Best Eulogized Poems
Captive damsel of creative-writing programs,
Personalized, eulogized job of small groups,
The frenetic activities handy to very few,
Poetry now belongs to a subculture hew.
We have accredited professional poets,
Creative writing teachers at all levels,
Composing computer- created poetry,
Creating illusion of the Golden Age artistry.
These professional poets have secured
Their own niches in the academic world,
They cry over the spilt milk like jackals
Snarling over a dried-up well with no aims.
Quantitative work is guaranteed success,
Accuracy, meaning, technique matters less.
=================================
Fourth place winner
Contest: Poetry for poetry's sake of Paula Swanson
Quo Vadis is a Latin phrase meaning "Where going"
Her smile was lopsided, crooked
And her eyes had lost their shine
In a wheelchair bound and broken
Sat this mother dear of mine
Once the one that they called “Sunshine”
Now was bowed with grief and care
Garbled speech and eyes unfocused
Made the people stop and stare
Yet in this woman there was hidden
Beauty of the rarest kind
Love for God and for her family
Love for words all graced her mind
She was brave and she was noble
Took the falls and burns and smiled
Knowing that her child, a daughter
Lived with fear so justified
People did not see the beauty
Hidden in her crumpled form
All that they could show was pity
Perhaps that is just the norm
But in her dear withered body
MS had so brutalized
Was a mother’s lasting beauty
That her daughter eulogized
Once a flower brightly blooming
In the garden of my home
She remains my flower ever
In the memories where I roam
Eileen Manassian
I grew up knowing my mother was ill and that she would eventually die due to MS. I lost my Mama on March 19, 2000. I still miss her...Her name? Angel. That was my Mama's name. When she was younger, they used to call her Sunshine because of her dazzling smile....
More poems I've written about my Mama:
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/may_17_429673
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/my_mothers_daughter_480741
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/march_19__464436
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/i_remember_you_443028
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_hypochondriac_429384
Sometimes when I write, I tend to stretch the truth.
Same as when I gossip; I've done that since my youth.
It's not so much deliberate, but to tell a story well,
Folks tend to stray from tedious facts to magnify the tale.
This habit's often utilized a bit, I have surmised,
In speeches heard at funerals for loved ones eulogized.
By writers of the news I'd say it ought not be employed.
But “doozies” can be found inside almost any tabloid.
I think, for my defense, especially writing nonsense,
I need to find the place to get my own poetic license.
I pose to you this question- In my practice as a poet,
If I get myself a license then, to whom should I then show it?
for Let 'er rip (the mention of poetic license made me want to do this one!)
The sun rose in the west today – or, perhaps, I was standing on my head?
I went to a funeral for my very best friend, but the chap wasn’t even dead!
Said he wanted to be eulogized while drinking a pint of beer.
I think the things we said about him, weren’t exactly what he wanted to hear.
“He was, or is, an egotistical old bastard – doesn’t surprise me in the least,
that he wants to attend his own funeral service – God, what a horrible beast!”
And that, my friends, was from his Mom; the best friend a boy ever had.
“When finally they put his body in the ground, I think we’ll all be glad.”
Egad!
Global warming took a holiday, as the snow piled up real high;
that bugger for whom we passed the plate, took out his wooden eye.
The casket was full of cold cuts;
The bartender doubled as the priest;
I took another shot of tequila,
while the sun started setting in the east.
The ladies started undressing;
my organ started to rise;
I played Beethoven’s “Requiem”,
with it pointing to the skies.
The only tears that were shed today belonged to the corpse who was still alive –
His ex wife sang that old Gloria Gaynor tune, “You know, I will survive!”
The next time he throws a party for himself,
I think he’ll choose a different theme –
And maybe the people who come and get drunk
won’t be so awfully mean!
Here in this wrecked house
passion's corrupted
and there’s molded love
in the cracks of the threshold...
tragic are the echoes within.
The air is infected with the stench
of rotting hope...rotting dreams...
Scents suffocate and I am apt to scream...
but the silence is just too loud...
time is stressing with its second guessing
Yet, when I close my eyes,
these dire walls are dressed in lights,
teasing with glimpses of familiar eyes…
recalling love... that holds no reflection in the mirror.
I once dared to walk in love's parallel world
and the ache in each step weakened the whole of my heart...
yet, there were times I would have lain with death
as it’s shameful concubine.
