Best Mortuary Poems
When I lay in the mortuary,
Don’t cry, smile and appreciate my journey.
Throughout life, at times, I lived wary.
I carried hope, love and even the burdening worry.
When I lay in the mortuary,
Before I’m buried and forgotten in a cemetery,
About my death don’t ask questions,
Don’t whisper in my stiff, blue ears confessions.
Few would come to my funeral,
Fewer would weep.
Few would care,
Fewer would lose sleep.
When I lay in the mortuary,
Burn my drafts and books,
My life was dull and ordinary.
Be not sad,
Be joyful and glad
Listen to Tchaikovsky not Mahler
Throw a party
Laugh and eat hearty
At the Happy Smily Funeral Parlor.
The picnic at december end
The mob in the party
Restively chanting to God
For their healthy mortal
existence
Tick tuck tick the tickling clock
The expected desire reached
Happy new year choruses
Roaring among the mob to the
air
Hisses from the mouths of
lovers
Warmth in the cold
From hugs
Clitterings in the air from
knockout
Boom bang from a missileous
knockout
Overwhelmed the varieties
The melancholic tune changes
From the fire ablazing
Mortuary is a place full of hope
They pray for an opportunity
That one day they go there
To live forever quiet peace
In freedom from noisy men
And troubling world of the living
Its heaven for the dead
Praying to the Almighty
Not to vacate it at all
For dangerous lonely hole
That knows no visitor
The place without festival of laughter
Mortuary is a place full of hope
For both the living and the departed
I cannot find The Excellent
In what is Largely Repellent:
If one swam a cold river,
One was liable to shiver…
I won`t heed Lord`s Minister,
Who dwells on The Sinister:
Often about Mortuary
Rather than Clean Sanctuary:
Neglected Nude Sinner`s Corpse
Which on trodden bare floor drops!
Your Priests who watch White Clerics
Have never heard them drop clicks,
During Sermon try a scowl
Or before its end dog`s growl;
Your Evangelical Schools
Have been breaking The Rules
Forget the crowd they do pull
Church to capacity full:
Time they threw in the towel;
Some can do well trowel…
A Guesthouse
For space citizens
Before take-off
Till tomorrow a nasty style
Nigerians stretch a bold mile:
Sermons which begin with obituary
And proceed to The Mortuary…
The Waiting Choice of Deaconess Emmanuela
Seeking and discovering The Best Umbrella
For mandating sinners’ fastest repentance
Of deeds that might no more clinch penance.
Also, of Pastor Prince at war with Theological Schools,
Because break a preacher could one or two rules…
I simply pray Prince won’t this try in London
For a Whole Assembly shall him abandon:
Spiritual messages of the scary;
Tales Gospel – like but still fairy.
There is no one else to blame
for how my life has turned out, but me.
I could change and be like everyone else
only seeking the pleasure of the moment;
But I’ve found little comfort in it,
And the pain of loneliness soon returns.
So, I should be proud of the man
that I’ve become.
Yet, I find myself struggling to do so.
Am I looking through life with
the eyes of a child (believing in dreams and not seeing reality).
Then please don’t wake me because
life is hard as it is…
He gets up from the death bed
A dream or madness? My thoughts wander
A worrying chill runs down my spine
I throw up hard, then blindly faint
The air grows thick, my vision blurs
Shadows whisper, I hear their distress calls
Silent scares echo through the mortuary hall
My spirit then leaves my body behind
I die. The dead man comes alive
Our spirits go in direct opposite ways
Mine, away; his, back to his body
Fear kills me, mortuary cold wakes him
The dead man tries to wake me
Pours water, gives a kiss of life
Silence greets his frantic shout for help
A cold grip pulls me from reach
Can’t a rich corpse remain in a fridge
While the bereaved have gaps to still bridge?
The outrage that descends on faces
Varies with minds, background and races,
Deferment of interment a choice;
On the subject it can’t be one voice...
God had carried it out with Moses:
St. Jude Verse 9 of the matter closes,
Satan with Michael contesting corpse
Not perturbed by what from challenge drops
Until he got “The Lord Rebuke thee!
And he just had enough time to flee…
Corpse may stay long in mortuary,
Paid printers to hold obituary;
We aren’t the thing tormenting with ice:
Just buying time for guests’ meat-filled rice…
Our morticians are thanking their god
For a year where they all earned a wad
Though some were burnt
Many more weren't
Still, their best work lies under the sod!
There has never been a southpaw,
Who has the crushing show made poor;
Each in the ring a carnivore,
His left hook, his wasting death jaw,
Your swollen eyes already a law
Before the last bout on the floor.
A lateral body positioning
That The Left Thing keeps conditioning,
From the ring catapulting a victim
To an international hospital
And from its ward to its mortuary:
So, it had been with Callous Etim,
From a fight to a celebratory rental
And a speeding-up of his obituary.
South paws still have been licked
By the Maverick Right-Handed,
When they have such boldly picked
For the blows hatefully landed.
Pacquiao saying it was going to be Mayweather
And meeting with a bit of bad weather.
Days, months and years to all are special,
Because the rate of occurrences are spatial,
A deliberate art of super human,
To propel celebration of event and man,
Even those that are tragically comic.
We hold high birthdays for they are annual crops,
Centurys' first day is sold in a rare kiosk ain't shops,
A new day in a decade is ten years,
Is 1992 calender not as same as 2020 and coming years?
That is also the beauty of leap days.
While some celebrate as...
God and geographers bring mine not like ass,
For I was bore, once in four annuals,
A deep day to find in several biannuals,
As unique as a unicorn.
My birthday, like a sanctuary,
Privileged, get it not a mortuary,
We are those born on February 29th,
Count in fours from 1804 to 2020th,
Should we not celebrate a unique year?
Glam became a voodoo artist; by reading the holy book backward twice in the middle of the forest for forty nights so he could challenge the demon.
Then Glam and three others and prayed a spell in the middle of the night on a log fire. Then played the flute. He unlocked a door and he beckoned a demon called Sire Marcus Barracus to assist him. Glam overpowered Marcus and stole the key of the door. Then stole, hair, nails, and umbilical cords of their victims. He put it in a grave and mortuary to steal their gold in heaven. They also stole the all-seeing eye so he knew exactly where to look amongst other things. All he knew was he needed perform a ritual, he needed a pure souls. He had no idea what he was doing as he was literate.
He didn’t know how to arrange such an act. He and the others ended up putting their bodies in a mortuary too. Then Marcus didn’t know how to explain to him, as he was horrified. All Marcus did was ask him to sign a contract and pay him for use of such items. Which he never did until now thirty-five years later. Now Marcus managed to get through to them what he tried to advise them back then. As they have used up all the gold they stole and fallen into hell. And don’t know what to do now.
The sneaky dead souls come through the door
Making deals
They wanted resurrection, health and beauty
Glam and Manzoor and Abid was greed
Suraya and Khalida were jealousy and beauty
Saying T is to blame for their misfortune
And began their reign of terror
They crossed the demon’s hand with silver
The demon wanted proof
They played dirty hoping to fool the demon
With lies and deception
They took out loans
They signed the contract
Now there’s no proof to their accusations
And must pay the fines and heavy debt.
A VISIT TO THE MORTUARY
Makinde Adebayo Adeniyi
Sleeping on the slab
Surrounded by kith and kin
In a conference of blab
No thought of sin
All opinions in the bin
Naked like a newborn
Helpless like a lost chick
No thought about the morrow
Dreams and aspirations long forgotten
Intoxicated by silence
None to see her fears
The future wrapped in loneliness
Like a disappointed uterus
Here ends the journey.