Best Interred Poems
I relinquish my pen before the storm
of her tears falling upon my bare arm
her gentle whispering breathed in my ear
Muse of mine, adieu to your wit and charm
With piqued reasons I have come to deduce
It's time to say fond farewell to my muse
She should seek a new poet and lay claim
for my words have grown utterly abstruse
Spare me sullen eyes, from cries in refrain
I shall not weep in sadness nor disdain
Bitterness does not become a recluse
My poet's heart weakens, I dare not feign
Time's drawn the shades in darkness of night
No candle flame shall glimmer enough light
in which I may be tempted before morn
to doubt seclusion and attempt to write
Cloistered without pen, I shall ever be
From thinking in rhyme I shall be set free
Poems half written on bits of scrap paper
I shall lock away and then toss the key
My hand has retired, this last poem now penned
No more idyll thoughts of mind will transcend
Bereft of rhymes and abandoned of verse
This poet knows her time has reached an end
Ink no longer flows through my tunneled veins
Expressed emotions in poetry wanes
And when interred, on my stone I shall read,
"Reclusive poet" over my remains
Categories:
interred, emotions, solitude,
Form:
Rubaiyat
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
Its breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
Blood is slowly chilling inside my frail veins
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
His breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Snowdrifts climb higher on the sills in reproof
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
This room is the chamber where I'll be interred
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Winter's hand has caused a temperature dip
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Terror incites me to curse what I abhor
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
August 17, 2017
Categories:
interred, death, fear,
Form:
Terzanelle
Based on a quote from Watership Down:
"He fought because he actually felt safer fighting than running."
His experience in fighting battles
had been friendly games of Monopoly
Rolling dice across a colorful board
after shaking, to hear them rattle.
Those were serious acts of aggression
and hotels were POWs, taken in possession
Weapons were a top hat, thimble or boot
Men built houses, not blew them up
Winner, the one accumulating the most loot
Snake eyes moved him two spaces forward,
instead of sniper eyes on roofs of Park Place
resulting in blood dripping from a man's face
He wished he was only playing a game
But shots were fired from somewhere near
Bullets seeking men to kill and maim
War is fought with emotions of courage and fear
It was time to clear his squadron out
That kind of move is what wars are about
With rifle ready he led the charge
Run through a mine field, though weary and tired
He heard a man cry out, "I've been hit, Sarge!"
Without a free space they could'nt stop to rest
No Short Line Railroad upon which to ride
No fox holes dug, in which to hide
Amid shots fired, he passed down the word, "GO!"
only stopping to collect dog tags of his dead men
This time the battle was fought and won
From a shrapnel wound his blood took flow
It was never bravery that he lacked
It was being interred with a bullet in his back.
When asked why he hadn't turned to run,
knowing his platoon was badly overpowered,
He sighed and replied, "I'm not a coward,
So I rolled the dice and landed on Chance.
The top card said Be brave and attack!
So we fought until we took our property back."
Categories:
interred, war,
Form:
Rhyme
Buried here is the weather man J. P. Blithing
Forgot his brolly and got struck by lightning
In this vault is the flat coffin of J.J. Stowler
Fell into the path of a runaway steam roller
In this grave lies the ashes of Jim Fortescue
Got drunk and passed out on a barbecue
Buried below in two halves is Arthur. P. Law
Slipped in his workshop onto a circular saw
Interred a hundred feet below in a lead lined coffin
Are the glowing remains of an accident prone boffin
Lying in this vault is the body of a tiger
Inside its body is the hunter J. Stiger
Buried below in a jar are the pickled remains of P. Stringer
Who stumbled and drowned into a large vat of malt vinegar
Written 23 September 2021
Categories:
interred, death, humor,
Form:
Epitaph
Take Out the Landry
Dirty laundry for years on the floor
finally the dirt is out the door
Quebec is cleaning house
separatists being laid to graves
like Napoleonic mouse's
bury their rhetoric too
twelve feet deep
Wrinkled ex leader with
no musket or balls
no lead, leaderless
man of poisoned dreams
nationalist and king of hate
trumpets play for his distaste
if your wool is not pure
you do not belong on his shore
Villain as Lucifer or Lucien
robbing the people of their future
all for his midget delusions
now to be inhumed
in his own dirt
he will of course blame
the Chinese laundry mat
who lost his ticket
He is not to be interred
in red rags
honor will shed not one tear
where is his Nazi flag?
Boxed at Notre Dame
the church like Vichy
honors dictators and their clan
funerals they all say nice things
still
they toss out the laundry
as Canada sings
Only Toronto thanks him
for the prosperity
Categories:
interred, evil, funeral, hate, november,
Form:
Free verse
On sunny summer mornings
the myriad markers gleam
and shimmer dreamlike
in the distance.
Visions from the stillness rise,
but only of the past,
for in this place,
time has come
to sudden end.
Glimpsed on headstone faces
in plain and shallow font
are etchings of their names.
Forefingers trace the course
of letters and summon memories,
suddenly vivid, of the fallen—
perhaps the only form
of resurrection most alive
will ever know.
