Best In Memory Of Poems
The gate of heaven opens wide
as angels on either side guide
her through, while we all mourn and cry.
Praising, she sits by our Lord's side.
12/14/2023
Birth begins the tragedy in us. Life's
First sound is a blank scream
Against sorrow's hidden portends of strifes
All we know are mirages and dream.
Mother took the news staring at the sky
She must have cried inside
For I have no evidence else. There's no why
For it ... how my rage defied
Her callous front ... he was her first boy
The only hero she spoke well
Of, his name was the formula for joy
In our house: anecdotes tell
Of his escapades ... youth defying fate
He had a cat's tenacity for life
And from evil wills found a golden gate
Of scholarship and exotic wife.
I remember when the years pulled him back
All he came with was a bag
Of books, and a couple suits in novel sack
His eyes time warped, a lag
Of missing years and loneliness enfolding him
But he was handsome still
And my soul cartwheeled at joy's fresh brim
Those moments that he filled
When eyes first contact spelled pride to claim
This aristocrat like a medal
I could wear. So young he was, her true flame
The son of love's sweet recital!
And many days sitting in his shadow, I heard
Him dream big things like stars
Far away, warm things like a fluttering bird
Things made bright to cover scars
In the sore of memory. His mind was his cliff
A risky place in the high winds
And closer to the edge for the Grail he'd drift
O how the giddy world spins!
He died in Kingston: William came and went
And my mother looked at the sky
But until she died, about his memory was silent
And I forever wonder why.
I loved him, you know, he was the first best thing
A poor child had to claim or show
The world ... with him I was no more common. A king
He made me in his gold of glow
Something that I looked forward to meet in me. I,
Like mother, been silence since
But sometimes my heart just heave and would cry
For time this love cannot rinse
And I that moment cannot comprehend, that death
Gave no notice to his lauded day
And like common dust on a wild wind's balmy breath
My brother was swiftly swept away.
Jenna no longer has access to her account, and she has asked if I would post this for her.
These would be her last thoughts to Milt ~
Gone is the glint of your smile and poetic words
No longer will they glow on your poetry pages
How cruel was the fate of your mortal existence
that wounded my heart without scarring the flesh
In mourning am I that your last breath was taken
before I could whisper, "fond adieu and farewell"
Your life has dimmed, embers burned to ashes
Tears flow for your spark, extinguished in the dark
You live in the echoes of my treasured memories
but never to fray like unraveling loose threads
My fingers tremble with ardent emotion as I write,
Forever you will remain imprinted upon my heart
And when I hear the call of a meadowlark's trill
I will smile and imagine that you are still here
*Thank you, Tania, for using Milt's meadowlark quote on
your poem, 'A Heavenly Rest in Peace. 'It helped me find
the perfect final line for my thoughts.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
Brother,you were a human torch
in a melanchonic orbit
of undefined wars
Now you are a pentagram star
mystical and magical
Pouring light and love
from a happier place
from behind heaven doors
Not so distant though worlds afar.
Through each verse and every stanza
you are.
Like Tolkien,your middle earth
was always the unknown,
Your soul has found its home.
A sculptor of word
A weaved tapestry of artistry
A collage of emotions,a performer
A treasure of memories
Our souperstar.
An archaic poet,a self-professed geek
A rhymer you are
playing on our heart strings
with a honey toned acoustic guitar.
Must ve'been an optical illusion
I saw you getting near
I 'm sure I've heard your laughter
sweet echoing my ear;
But I know it cannot be ,
Through faith We face reality.
Our God himself descended
To his word We adhere
He held you a bit closer
and wiped away each tear,
He raised you to his land
with a loving hand,
We'll miss you dear friend,
But We understand...
Till we meet again
Alive in our hearts you stand.
Till then,Protect Us dear Chan.
.
A Tribute
for you Chan Hurst
The Archaic Poet .
Fly with the Angels.
Tesslynn O’Cull was only 3-years-old,
when they found her body in a grave near Sweet Home.
It was the worst case of child abuse they’d ever seen
thanks to Jesse Compton and methamphetamine.
This beautiful child was tortured to death,
and I vowed that until my very last breath,
I would tell her story so we’d never forget,
for society owes her at least this debt.
Others saw the abuse, yet they did not tell,
and this child’s life was a living hell.
She was shocked, raped and beaten and no one cared,
as her mother watched, Tesslynn sat and stared.
Tesslynn dared not scream or she’d have to pay
when Jesse threw knives and punches her way.
People came and went, but refused to step in,
so high on drugs that it didn’t matter to them.
Stella Kizer and Jesse Compton must pay their dues,
still the story of Tesslynn is now old news,
and though some may forget, I will keep my vow
to keep her memory alive somehow.
There’s a picture of Tesslynn on my office wall,
and at night in my dreams I can hear her call.
As she reaches out from beyond the grave,
I weep for the child that we could not save,
I weep for the child that we could not save…
It is so hard to say goodbye. The end has come.