Now I live each day…going in circles...
wearing this mask of nonsense
fooling many...only love and I know the truth...
I am wounded and all within has been broken…
just waiting to be eulogized
Invitation To A Funeral
The night cold with it's sharp corners
Cutting comfort through my skin
With drunken footsteps of a soldier
I'm a tourist at your door again
My knock is full of empty
A vacant echo its reply
Consequence provides the answer
Circumstance the reason why.
Can't mend my bleeding ego.
Pieces of me cupped in the hands of my mind
Memories dripping through my fingers
A painful pleasure suicide
Your broken promise castaway upon the waters
Now washed up on desolate shores.
I've become the company
That misery enjoys
My imagination without wonder
Muffled thunder in broken skies
Love is an invitation to a funeral
A memorial service where death is eulogized.
Captive damsel of creative-writing programs,
Personalized, eulogized job of small groups,
Quo Vadis poetry, a damsel in distress?
The frenetic activities handy to very few,
Poetry now belongs to a subculture hew.
We have accredited professional poets,
Creative writing teachers at all levels,
Composing computer- created poetry,
Creating illusion of the Golden Age artistry.
These professional poets have secured
Their own niches in the academic world,
They cry over the spilt milk like jackals
Snarling over a dried-up well with no aims.
Quantitative work is guaranteed success,
Accuracy, meaning, technique matters less.
+++
December 16, 2014
Form: (Contemporary Sonnet)
Stone Mountain should die today.
Tomorrow would be fine.
But that raft of traitors eulogized, defaced
Would remedy an abuse of time.
The betrayers that love it still
Are awash from the American current.
The tattoo of turncoats on that hill
Long abuse our country's spirit.
Stone Mountain must die fast and sound
By dynamite, acid, or hammer.
That sad rock knows its whole bestrewn
Will solve shame to God that raised it.
It was granite first, bigoted statement second
An emblem of lawless, unresolved Reconstruction.
The stone cries out: Fuel the worst in men?
Release me now, come fast my full destruction.
Loves the Dead
My mother loves the
dead she has a curious
fascination with the
dead.
She loves to attend
the funerals of
family members
and even strangers.
My mother is the
first person to call
and talk endless
about the dead.
Does not matter if
she does not know
these dead people
but she cries tears
of sorrow as if she
does.
If she could be
hired at wakes as a
professional mourner
she would be a
millionaire because
she is very
convincing.
But at the family
funerals she is very
animated.
My mother is the one
to watch because she says
that she is going to
jump in the coffins of
this cousin or that
aunt or that
brother-in law or
sister.
My mother loves to
watch the local news
programs for news about the
dearly departed and
then she makes arrangement to
attend the funerals.
Once she took three
Septa buses to attend the funeral
of a little girl who died across
town in North Philly.
Another time she
attended the funeral
of a house itself.
She heard about a
run-down house that
was to be eulogized
and given a funeral
by local community
activists.
She said the food
was delicious
She is known for doing the hair of
the dead in the family.
I wondered if my
mother missed her
calling by not
working in the
industry.
My mother just loves
the dead she is very
emotional when a
family member dies.
My sister drives her
to the hospital or
the funeral home
because she must
view the dead body.
She said they look
like they are
asleep.
My mother loves to
talk about the dead
with one exception
that of her own
mothers’ who died young and
left my mother behind
with her own six children.
Recently with loses
in the family.
My mother is re-living her
mother’s death.
The wooden brown
coffin and the blue
night gown
and matching blue
shoes and the
painted on red lip
stick.
-Once upon a time II-
In a separate realm
Where cloud rains
Where dreams
Are dream
And due
To come true,
Where lives and lots
Are valued
Where chattels
And acreage
Are own
Love, fuddle,
Pamper, behold
And hold.
The most
Incredible deal
In this hectare
At this epoch
Is the way
Of their
Stewardship-
Ancestors are
Alive and
Still rule
The living
Land and humans.
Another bond
Is that of
To bide
Dumb and deaf.
No ruler;
Hail Kings.
And most
Essentially
The beauty
Armed queens
Are to
Be eulogized.
They are
Milestones of
These kindred
Kingdoms.