A place of buried treasure this—
of ones revered and honored
who would unlock secrets of the mind,
give us cures for all disease that
we might live a thousand years
and summon knowledge beyond imagining.
Yet we have robbed ourselves of such,
for all these gifts lie with them interred;
their honors go unclaimed.
On headstones too are symbols carved,
emblematic of their faiths, for
we would have our deities
compete for attribution
until the soils of all the world
run red in honor of Their names.
Yet in the end our Gods are
much too small, dwarfed by
mankind’s boundless vanity.
Categories:
interred, war,
Form:
Free verse
Marred and minced remnants pile high in a storm’s swarm
Yesterdays, hardened-soft, surface where sea’s warm…
Flotsam found, lays tales around, in frayed traces
Another shattered shell whimpers of graces
vying with the sea-swept sands: gloss embossed fades…
Ocean’s dead! These are castaways of Hades,
rid of depth, stranded upon the dry shallow
Interred where the sun bleaches out the shadows
till whitened ivory fills cavern’s echo:
enmeshed lime, crunching upon errors callow
Jazz died - June’s sun sank into august abyss…
Undertow currents ceased their torments of bliss
Nipped life, silenced like frothing foam vacuum-sealed,
kept smothered in an opaque ocean congealed…
Yard junked, Neptune’s home’s now a derelict mess
and yet he clings to the crap amassed, crownless
Right always, up to the end --------- that no return.
Death will erase the un-sunk bones when they burn
(10/3/2019: '90 Sea Ray DA 350; Discovery Park; ‘my favorite junkyard’)
Categories:
interred, allusion,
Form:
Masnavi
I'm intrigued by what there may be
'neath great depths of ocean and sea
Treasures lost from life's history
A mystery A mystery
What's buried under ocean sands
Pirate's plunder and wedding bands
I dream of finding pearls in strands
With my two hands With my two hands
Ancient vessels, sunken for years
found off the sea coast of Algiers
admired by Mesdames and Messieurs
Toasted with cheers Toasted with cheers
I'd drain one mile of a river
just one briny little sliver
What will its waters deliver?
Would I shiver? Would I shiver?
What secrets do the oceans keep?
Do monsters swim or do they creep?
I long to execute a sweep
In fathoms deep In fathoms deep
Curiosity in me wakes
To dive within uncharted lakes
and sea beds risen from earthquakes
How high the stakes How high the stakes
But sunken relics from the past
remain interred in oceans, vast
Bounty from ships with broken mast
My dream downcast My dream downcast
June 1st, 2022
Fascination and Awe Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Kyser
Poetry Form - Monotetra
Categories:
interred, desire, dream, ocean,
Form:
Monorhyme
"The Circe Effect" (Part 1)
Circe, Goddess of magic, nymph, witch, bold enchantress
daughter of Helios, Sun God, her father, can you imagine? ...
let me paint you further, the tree of this wacked-out family canvas -
daughter of Perse, her mother, wild Oceanid Nymph, spawned not on landmass,
but in the vast deep blue deep.
Aeetes, her brother hung tight to his Fleece
and Pasiphaë, her sister, given in marriage to King Minos of Crete,
had a fling with a monstrous White Bull,
a gift from Poseidon, ain't that so sweet?
she bore a bastard child, the Monataur with a ring in his nose,
horns and hoofed feet.
Now there was a family of total dysfunction
and Circe, poor dear, betrayed for remaining herself,
remaining non-function
was banished to Aeaea for murdering her husband
the Prince of Colchis.
There on Aeaea, as revenge, Circe drew out her magic wand - not a sword,
transmuted her enemies, all those who offended her into wild beasts,
where they were left to circle her mansion and roam to eat swill as their feast.
Docile not dangerous, drugged and delerious,
these beasts never gored -
they were fawned on by all newcomers, who were simply just curious,
never bored.
These entranced beasts lured newcomers to our girl Circe
with a woof and purr.
Enter Circe, quite disturbed, in a logical kind of way.
“More pets for me!”, she thought, “they will never stray”.
These lonely, adventurous vagabonds who ventured into her lair,
well, she showered them with all her incantations, but they never heard
her words of Love ever there –
Circe would finally reveal who she truly was,
for you see by now all that pain, all that hurt
had converted our dear old Circe into a siren
otherworldly, deadly lethal, mysterious, re-birthed;
all that ventured into her Kingdom now were
captivated by her spells and
then promptly, with a wave of her wand,
transfigured forevermore
as creatures,
of her Elysian Fields interred.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
Categories:
interred, adventure, betrayal, mythology, symbolism,
Form:
Free verse
A Little Hill in Arlington
There’s a little hill in Arlington
Where no bodies are interred
Yet crosses dot the hillside
And Taps are sometimes heard
Unlike the Unknown Soldier
With “unknowns” in the ground
This little hill in Arlington
Is for soldiers never found
I grew up without a father
He was gone when I was four
Flying for the Air Force
Back in the Korean War
His plane was ore’ the Azores
When communications ceased
The search went on for days and days
They never found a piece
My mother raised four children
Each day she learned to cope
She said until a body’s found
We’d never give up hope
The years went by just waiting
And my mother, bless her soul
Held on until her very end
To a grieving widow’s role
For fifty years we children
Had no resting place for Dad
No gravesite and no marker
No closure ever had
Then on little hill in Arlington
Where no bodies are interred
We raised a simple white cross
Dad’s Taps were finally heard
My big sister got the folded flag
And we all shed the tears
That had been bottled up inside us
For all those fifty years
Now Dad, he has a resting place
With other fallen sons
On a quiet little hillside
Right here in Arlington
Categories:
interred, death, family, father, funeral,
Form:
Rhyme
A faint perfume of lilac blooms has stirred the sleeping dawn
Bright sunlight weaves a golden loom with threads across the lawn
Crisp white-lipped Delphiniums tossed snowflakes to the hills, while
Daffodils and pink jonquils shake off the morning chill
Each violet of morning has left no stone deferred
Found growing near, a sprout appears from every seed interred!
