Best Obits Poems
Cigarettes and alcohol
had washed her youth away.
The fresh faced girl, with the wayward curl,
that I knew from 'yesterday'
had now been replaced,
by something hard faced,
playing the oldest game in town.
Her painted on smile and streetwise guile
trying to hide the tears of a clown.
Our inner voices give us choices
of the pathways we should take.
It's a downward spiral, that soon goes viral,
if those voices are all fake.
And she had reached, and then had breached,
the nadir of her life.
She had once been a friend, staunch to the end,
a daughter, a mother, a wife.
And as we walked, so we talked,
about the might have been's.
The what went wrongs, remembered songs,
and prom night Kings and Queens.
We said goodbye and she said she would try,
but I knew her cause was lost.
And I'd scan the obits, for lost souls and misfits,
and she'd be there, as a thaw follows frost.
The Final Game
now in these years
called senior by name
is it the final game
friends live today
next day may be gone
will they see the new dawn
obits are read
each morning these years
will today bring some tears
senior days pass
like game of roulette
is it hit or miss yet
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Questionku Two
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
Judged: 10/25/2015
3rd of November
Sleepy day
Ragweed and bitters
Time drips away
Spigot of rum
Rotten limes
In the sink
Missed you again
Newspaper flies
Obits and sports
Lay in the dirt
Dog barks next door
What the hell for?
Cigarettes and coke
Scattered like quail
Across the coffee table
TV is on
CNBC
The news is not good
I missed you again
10 days have gone
Since you left
I can’t get right
This buzz in my head
Adrift and alone
I call on the phone
To a voice I don’t know
Says you’re not all alone
Day turns to night
The “friends” reappear
Another night of whiskey and beer
I hope when I wake
I won’t have missed you again
You are so damn allusive
This life you call dear
Reading obits Frank had quite a surprise
There he learned of his untimely demise
'Twas beyond his belief
But he read with relief
'Twas another Frank with a name likewise
Reading the obits they saw his demise
Their interest peaked, a crime they devised
They ransacked his home, stole memories, treasures
Not giving a thought to their hurtful measures
While robbing the dead, and raping his heirs
What gain could be found from stealing his wares
His children were awed by the cruel scam
And no one knew why thieves went on the lam
After taking his goods and selling for cash
Dear family heirlooms just paid for their stash
*My father’s house was ransacked as soon as the obit appeared in the newspaper. Police say this happens often.
Entry for Susan Burch’s “Show Me the Anger” contest.
A tiny runt who cannot run,
mom kicked me out because I limp.
The big dogs call me dumb, a gimp,
off-beat orphan, claimed by no one.
A Mowgli bumming all around,
Where is that warmer welcome mat?
there sits Bagheera, mama cat;
a foundling's hope perhaps is found.
She takes me in with her own kits;
they share and care for me at last.
Not long and I forget my past;
my name escapes the dog obits.
October 5, 2020
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Contest: In Praise of the Ode
Theme: # 3. About an Orphan
Pill ads on TV are so very shrill
They tend to make me nauseously ill
First they tout their benefits
Then warn you might hit the pits
Named in obits for swallowing their pill
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
NEWSPAPERMAN
Is the purpose of news to keep you informed
of current events that have already dawned?
Or is some mechanism set in that script
that triggers reactions to bite through your lip?
What is it typed in that story line
that keys in emotions of reactive minds?
What’s in paragraphs, punctuated with stress,
that is sentencing you to states or duress?
It’s the death and disaster, crime and obits,
it’s all of the news that’s print to give fits.
It’s anger to apathy and it’s all a plan.
It’s the stock and trade of the newspaper man.
What is the motive of a mind set
to transmit a virus by alphabet,
to poison the paper with type in ink
then sells it as copy to contaminate think?
Just whose fingertips edits those keys
to conjure a spell of anxiety?
Who holds you entranced in a dire embrace
of paper and ink and tragic typeface?
It’s the death and disaster, crime and obits,
it’s all of the news that’s print to give fits.
It’s anger to apathy and it’s all a plan.
It’s the stock and trade of the newspaper man.
By Elton Camp
Always true, it surely ain’t
One who dies was a saint
Everyone loved him so
Friends want all to know
A smile always on his face
A fellow whom all embrace
He never did a single wrong
Or so goes the familiar song
Though we see him no more
He stands on a celestial shore
Real opinion they never tell
“I’ve no doubt he’s in hell.”
“A liar’s all he’s ever been.
A man so steeped in sin.”
“Disliked by all he knew.
I say it because it’s true.”
“Without him, this is a better place.
Nobody will miss his leering face.”
Such candor might be misplaced
And newspaper obits sure erased
But it’s better not to say a thing
Than false praise to the dead bring
Just one time, I’d really like to see
“Of a worthless scoundrel we’re free”
Basic black, they chatter like
fiancees choosing flatware,
obits their compulsion,
scanning through the
fine print for fatalities today.
