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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
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013
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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~
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015
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Funeral Poem
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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…….
Copyright © Catman Cohen | Year Posted 2011
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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
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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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
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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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
Copyright © Etienne Lariviere | Year Posted 2015
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Funeral Poem
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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
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
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In the past, my country
cradled me in her bosom.
Today, I held her in my arms,
felt her slip away.
I lost my country today:
gave her up to synthetic medicine,
deficit spending,
and pie-charts, overseas.
I prayed while watching attempts made
at her resuscitation—
impatient hands held out pens,
prodding me to fill in the proper forms.
The world is on lithium.
My country was on lithium;
for her, vibrant colours turned
into a monochromatic spectrum of grays.
In the end, her heart gave out
from having spent too many decades
within a capitalistic cage.
She had an organ donor card—
her organs were sold off one-by-one
while she was still alive.
Her organs were replaced
with nationalistic flags,
and roaring stadiums.
Men from every standing,
groped Motherland's body.
Many men had laid with her.
Oh, how they did.
At least some men displayed decency,
graced her with loving caresses;
they were few, between the rape
that led to miscarriages,
and live-births of degenerates
via caesarean.
Lithium is slipped into my drink,
so I purge daily,
horrified by my country's overdose.
She looks decrepit, laid out in the morgue;
a cardboard tag hangs from a big toe
like a foreclosure sign.
I will have to give her a proper burial
within my heart,
for they are going to have Mother embalmed,
encase her in a glass coffin,
and put her on display.
Our Mother passed away,
yet her corpse-land remains behind.
I will walk across clear-cut ridges
and through neon-lit distractions
as a gypsy vagabond.
From now on, the territorial lines
mean nothing more to me than rules to follow,
maintained by a system turned empty-hollow.
I lost my country today:
gave her up to synthetic medicine,
deficit spending,
and pie-charts, overseas.
As I held her in my arms,
I felt her slip away.
April 30th, 2012
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012
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Lusting the passions of a secret desire
Unwinding the mystery of my needs
Funerals are for the future
Internment I ask be deferred
Timeless is my youth
Useless is my request
At seeking eternity or at least eternal rest
End of times may seem long away
Beauty we know fades, it will happen some day
So I dream of youthful moments
Isle graveyards were far away
Holy wars and loveless scores
That a soldier must endure
A desire for peace escapes this generation and more
External forces and internal woes
Death dances at my door
Dedicated to Sara Bernhardt, who slept in her coffin amongst all her love letters.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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Too hard for me to say goodbye
For all apparent reasons why
Even though we all know it must be
Each heart will someday stop the beat
When the rhythm of life, and silence, finally meet
.
Yet I always seem so surprised
To find that death is part of life
Knowing that regret, will now haunt my every rhyme
The specter called "if only", will inhabit every line.
Wish I could arbitrate a deal to have gained a little time
Just one more talk with Sissy, to ease my guilty mind.
.
And the sun now sets on my regrets
I gamble on time and lose each bet
Thinking I'll move on and yet,
here I set . . .
Wishing for one more time
One more pun
One more smile
That will never come
.
If I could just recall the things you said that mattered to you most.
Memories un memorized
That now I'll never know
Years of conversation when I didn't pay attention
Times I should have said I love you
And somehow failed to mention
.
Then when you tried to tell me you felt your time was drawing near
Your selfish little brother pretended not to hear.
Even when you did your best, and tried to let me know
You'd made your peace and you were ready, and that for you . . .
It was simply time to go
Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2015
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weather-beaten sign
driven down in dying weeds
forsaken headstone...
oh nameless, forgotten soul
the Savior knows who you are
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2015
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Deceased
Released
Goodbye
I cry
Church pew
Hurts you
My bum
Now numb
No droppin*
The coffin!
4th March 2015
Written before dad’s funeral - I'll take my cushion to sit on lol
* not proper footle but I had to add it!
