Best Hearses Poems
Dream of love
All the colors
Absence of color
Black and white
Their beauty is absolute
Perfect harmony
What would the stars do
If the nights were not black
Streetlights would be lacking
Diamonds and fireflies
Need the black
A funeral passes by
Black cars and black hearses
Draped in fading flowers
The color of death
I think in black
Death should be
The color of sunset
My lover is black
She says
True love is or it ain't
Thin love is no love at all
To love and be loved
Is everything
It makes your soul
Climb out from its hiding place
Black is not sad
Bright colors depress me
They are empty
Black is poetic
It's how I imagine
The poet
Dressed in black...
Gone are the demons, gone are the gangs
No more mafia in their ranks.
Gone are the criminals, don't need police.
Don't need lawyers, those reformed make peace.
Money is extinct, no more bankers or casinos.
No more insurance or debts.
All illnesses healed, no more pain
No more hospitals, no more patients.
No more death, no more funerals
No more hearses, no more morticians.
No more war, no more weapons
No more armies, no more casualties.
No more ****, no more trafficking
No more dealers, no more slaves.
No more pollution, no more drought.
No more poverty, no more poor.
No more fear, no more hate,
No more heartaches, no more evil.
Love all around!
When the Prince of Peace rules the earth.
April 2, 2016
Based on Revelation 21:3-5
What's a single mom, overworked witch to do?
School potlucks won't suck up fat vats of witch brew
Green goop soup disinfects science projects
Magic wand deflects coupon blonde's rejects
Soccer field congealed, frogs in fish tanks
Your warlock son mocks the jocks with dark pranks
Your daughter barters love potions, your cat's a Clydesdale
Your cauldron is maudlin; no time for witchy cocktails
There's hearses to disperse, fortunes to curse
Restless pests - even witches need a nurse!
You've cobwebs to thread, graves to rake
Sugar greedy goblins to scare straight
No spells to swell your apothecary
Your broomstick's picked other places to be...
10/28/19
For 'Itch, Witch, Glitch or Twitch' contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Placed 7th
I held the hand of Jesus last night,
He woke me this morning and we looked outside.
Scratchy records played protest songs from
The 60’s, as hearses rolled by, filled with forgotten
dreams….”you can burn that paper box, boy, but
you still gotta show”
I dropped out, then got drafted, I told him…when
I came home, It wasn’t first class, you can’t breathe
oxygen in a box, stacked with my mates in the bowels
of the plane….
Now…… I like to pretend no one fights anymore,
everyone sings songs of love, pleasing to the old
trees, swaying in peace…..
Sunshine streamed upon
this page just now!
just this moment!
........my pen
shadows to the right of this word….I’m lighter now,
brighter,
……..brighter
03/18/11
6:49 pm
© All Rights Reserved
Empty purses and filled up hearses.
The poor and lonely fade with their curses.
The sun don't shine under the bridge.
The rains came down, washed out the ridge.
Their hope flew out their broken window.
The winds picked up and started to blow.
The last thread of salvation to sew.
Together, any faith that they've come to know.
They are just memories no one remembers.
Fuel for the fire that's now just embers.
Just dirty ash no one should touch.
The truth of life that's just too much.
Joe and Ann liked to play docs and nurses
When their kids all came home there were curses
Well the problem you see
Is they're both ninety three
And both not quite ready for their hearses...
Written on 24th August 2021
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
Emerging from the downtown hardware store
I saw a strange funeral procession
Two black limo hearses were at the front
Then walked a man without expression
The man had a shaggy dog on a leash
A long string of people followed him
All of these people were in single file
That’s why I addressed the man on a whim
“Forgive me for asking; I’m curious”
“What type funeral procession is this”?
My wife’s in the lead hearse; my dog killed her
When she Bi*ched at me, he just went amiss
But I see there are two hearses up front
Alas, my mother-in-law was killed too
When she tried to help my wife, he killed her
Once my dog got mad, I knew they were through
I thought for a minute; then spoke real low
“I have a strange request, if you don’t mind”
“Is there a chance I could borrow your dog”?
Well sure, but you have to go get in line
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and Grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets....
We walked away from our class,
Drank our coffees on the grass,
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a grey love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
The grey scrawny pubes made us ha-ha,
We gave the grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death......
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!!
THE HOME COMING(RUMI)
I am coming home
Home where I belong
Home where the heart is
Tired, scared, very weary.
My feelings all so dreary
I’m now slowly trudging home
Home where I belong
I am coming home
Home to bad memories
Home to such sad melodies
Home to fights and tussles
To the ever pending hustles
I’m now headed home
Home where I belong
I am coming home
Home to such loneliness
Home to such ugliness
Home to a flow of hearses
And the never ending curses
I’m now sadly home
Home where I belong.
VISUAL 5
I am the Project Air Bridge,
The veritable virus lord-cum-felon of duty fraud.
Fumaye's privileged his bridge that projects pompous airs.
Maelstrom, mammon coextend where it forks and fares.
Transpontine ambulances shriek, hearses creak;
Cispontine pandemia profiteerings peak.
Lip service put onto pushy pumper,
Juggling jobbery jarred into cushy number.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A villainous virus lord-cum-gubernatorial wailing ward.
I have federal flag foil my neckties,
Have federal fiefdom at my behest.
At home seizing states' supplies,
In style feathering my own nest.
Grave grin toward myriad plunders amassing in size;
Frivolous glee unto stricken states moaning distressed.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A versatile virus lord-cum-omnivore slyly adaptive-jawed.
All foreign aids I indiscriminately swipe and sweep,
Compatriots in need, meticulously sift and bleep.
Cronies and bogeys bogart the most and the best;
Those in the doghouse, let viruses lay them all to rest.
