Best Funeral Poems
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
November 25th, 2013
The Secret of the Mortician
Dead, but I got eyes
Prepares my body at the morgue
Opens the chest
Drains the blood from its nudity
Admires my body before it decays
After The process of embalming
His hands run all over
I'm still dead
He's satisfied
The next day
Writes an outstanding obituary
I sit on display
~SKAT~
This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
I couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
A song about old promises
Made so long ago
Created and cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke
Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Memory of a mother
Shared my dreams and really cared
Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Mama…
I know I wasn’t there……
For you
Would have placed
A magic carpet
‘neath your weak and shaky legs
Would have raised
A strong west wind
Let you breathe with ease again
Would have bribed
God’s venal angels
Come and soothe your endless pain
Would have vanquished
All the demons
And bring peace to you again
Be the child
I never knew
In a land
We won’t grow old
Be the light
I always loved
Warmed my dark
And lonely soul
Be the girl
Playing games
In a world
The sun won’t set
Be the laughter
Calms my heart
I never will forget
I won’t forget, won’t forget
This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
Couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
Song about old promises
Made so long ago
Created….cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke
I broke my promises, oh mama
Now you’ve gone away
I’m broken
Drowning in the pain each day
I’m drowning…drowning...drowning…drowning
This song is for my mother
Let her hear me…….
Bha e brèagha an-de
(It was Beautiful Yesterday)
There was a sailing vessel
With many a sail proudly lapping in the wind
A flag of the Celtic honor, in ruin an rented
As all the sailors sing
Of my love for you
From long ago
Before death became our friend
Oh would I be sailing from stormy seas to the Scottish glens
To lay some flowers at your side
Your beauty is now far under
My love ill wait for all eternity
For loves resurrection’s stormy thunder
Our bodies may be under stone
Our memories long lost in tales and fable
Let no man ever lay any such claim
Our love was not the gift of briny seaworthy fame
We be only stones, in a meadow blue
When you come upon our fate
Tiss with this verse, I state my case
The life that escaped our sadly date
Love though was true as sky
For long ago, she bid adieu
Her sadness at my drowning departure
As I her lover was told to be
Buried deep and under sea
Both sadness and the tossing waves
Took the life out of her and me
So when you look at fading stones
Remember the love that used to be
When my time is done and I am finally laid to rest
I don’t want to be recalled as one who lived life depressed
So as I wrote my will, I chose to leave an instruction
That laughing gas be inhaled by all those at the function
No mournful eulogies will a pastor have to invent
For my funeral will be held under a circus tent
When dozens of clowns emerge from the tiny Volkswagen
Reams of my silly limericks Bozo will be dragin’
And as they’re read aloud, family and friends who knew me best
Will say, “She had a sense of humor, this we can attest.”
Mimes will mimic me trying to write the world’s best novel
As my corpse hangs from the trapeze, surely they will marvel
Laughter will ensue as they shoot me from the cannon
Flying high in my demise across the great Grand Canyon
All the children will smile and there’ll be no tears allowed
So no one will ever remember me as a “dark cloud”
There are people who seem to take life way too seriously
When I meet my Maker, don’t view this as a tragedy
Dad called me his “happy girl,” so let me go out that way
I want to leave them laughing as I reach my judgment day
Date: Written March 26, 2011, entered in contest December 11, 2018
Contest Name: Make Me Actually LOL Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Translation below (in progress)
Celui qui n'a pas de cœur
Ne doit jamais reposer en paix
He who has no heart
Will never rest in peace
J’étais Charlie
De ma tombe
Mon âme pleure encore rouge
L’encre coule encore
Arrosage des fleurs ci-dessus
Les fleurs, fortes et belles
Elles doivent étouffer vos manières diaboliques
J'étais Charlie, je suis Charlie, Charlie toujours
Dans ma tombe
je ris
vous perdez
I was Charlie
In my tomb
my soul still cries red
the ink still flows
Above the flowers grow
the flowers strong and beautiful
they shall choke your evil ways
I was Charlie, I am Charlie, Charlie forever
In my grave
I laugh
You lose
Why oh Why
A Collaboration between Seren Roberts, Tim Smith and Arthur Vaso
Poem inspired by Seren Roberts
Each poem written from a different view
The Murderer
The Murdered
The Mannequins who witnesses the crime
Why of Why
Lovers Die
Mannequins Cry
Sat, with his head in his hands
Remembering how love had once been,
Now, because of his stupidity
He was on his own, solitary again
Remembering, how love had been,
Behind the bars he now calls home
He was on his own as before and again,
Realizing, he was such a petty bitter fool
Behind the bars he now calls home
His mind, aflame with tears of regret
Realizing he was an utter fool,
To have stabbed her to death in a bloody pool
His mind aflame, with deep regret
Why... did he buy a knife that day...why?
