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Best Funeral Poems | Poetry

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New Funeral Poems

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FUNERAL- IAN MUNYWE by munywe, ian
My Kubla Kahn Funeral Please by Krutsinger, Caren
A Firefighter's Funeral by bauer, ilene
My Funeral Note by Watson, Amily
Don't Come to My Funeral by the Bard, Jali
Invitation To A Funeral by Burdon, Judge
Funeral by Key, Josette
Old man's funeral by Hunter, Daniel
Viking Funeral by Welch, David
A brand new funeral home by Raynes, Lewis

View all new Funeral Poems

The Best Funeral Poems

Details | Funeral Poem |

Where The White Rose Blooms

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Secret of the Mortician

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~

Details | Funeral Poem |

This Song is for my Mother

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…….

Details | Funeral Poem |

It was Beautiful Yesterday



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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Mimes at My Funeral

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Why oh Why Seren Roberts and Tim Smith

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Je suis Charlie

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Motherland's Funeral

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Simply time to go, a little brother's lamentation

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Beautiful

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.

Details | Funeral Poem |

Grave-side Service

weather-beaten sign
driven down in dying weeds
forsaken headstone
oh nameless, forgotten soul
the Savior knows who you are

Details | Funeral Poem |

FUNERAL FOOTLES

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!

Details | Funeral Poem |

Lettuce Pray - or what not to do in church

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~

Details | Funeral Poem |

the skeleton tree

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

O The Grieving

~~

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A RELATIVE

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

And Now For Something Completely Different

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!

Details | Funeral Poem |

ONE STONE COLD HEART

My father’s funeral, a sad occasion
but his cruel actions go beyond the grave

My sister had organised a display 
A silver frame contained a picture of his smiling face
Many other smaller photographs were scattered on the table

One picture in particular caught my eye
I’d never seen this photograph before …

One stone of cold chiselled grey granite 
Three generations of names embellished with gold letters
a permanent family memorial…
But MY name was missing

One of the mourners asked me why my name wasn’t there
It is a question I still don’t have an answer for


Two years have passed since he died …
I am still yet to grieve 

(This has been a very cathartic poem to write. I have since discovered that in 2007 my father organised for his name, my mother’s name and my sister’s name to be added to the family grave in Lithuania. Just the dates of death are missing… along with my name)


Two word challenge contest
Sponsored by John Lawless

11-05-17

Details | Funeral Poem |

Myna Bird Solace


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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Pins and Needles

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]

Details | Funeral Poem |

A golf limerick

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!

Details | Funeral Poem |

The Psychostasia

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

Darkest of Confessions

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

Details | Funeral Poem |

gun salute








                                                   gun salute~
                                           in every fold of the flag
                                                   his sacrifices

Details | Funeral Poem |

The Bell My Mother Rang

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.