My wheeling and dealing can always pay off,
Just owing so much to so many I always play off.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A heinous virus lord-cum-Old Nick's Regalement Board.
Blanketed by bereavement are betrayed people,
Their wounds bleeding undressed.
Butchered for banquet, the Bald Eagle,
My plates attending undressed.
Muddy mug shades dirty cook;
Murphy's mug shakes leprous wine.
Worse stinks history's mug book,
Ever since its accession of mine.
Silver spoon feeds up mouth; siren's spoon feels up lips.
Sicking up are malapropism and spoonerism of freudian slips:
Feasting my eyes on boons cross air bridge,
No blink for victimized crossbones' bare ridge.
This is me, the Project Air Bridge,
The very virus lord-cum-Juggernaut Accelerator of boons-for-bones baud.
They want to tax our axes
Then, take away our trees.
They impose cell phone taxes.
Then, laugh and shoot the breeze.
Lodges, matches, bridges, britches,
Dresses, dishes, finches, fishes.
Hinges, hitches, hedges, hearses,
Lenses, lynxes, luscious lashes…
They dip their hands in every pot.
Spreading wealth around they say…
Big Business taxes are a lot…not!
The newfangled economic way –
The middle class will love to pay!
© January 29, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
Boys turned into men
Acting chivalry needing to defend
Thackray who never was
Due to the wasp woman wanting buzz
Gunners waited for Watford to arrive
“Foul!” they did claim in a cry
On target goal after the penalty try
Followed by one then another
Sunday’s mother
Agree those went in
Later on Arsenal committed an innocent sin
Deeny connected
Shot was not protected
Three one at the break
Story brewing about the yellow jacket relegation wake
Being well back
Singing stingers put together an attack
Calling upon Danny to give a whack
A nice song he did bellow
Not enough to save the hives, dear fellow
For the longest time
In her own mind
Mrs. Harris
Just home from Paris
Thackray did not cause any trouble
There was no reason to blow any bubbles
As time ticked away
Grealish earned his claret blue army pay
Slicking it through the post
Mrs. Harris a few seconds later returned the gesture with a kind toast
A draw
Was the call
And Aston’s Villa would not be sold
Since they did not fold
“Send down the Honey Cherry Buzz flavor”
Second tier league requested as a favor
Mr. Bourne with toffee candy in the mouth
His cherries ready to head south
But today he enjoyed a sweet victory taste
Wasn’t showing ill feelings or haste
Instead filled with Goodison’s grace
Citizens on the other hand made the canaries look like nothing
Man City netting five which was something
Four sixes were on the executive level table
Two were issued to pensioners writing a Chelsea fable
While the Red Devils had a pair
Enough to scare
That pesky fox
Now having respectable stock
“Worry about a single commitment next year
And enjoy that cheer”
Was the message
About priority addressing
As for Thackray, the west ham
Romantically united Mrs. Harris succeeded in her plan
Next time a gale force winds come through
Infecting play asking ‘what are you gonna do?”
Do not put the season in the hearses
Just be sporty write creative poetic rhyming verses
The End
The sun descends this cloudless night
A moon for howling, full and bright
A moon by which the bats take flight
And wolf-men and the undead bite
Stretchered in, a bite mark cruel
He won’t heal but must refuel
But medics’ blood runs warm and free
In this midnight A&E
Devour the sick by full-moon light
Bed by bed and bite by bite
Amid the carnage and confusion
A foul unholy blood transfusion
A werewolf with a stethoscope
Takes his patient’s final hope
Blankly eyes his victims’ notes
And slashes their inviting throats
Werewolf docs and Vampire nurses
Send their patients home in hearses
That my friend is not the worst
They go home with a raging thirst
Home to guzzle son or daughter
Wives bring priests with holy water
Silver bullets, wooden stake
Cruciform her fingers make
Vampires drinking O-neg smoothies
Snarl, “You’ve seen too many movies.”
Hurl away depleted kin
Snatch the priest for one more sin
Bloodied canines catch the moon
Glinting as the werewolves croon
Shed their clothing in the mud
Sniffing out the virgin’s blood
Through the night they drink their fill
Bite or slash their every kill
Wounds the Gods will not let heal
Seeping blood that can’t congeal
Policeman wary, raps the door
Slashed, undead, he hits the floor
Spurting blood he blinks an eye
As a glimmer tints the sky
Then as lupine pelts recede
Kindred canines cease to feed
At this dawn’s first gasp they flee
To that blighted A&E
Word Quintet in E Minor
Too many tan hearses cruise down my street in 1963
Too many grieving souls cry shattered tears here.
Green throbbing lawns ruminate like grazing cows.
Red-bricked chimneys stand erect in the tall wind.
You and I have footsteps to take as we smell gladioli in 1968.
You look sporty wearing a white skirt and cashmere sweater.
I sit on a bench in the morning sun talking about rutabagas,
As you arrive holding a white tennis racquet made of catgut.
She and I grapple the monkey bars with orange drinks in 1962.
The green ocean of expansive grass lay beneath motionless as ice.
Thoughts of quiet summer shade subside into a lazy sun-drenched day.
Afternoon tides melt into the memory of days spent on a cool porch.
You and I are eating amidst the others as they talk trivialities in 1969.
You are sitting close to me wearing a tight-fitting dress with buttons in front.
We’re eating veal cutlets with mashed potatoes under a hanging light pendant.
The traffic outside is oblivious of our plans to make out wildly after dessert.
Too many tan hearses drive away from my street in 1964.
Too many funerals for the quietly erudite and the boldly afraid.
Green carpeted graveyards yawn with ennui in their insistent desiccations.
Old men with canes totter over star-lit graves behind rusted barbed wire.