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
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Funeral Poem
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i am the skeleton tree
bare branches where leaves
are suppose to be
i am the skeleton tree
bare bones and no flesh
not another me
i am the skeleton tree
thousands of ancesters
but not one child for me
i am the skeleton tree
the end of my fathers name
and so called legacy
yet i sing a song
like there is nothing wrong
and being last doesn't matter
and yet i've writen a verse
that many will rehurse
when one day my poetry matters
and when i die
who knows who will cry
i'll just be dead and gone
but the skeleton tree
that once was me
will live on in eternity
the skeleton tree
that one could read
and ponder possibilities
a skeleton tree
that one could recite
tell the difference between wrong and right
a skeleton tree
with branches and no leaves
yet and still the best of me
a skeleton tree
in this world i leave
Copyright © john loving iii | Year Posted 2012
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A funeral is not the place when you find you need to laugh
Here is my true story about my little gaffe
I hope this poem does not offend
It is written in memory of a very special friend
My father’s friend had passed away
And to the church we went that day
I was heavily pregnant and feeling glum
And awaiting the birth of my lovely son
The priest he came from a foreign land
His words we found hard to understand
When he said the words ‘let us pray’
I bowed my head and heard him say…….
‘Heavenly Farter’ (I cannot remember the rest)
For tears of laughter were falling onto my chest
The more I tried to stifle my laughter
The worse I became, it was a total disaster
I got a hanky to suppress the giggle
My shoulders up and down they did wriggle
Tears were flowing from my eyes
My husband looked at me with great surprise
He took me by the hand and we left the church
On the pretext I was so upset and needed a quiet place to perch
Outside the church my laughter freely flowed
My eyes were shiny and my cheeks they glowed
When my father finally came out
I told him of the priest’s error and at me he did not shout
He decided he better have a ‘quiet word’
Their conversation it was not overheard
On our next visit to the Catholic Church
Out of the building I hoped I would not have to lurch
I got ready to bow my head to pray
And then I heard the priest say ……
HEAVENLY FARZER! Oh thank the lord
My father’s words he had taken on board
Now when I hear the words ‘let us pray’
I cringe and remember that awful day
Jan Allison
7th February 2014
Contest The Poet III
sponsored by Gautami Phookan
~awarded 3rd place~
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2014
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Funeral Poem
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~~
My thoughts let go of a thousand memories,
Like faces, dates, times and places;
Yet, I can easily recall each and every detail,
On the day of your funeral.
O the grieving . . .
In the middle of a snow storm I followed,
And the wind blew back my long hair;
As we meandered down a winding cold path,
The wild storm paused in the trees.
O the weeping . . .
Snowflakes fell on me from the tangled branches,
Falling like crying tears cascading down;
I am lost and moaning in this forever, ever memory,
And now the snow drifts in the cemetery.
O the sadness . . .
A headstone is buried deep in the pure white,
And but one engraved word is revealed;
In this pristine cold, dead winter wonderland,
Only one word can be seen, mother.
O the lamenting . . .
Hidden beneath the snow . . .
I will treasure your arms last embrace mother
Till this heart stops beating . . . .
_________________________________
September 24, 2014
Verse
Written by Broken Wings
Entered into the contest, A poem not entered in a contest, sponsor, Poet Destroyer
Fourth Place
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2014
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Funeral Poem
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His life was gentle, and the elements
so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and
smolder
bodies in unregistered cars idling softly toward oblivion
some quick to anger
some quick to profit
some quick for justice
some tigers lapping blood
some mothers still at 3AM
hands on shoulders with coos commanding
that in a tear and turned cheek there be 'integration'
parody: an orphan annie reboot
parody: 'little black sambo 'round the tiger pit he go!'
we have rioted the last of our colors
bleated them with flexed toes to the wall at the edge of the universe to reverberate starless between
eternity
nothing
and madness
we have bleated the last of our colors
with centuries gone by without tongue, sockets or lobes
we will bleed the last of our colors
some quick to die
some quick to steal
some quick to burn
some quick to
lend me your car keys
in a night of full of Alarics
I will bury you
in a night full of piccaninnies
I will melt you to butter
in a night where flames are fishhooks
Sir I need you to step back please
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
that
we have cried Havoc
let slip
and with purple'd prose stamped this hollowed earth
We who have lived so long
Sir?
shall with our breath turned mist
I need you to
stain only under stones
step
that pave with slippery breath
back
a headline for last weeks massacre
step
and tomorrow's graves
I need you to
I drew a line in the sand and you crossed it
They are not breathing
Look! Look there!
No.
I will not.
He dies
Copyright © Brooks Lindberg | Year Posted 2014
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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!