I knew it would . . . someday. Such a good cat;
for twelve long years, my Grumpy, always there for me,
wanting a pat, a lap, a snack to make you fat.
I recall our first meeting on a freezing winter day,
cold, unfriendly eyes of a stray, rejected by the world;
alone and afraid, hissing. Slowly a trusting friendship,
and eventually in my arms you were curled.
How can I endure this cruel world without my friend?
But of course, I must go on . . . I imagine you;
in a beautiful garden, lush and green. Sunshine streaming,
bird songs filling the air, and a sky azure blue.
You are busy grooming your shiny brown tabby fur,
amber eyes twinkle, a little pink tongue busy curling;
a paw, a face . . . something catches your attention;
you jump up to swat a passing butterfly whirling.
Rolling in the cool grass, you curl up for a nap,
with a sigh . . . and death came to you like a thief;
till I draw my last breath, I will hold you in my heart,
the price I pay for loving you so much, is grief.
But, I would not change one moment of our time together,
you were a gift from God, to last me all my lifetime;
never to be repeated . . . as you drew your last breath,
I whispered in your ear, till to heaven I climb,
and I placed you in God's loving arms in the meantime . . .
__________________________
Written at sixteen years old
Posted, April 27, 2017
Elegy/In Memory Of Grumpy Cat
Copyright Protected, ID 895903
Juvenilia
Ceclia Hopkins-Drewer
__________________________
"All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small:
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all . . . ."
(Mrs. Cecil Frances Humpreys Alexander, 1848)
Battle Clans
They came in the night
Like twisted ninja’s
Selling their honor for terror and fright
Blood spilled on Mohamed’s hands
The Tower of Paris stands tall
Art and culture they shall never fall
They wounded the bodies
They murdered the babies
The symphonies of horrors in the key of D
Replaced by waltzes of harmonies in C
We bow in sadness to the wounded and dead
We never shall forget, the cowards who spread red
Tears have been shed,
Liberty for a day became stale bread
No one shall stain our integrity
The fraternity and flag shall always fly free
We shall mourn
We shall cry
We shall bring the devils their justice
We shall in the end forgive and never forget
For we are the humanity of all of France
Laying flowers at the last dance
Je me souvien
Bataclan
Why can’t we be judged by the content of our character?
Are we now racist, because of white privilege and black lives matter?
This is our new wall, racism is still dividing,
these two profound statements are creating bitter chatter.
Dr. King lost his life because of his dream in 63,
segregation is what this great man envisioned would one day leave.
The architects of our Republic intended all men to be free,
our declaration of independence is what we now need to believe.
As a people we need to remember, all of our positive achievements,
we need to move forward and continue to gain ground.
We need to focus on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
We are all created equal, this evident truth has got to be found.
We all need to sit down at the table of brotherhood.
Everything we do right now, needs to be done together.
We need to erase all of our anger and live here as one people
if we join our hearts, there is no storm we can’t weather.
August 7,2020
*inspired by Dr. Martin Luther Kings I Have A Dream speech*
Strand Completely New (19) Any form, Any Theme Poetry Contest
You never write.
You never phone.
And there are strangers
Living in your home.
Where are you Loves?
You’ve disappeared----
Then come unannounced,
Dressed in memory,
And I, clothed in tears.
Immense Light
too huge to hold
Where I wait
Each day, blessed time grows old.
Without end
Flame cradles
All, I see
Add my Loves’
Beginnings and Forever
Be…
her poetic gifts
soulful reflections of heart ~
faded not in death
Date: October 4, 2022
For: Short Connie Tributes - How did Connie Marcum inspire your poetry
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Haibun
you were here and now your gone, but in our hearts your memory lingers on -you are loved
in heaven and here on earth, god made you special even before birth- you made us laugh
you made us cry ,when you were around you made time fly- you touched us all in a special
way, your words of wisdom are here to stay
My mind cannot erase the memory of Emmett Till
I often dream about his badly-mutilated body –
The fourteen-year-old Black lad mercilessly beaten
To death … for ostensibly flirting with a white woman.
A victim of the era in which he lived, he was lynched,
But the men who killed him were found “Not Guilty.”
Have we any reason to wonder why Blacks are angry?
The number of cases of Blacks murdered by police
During routine traffic stops, for no reason, astounds,
There is a twisted reason why our prisons are teeming
With young Black men and women, while they are
Only a small minority of the general population --
Prejudice and racism are rampant, indeed systemic,
In America, touted as the land of freedom and justice.
written March 1, 2022
~*~
Nippy break of day
Total unexpected loss
Father daughter gone
~*~
January 26, 2020
1:30pm PST
English Haiku 5/7/5
We remember her in blue skies.
She searched her young heart for answers.
She focused on beauty and hope,
with wisdom for all the world.
She searched her young heart for answers.
Her courage shone through her words
with wisdom for all the world,
and a spirit beyond her age.
Her courage shone through her words.
She focused on beauty and hope,
and a spirit beyond her age.
We remember her in blue skies.
Suzanne Delaney
A Pantoum
My first Pantoum. I was so surprised. It practically wrote itself.