Food for thought
“This realm is majestic”
The news reaches
The Mighty helm-
The leader
Of the faraway cloud
And his ready
To journey and seek
Elsewhere like this realm
He just heard of.
“May you tell my mother
And my true people
That I, their lord…
Ready to cruise
Away and
To return
With answers
And panaceas
To the seemingly
Unruly
State of
Our land” ……
7/2/2014
"Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher"
William Wordsworth
With the rhythm of his passionate poetry,
rolled the silver-crested wave of romanticism,
inundating the shore of English literature,
where he emerged as the seminal figure.
The beauteous natural world
imparted didactic quality to his poems,
finding correspondence between nature and soul,
and between self and matchless imagination.
The color, fragrance and sounds of spring,
shine of autumn sky, sparkle of sun-soaked water,
made lasting romantic impression in his mind,
influencing the growth of his poetic genius.
He had firm faith in the magnificence of nature
as the prime source of true happiness and joy,
that could enlighten the kindheartedness,
and enhance the spiritual awareness.
A worshipper of nature, he eulogized its charm,
captured the flushing splendor of the landscape
when he felt he “wandered lonely as a cloud”,
to be aptly christened as the poet of nature.
______________
January 16, 2023
Contest : Beloved Poets
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
Exotic egos evade exit endings, encompass=ing eccentric
extensive earwaxed essentials/ergo enameled equi,
existentials everexuding extra egg entrenched eyecons,
extricating eerie effervescent
ephemerals. Ecoli epitaths engulfing erratic enticing eras, escorting
electric eel embraces establishing estival estates ever enticing
etiological esrogenic excerpts effecting extracurricular edsel
edacious eddy ecto estrogenic ecstacies---endemic endowments
enervative energies, etheral engagements, ethylolic etudes eulogized
evinces evasive evidenced evil equipped evocative enforced
excimer excised exercised excessed extrapolated, extended, excess-ed
extravagantly exualted enviously extroverted extrinsic extrose
excused excited exclusive evolved evangalized eventualated
everlasting etude estranged estopped etched eternal enriched
enthralled estate established espirited expressed essemplastic
erosive erratic errantly erased equipoposed epitomized eualized
epicured entombed enthused entertained enthroned entitleded
enlightened enlaced enmeshed enlisted enlarged endured.
Enclosed encounters enlist enclaved endeavors. Endangered
empathys em pale emotive embalmings empty emulsions
extricated eleventh elevated elegant elementary existentials.
Elderly ego ejections, elastic executions, egrets. Ecstatic entrails
endorsed. End-demic equivalents extracted.
The Binger streets are empty,
The Mayor’s mansion sits alone.
When God remembered Thy son,
He summoned Big H home.
His giving heart stopped beating,
Within an April day.
His memories continue on,
For hmmm...is what he’d say.
For the spirit of his giving,
Was the community’s best ally.
Then God requested his council,
For the meetings in the sky.
The golden life he lived,
Was eulogized by the reverend.
God promoted his giving soul,
To be the Mayor of Heaven.
______________________________
In memory of Howard 'Big H' Taylor
for his giving heart and warm friendship
to the community of Binger Ok.
I allude subjects dressed as
black memorials. I hate attending
gray eulogized gatherings filled
with stereotypical colloquialisms
dressed in puke hued green.
Why? As a prose freak of lines,
I engender christianese choking
the very life out of hope. There aren’t
any reliable daydreams charismatically
afloat, just biding time until the next
dark cycle. I did however attend a
meeting of the minds as the sun rose
unimpressed with the vintage of earth.
Let me defer to yesteryears when
love was tender and life was aghast
with yucky booger eating boys and
their ghastly bugs and critters. And
dark thirty was the right time to steal
kisses, just inches shy of streetlight
shadows of the opera.
While harmless caveats of thick skinned
and doting elders dressed in shades of
white buckled shining armour, riddle us
life’s never promised thorn-free, hybrid,
organic food for thought.
Experience, however, promises fields
of sown seeds ripe with a harvest of
our good, bad and ugly. Look past gone,
accept now, and race to tomorrow.
*VIDEO of Hawaii 2023
Hawaii Explodes
A calendar marking succeeds
Absence time textures
Epic life, episodic love, eulogized loss
Enigma nailed to vacancy
The urbane explodes
Hark ambitions, "Carpe Diem"
2023 January 01