To have stabbed her to death
Cause she had given love another try.
Oh how he wishes, its he that had died
Lovers Die
I linger with the scent of flowers
cascading over what was once spring showers
Your red hands drip passion
long since cooled
darkness surrounding you has lifted
and only I can see the light
Why couldn't you leave
a girl clamoring to be free
dressed in a burnt orange skirt
driven to the stake with your hurt
Words were written on the wall
but all you did was erase it all
Twisted as the knife turns
in a cell your hell burns
Mannequins Cry
We have no faces
We have no voices
You think we have no feelings
You see us as objects in commercial spaces
We saw the hidden knife unfold
We saw the young ones stabbed so bold
Pain is the emotion that frightens us all
Mannequins crying, tears running as we see her crawl
When the blood flowed
When the redness of hate showed
We with no faces
Shed tears at the human disgraces
Such young love so brutally robbed
By the jealous and lonely one, made us all sob
He regrets I am sure the hate that overflowed
Life's so torn it can't be sown
There they were, in the center of
our asphalt cul-de-sac street
circled around their dead companion,
four common myna birds, holding
their own semblance of a funeral.
I slowly backed out of my driveway
and passed by them in quiet reverie.
They didn't attempt to fly away or
even move as I passed by them.
Tears flooded my eyes as I realized
how much they were deeply grieving.
Their friend was truly loved and grieved
as we'd grieve the loss of a loved one.
Later on when I returned home the
dead bird was gone, and so were they.
© Connie Marcum Wong
That he planned his funeral is factual
And being a prankster quite actual
He prerecorded his voice
So when we kneeled on the joist
He said, "Hi there! Don't I look natural."
Shattered glass
Broken promises
Loves untied knots
Black roses weaving in summer winds
We all will die, the days are duly marked
In the book of reaping angels
Who till the fields of human decay
Whom take what they can, young or old
Piano keys sound the waltz
Of the oncoming
Shaking fingers and smiles to deny
The raven will have his feast
The death of you is at hand
The death of me was long ago
Yet I still breathe, and you still smile
I am full of tears, you my friend are life
A life to be stolen
As we sit silently
Knowing my hands are as useless as yours
Later smile upon me, and welcome me over
I who have lost long ago
Walks along the shoreline of hell
Alone, no hand to hold
Wishing it could have been me
==================================
The widow, dressed in glossy black,
glides from the shadows at the back.
A veil lies slack across her face
to mask the grief her features lack.
Possessed of an insectile grace,
she sidles to the open case
and like the reptile smile she bares,
this too, serves to defile the place.
Since jealousy insures she cares
less for his death than for her shares,
obsession next finds her engrossed
in leaving with the gold he wears.
A parasite, she'll man her post
and feed from this depleted host
'til she believes she's bled the most
she can from his departed ghost.
==========================
Window cleaning is my trade and I want to tell my story
Like the time I saw the Vicars wife in the bath in all her glory
Or when I saw the Vicar tied up, I thought there'd been a slaying
I called the police but it turned out, t'was a game that they were playing.
And Mrs Smith from two doors down, well she is kind of hot
Always leaves big gaps in her drapes just to show me what she's got
Next door to her a stripper lives, well she just doesn't care
She walks around as I try to clean and yes she's totally bare.