"Albert Johnson, such
a young one, taken by his
Maker, leaving children,
such a shame!" A hunger for
the details drives these gannets
to their prey. They're not too far
behind, and that's the reason
for their passion,
death and taxes, final call.
Professional, they'll travel
thirty miles to pay respects,
their only consolation
now that Frank and Jim are gone.
Memories are treasures
they will contemplate, while they wait
in resignation, ready for their turn.
I pay no attention to sports
I turn off the weather report
Pretty girls don’t attract me
No more do mosquitoes attack me
I read the obits and emit a long sigh
Thinking, there but for the grace of God goeth I…
A backed-up sewer full of manure
Made me gag; I was so immature
Today it bothers me not in the least
~ Life on this earth is just leased
Peel back the onion tear squeals
coming from a televised live politico lynch rally
See the sound byte rubber duckie
teflon touting
his favorite effigy combustible hits
Penguin strutting presidential seal
got a billy goat attitude, kicking rude gutter alley
A moving goalpost sway dis plucky,
sour spouting
his most edgy, nitroglycerin lip obits
Give an Orwellian mad props shout out
to this Banana Republic appeal
It’s got plenty of Hammedetha hate, swastika love
Bent cross rules
trolling tropic yellow fever
Rabid delirious cold sweat vanilla doubt,
fascist hope has a death toll knell
It’s got bundles of blitzkrieg love, Haman hate
Coin bossed tools
pull on the hangman’s lever
Banana Republic appeal
got a filthy lucre piggy publican feel
Roman togas behind the keel steering wheel,
Caesars wanton more red dollar bills
Two thousand fraudulent, furrowed years,
crucified cries dripping with Diaspora tears
Banana Republic appeal ...
Legionnaire monkeyshine hurt,
skeleton bones
sabertooth rattle toss
a high yellow alert
Alien fear don’t have to gun tote yield,
power corrupts when a Balaam wields
Scimitar curved insides
swinging sling blade serrated hate
Dividing every Canary gripe state
Carny barker razor edge spit,
spiked with Herod care,
lung pour Raid
the Dixie klear kup of Kool-Aid
Banana Republic appeal ...
heady void, thoughtless swill
Pendulum arc bullet shot
is a guillotine drop done deal
Repeat of the four-year refrain
Pits demented versus insane
We who are pundits
Say please call it quits
And would toast their obits with champagne
To glorify the leading star he obits the big named performer
with blank face in shabby clothing and for his part is so minute
it doesn’t matter whether he exists or not.
Although, he falls under the sword with gushing blood,
killed by a single gun shot without a word, or dies
by a thrusting spear with a short groan, no one cares
to cry for his tragic death, because he has no name, no tomb.
A day of extra’s life is to learn how to wait and to survive
through one day at a time. He roams around the studio patiently
for his given day and, while roaming around the empty studio
he becomes a dim shadow under the darkening sky,
and when the sky getting darker and darker he follows the sets
with a moon, with the stars, to the location where the scenery
that is to shot and glorify the big name, as the truckloads that
move along in a long formed line.
If you spend a day in Hades, it will shorten a day of given life.
For death is proof of the contrary to the living, and waiting game
is the part of extra’s life, though the life seemed to be worthless, and therefore, no cast of a play is given for his sake, the extra, the leftover life, also is the existing being until he falls under the sword, killed from a single bullet, trusted to die by a spear.
Memorial Day 2025
Soon Memorial day will be upon us once more,
And unhappy memories of the past will be excavated again.
My younger Brother was a highly decorated soldier
rising to the rank of Master Sergeant in his twenty-three years.
He did four tours in Vietnam and each time he came home
I could see a change. After he retired he just drove away
from the house one evening and never returned. For thirty
years family searched the internet, contacted the Army and once
after a family death we had to send our letters to them
and they in turn forwarded them to him for his signature.
We had no family problems or ill will at all. He abandoned
his family and his four children also. He just chose to
live alone for whatever reason. Only God knows why.
Another brother who had cancer couldn’t sleep one night
and thought he’d search one last time. He found his name
in the obits where he had died that week and was in a
mortuary in Texas. I contacted them and was told
he had a power of attorney and would give her my number.
She did call and I assured her that we wanted nothing that he had,
Just his ashes to bring home to the family plot. She first
said it was a go. We made plans to leave the next morning
but she called back and said after talking to her man he said
no and ditched his phone. She said his wishes were to be cremated
and ashes scattered on another soldiers grave.
I had shadowboxes made for his children as well as self.
But I tell myself there are tens of thousands of cases like this
or worse. I don’t know why things were like they were. War is
about self preservation. A soldier can’t undo, or unsee, or forget
the stench of war. They do the things they’re told to do in
defense of this great country. This Memorial day I will be
mindful, That “all gave some, Some gave all.”
Tom