Greeting me like candle flames, are poppies, gold and red
Hawthorne weaves a golden crown around the arbor's head!
I look long past the windowpane, and spring has bloomed anew,
just in time to see the sky revealed in shades of blue
knitting primroses in surprise! A sight long overdue!
Lost between the flagstones, alyssum, wild and free, has
mushroomed into puffs of white, competing with sweet peas!
New sprouts of cosmos spring alive in flowerbeds we've teased
On winter's lace a pansy face is smiling up at last!
Petunias in their pastel coats, are dressed like royalty
Queen of all in velvet robes, the iris crowns the grass!
Resplendent are the foxgloves…..and the dragons are a Snap!
Sweet Williams are such gentlemen, they make the morning grand
Tiger lilies brave the wind, stalking in the breeze
Under every shady tree, violas are reprieved, while
verdant shades of primrose lace wear green upon their sleeves
Wisteria's hysteria spreads levity with ease!
Xanadu is Statice "quo"……now, what more could it do?
Yarrow blooms tomorrow. I'll have to dry a few
Zinnias mean that spring has sprung, to share fresh air with you!
____________________________________________________
"Spring Is In The Air" Contest Form ..... A to Z (Abecedarian)
3/4/18
Categories:
interred, flower, nature, spring,
Form:
Abecedarian
"50 Words for Poe: Metamorphosis"
Intricate souls,
Complex needs
interconnected
Light energy
binds them
2 hearts
2 minds
Become
1 heart
1 mind
it’s all in the
timing
the complexities
of a trick
Reciprocity
with a kiss
intuitive
apport
the exchange
of a key,
The Gift
MAGIC
Metamorphosis
The answer to this
trick
begins with the binding
of his wrists
(LadyLabrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/0FMtQrsKM8c
How to Be Invisible/Bush
“I am a great admirer of mystery and magic. Look at this life - all mystery and magic.” Harry Houdini
https://youtu.be/0ar7vovnH5I
Wow/Bush
The secret message Houdini said he’d reveal, in a séance, to his wife so that she could determine the legitimacy of a spiritualist:
“BELIEVE”
1.
https://www.thegreatharryhoudini.com/metamorphosis.html
2.
https://newrepublic.com/article/119015/edmund-wilson-houdini
3.
https://www.thegreatharryhoudini.com/occult.html
4.
https://youtu.be/IczEq22-rPU
Final Seance (Full Audio)/Bess, Houdini
5.
Houdini's widow, Bess, died of a heart attack on February 11, 1943, aged 67, in Needles, California while on a train en route from Los Angeles to New York City. She had expressed a wish to be buried next to her husband, but instead was interred 35 miles due north at the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Westchester County, New York, as her Catholic family refused to allow her to be buried in a Jewish cemetery.
6. https://youtu.be/0YbbsSgIBdk
Huff Paranormal (1)
7.https://youtu.be/WHVx8TfbRiY
Huff Paranormal (2)
Categories:
interred, death, faith, love, magic,
Form:
Free verse
Not a whisper, nor a word,
Just one day in the fall
A brief moment in time,
where that moment, interred,
is now kept, as my own
in a frame on the wall.
Stirring my soul,
in soft shades of charcoal,
that can't fade, or be dulled,
With devotion, ....it is mine, to recall
Black arches and veins,
mottled pallets of gray,
from the trees overhead
in soft fingerlings, ......exquisitely spread.
To my depths, I'm enthralled,
and without reason, it calls,
all the breath from my lungs,.... uncontrolled
Now a season is mine,
whenever I pine,
to travel from spring, ....into fall
____________________________________________________________
From a Contest: "Black and White Film Photography"
3/5/15
Categories:
interred, beautiful, beauty, nature, seasons,
Form:
Verse
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
Categories:
interred, death, family, memorial, world
Form:
Rhyme
I knew an old woman from Greece
Whose whinging words would seldom cease
She’d constantly whine
When drunk on red wine
Her husband’s in dire need of peace!
How much cash does a Grecian earn -
such questions I tried hard to spurn
Her husband went mad
and did something bad -
she’s interred in a Grecian urn!
8/20/19
Categories:
interred, humorous, husband, relationship, wife,
Form:
Limerick