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2011
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Funeral Poem
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They crawl out of the woodwork
Shedding lots of crocodile tears
Grieving for an ancient relative
They’ve not visited for many years
‘Auntie Annie’ is barely warm
But now you see the relations swarm
Waiting for the will to be read
They rub their hands with glee
Hoping they will be left
Lots of lovely money
‘Grieving relatives’ is rubbish!! Some are taking the mick ….
These mercenary vultures simply make me sick!
28th January 2017
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017
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Another song written in middle school - edited of course. ;)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Verse 1]
I'm trapped within these walls
Never to leave at all
I am the prisoner inside my own home
My spirit is broken
I do not believe
I'm locked in this chamber which I cannot leave
[Chorus]
The needles that break the skin
The anger that runs within
I’m giving it all away
Just to stay alive
The needles that pierce my veins
It will never be the same
We’re on pins and needles now
It’s how we survive
[Verse 2]
They say he’ll find me soon
Got to get out of this room
The blood will spill and he’ll take what he wants to
I’ll never let him through
GET OUT OF MY DREAM
He whispers in darkness, “I’m not who I seem…”
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
The four walls around me
They start to close in
I know I’m too late now
I know I can’t win
So just tell me I’m crazy
It’s all in my head
You’re not the killer
And I am not dead
[Chorus]
[Breakthrough]
Don’t tell me it’s impossible
To start it all over again
Infection sinks through your pale skin
You’ll curse the day that I’m dead
[Chorus]
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2011
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Funeral Poem
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While a man was golfing in Fife
a funeral cortege was arife,
his head bowed in prayer
at this somber affair
to pay last respects to his wife!
Copyright © Thvia Shetley | Year Posted 2010
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The Psychostasia
(The Egyptian Funerary Rite)
For seventy days I’ve been prepared
With oils and unguents ever so rare
And with linen bandages to and fro
Wound and wrapped from head to toe
And on this journey I’m prepared to start
By enduring the “Weighing of the Heart”
With Toth’s oversight we’ll see whether
My heart weighs true against Truth’s feather
Should it fall short the beast will devour
My soul to oblivion in my final hour
Yet should it measure straight and true
The Pylon opened I’ll be ushered through
And then I shall fall unto my knees
And pray that Osirus hears my pleas
That he acknowledge and clear my tears
And accept my soul for a thousand years
And cleanse said soul of all its scars
And make me one with the canopy of stars
And bless my children and my wife
That they may join me in the afterlife
Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010
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Flowers...beautiful flowers.
These flowers will not replace my friend.
Their beauty will soon go the way of life-
Fade and wither and then take flight.
Piled upon this mound of dirt to mark our sorrow,
Offered as a sacrifice to soothe our souls.
Petal nor thorn could save this rose.
Like flowers cut down in height of beauty,
This face that bloomed and wore big smiles,
Is covered here to rest awhile.
Then beyond the markers numbered many,
Placed in rows to make order of death,
I saw something that took my breath.
Flowers...colorful flowers...that filled
The field yet fallow...waiting for the day
When friends and family gather...and pray.
Flowers...beautiful flowers.
Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2011
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Funeral Poem
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Darkest of Confessions
Voices in my head
Dancing abreast with the abstract
Shattered glasses and shattered dreams
History repeats many a lovers’ defeat
I demand a duel
With my heart
I welcome the sword that shall draw first blood
Ending the torment of duel nationalities
Kissing lovers and slaying love
The ménage a trois of all duels
The sword, the heart, the opera of nothings
Graveyards hold the court, from dusk to dark
Lovers return
Some are loved
Some are slayed
Regrets in my diary of misery
Hold me true
I shall sing of you
In my darkest confessions
As my sword pieces your heart
You can bleed in tranquility
With your last breath
It’s I Mademoiselle de Maupin
That laid you to eternal rest
Julie d'Aubigny 1670Aprox–1707, better known as Mademoiselle Maupin or La Maupin, was a 17th-century swordswoman and opera singer. Her tumultuous career and flamboyant life were the subject of gossip and colourful stories in her own time, and inspired numerous portrayals afterwards
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
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Funeral Poem
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The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
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Funeral Poem
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gun salute~
in every fold of the flag
his sacrifices
Copyright © kash poet | Year Posted 2013
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