to do my clerihews on deceased poets since there is no way I could ever narrow down my three "best" from the poets active here today!
Middle of the night
All that is heard
Is yelling & screaming
A voice says,
"...No!...
...Why?!...
...Stop!...
...Don't do that!..."
Then nothing
Walk into the room
Nothing to see
Pitch black
One click of the light switch
All is revealed
Empty liquor bottles
Broken glass
Pills
Knife on the floor
Blood splattered all over the walls
With writing on it that reads,
"See what you made me do?"
Look on the floor
A dead body holding a gun
Look on the ceiling
A dead body hanging
What a nightmare
But a wish come true
Both parents
Dead
“From dust to dust”, they say
But that only involves the corporeal body
And the stuff we’ve collected over the years
Like books and clothes and houses and cars
And, and, and. . .
These leftovers can be passed from generation to generation
Or from friend to friend
Or just left behind
And they will eventually revert to dust
But
I trust
That the real me
Which thinks and loves;
Cries, and is attracted to all the above stuff
Is not made of dust
And therefore, will not return to dust
Spirit is a tricky thing to define;
To tie down with solid words
We share thoughts
And smiles and kisses and tears
So when I shed this body
The real me will go Beyond
To happily shake off the dust
And rejoin God
And leave behind
Traces of thoughts
And smiles and kisses and tears
I plan to remember you
And I hope
You will remember me
Wish I were this
Or perhaps that
But when I get those
The dose never enough
To kill the passion off
For I still drive forth
In my wish and want
The false apparatuses are presented on the tiny stage,
The surgeons want to shape up your archaic days.
The larger your poisons are,
The more lethal is their care.
You only care for the austere suggestions,
I want to undergo your sweeping portions.
I want to shake your hand in between infinity,
You want to pull me through this lumbering calamity.
I am another deceased man in this war,
Can you recall the black October?
There is so much rapture in the grave,
You only yearn to be brave.
You are now in a favoured hell,
I want to conjure you back and well.
I want to bring back my old salvation,
Where you were the most cataclysmic passion.
I beg you to wait for me in the uninhabited cave,
I will converge with you soon where you are already paved.
You are situated in your befitting place,
There is awaiting you the perpetual grace.