Then across from her a nymphomaniac lives, she's always wanting more
Whenever I call to clean her glass there's men queueing at her door
I always cringe when I knock her door to ask her for my money
She always offers payment in flesh; winks and calls me honey.
Next door to her is 'Dirty Pete' watches movies all day long
Not Hollywood films you understand but titles like King Dong
Well I'm no prude each to his own but quadrophonic sound!
The first time that he blasted it, I fell off my ladder to the ground.
Round the corner is Jim and Sue, she always calls me handsome
I heard it from the man next door they want me for a threesome
Well maybe to some weirdy folk, it is their fantasy
Not my thing I assure you 'cos she is eighty three.
The sorority house I'd leave till last ' cos I found it hard to cope
They always leave the windows ajar to let out the fumes of dope
Then the world around me, would turn colourful and bright
My eyes would see some very strange things and I'd fly high as a kite.
See that's what I have to endure, to make an honest living
I never tell my wife you know, she'd be so unforgiving
When I get home she always asks, "Darling how was your day?"
I tell her each time same old same old, but it helps me pay my way.
Written on the 8th November 2020
I laid my heart upon your grave
That winter day when trees were bare;
Their withered leaves fell down to brave
The chill of winter death and share
With you the frozen ground and air.
Cold tears of rain helped to impart
The gloom, as prayer some comfort gave…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
I plucked a crimson rose that lay
Upon your grave as rain fell down
And joined my tears that solemn day.
I held it to my heart to drown
My hurt, then slowly turned around
To numbly make my way to part
And join with loved ones home to pray…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
Then April came on quiet feet
To wake the trees with budding bloom.
Thawed ground gave birth, in Springtime heat,
To grass, that hid the ashen gloom.
Now stung to life by Springtime’s womb,
The golden youth of Earth gives start
To find new hope, new season greet…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
I stand in shadow of death's sting;
Oh Dad, why did you have to part?
Help me to heal with reborn Spring…
But, oh, the moaning of my heart.
my chief ...
thoughts go back to that again -
the day you found me on the plain
so bleeding from a musket wound
and dying, slow, with fear and pain
my own kind left me there to die
to not waste cares for such as I
an orphan white boy, still a child
with troubled heart, I won't deny
yet, you did lend me mercy then
with no concern of who I'd been
and raised me like your very own
to learn the ways of Tlingit men
my course has not been easy life
more basic, yes, but hardship rife
and still, my gut and heart are full
midst joys of family, food and wife
and now I watch this poignant fire
of sparking cinders, drifting higher
while tribe and I conduct you home
all dancing ‘round this funeral pyre
each flaming ember turns the thief
and steals you off, my father, chief
o sad, to but command the flames
and scorch away my crushing grief
and yet, as each one climbs on high
those precious mem’ries, you and I
are borne the heavens, ever-bright
and placed as stars …
upon the sky.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Tribute To Native Culture" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
One lives on the memory
Never letting it go
Always holding as a memorial
The recollection within
Where only the heart knows
To celebrate a life
One longs to just forget
And let go of the pain
That reminds of a past
Filled with joy
They thought would last
Joy that is no more
Neither of them knows
Why death came to call
Or why their loved one died
Leaving them with this memory
To hold onto or forget
Without relief for the grief
One lives on the memory
While the other longs to forget
Neither of them is wrong, you see
Grief is like a very bad dream
Sometimes eased by memories
Other times, comforted by oblivion
Always touching the heart, the thoughts
The very soul who knows this place
Is all that is left of a heart who loved
And gave them the reassurance, the hope
Of a life that would forever bring sparkle
To those who touched this kind, tender soul
To remember is divine – so pleasant
Forgetting is inspired by God
Who knows that a memory can harm
The heart who loves beyond words
And listens to the heartache within
Without feeling the relieving peace…
… from One who defeats death’s dark dread
Listen to Jesus and be freed
From the sorrow and sadness
The anguish of bereavement
Listen to Jesus… He relieves
Listen to Jesus… Just believe