Best Requiem Poems
Within her frail shell, death abides
through the final hours, I remain by her side
fearing a forsaken place of webs that lie in rows
of haggard fields where everything forbidden grows
surrounded by caverns of mortal's deserted bones
she faintly whispered, "I want to go home"
Death awakens the wandering soul, affliction steps away
vanishing through corridors numbered by years of pain
yet, illuminates all delightful wanderings in between
eternity tugs at her robe to calm the heavy laden breaths
into softer mournful moans, she'll acquiesce
Within a midst of welcoming hosts rapt in lucent haze, hallowed air
transcends her delicate last breath, then earthly slumber ends
her requiem, immersed through immortal gates
never to be cast into a cold stone grave
Karen Anglesey 4/29/13
As light escapes, the lustrous moon ascends
a prelude to the majesties of night
with shining constellations that transcend
and shooting stars that burn with heaven's light.
Night's canopy unfurls its galaxies
with planet earth along the milky way
to join with glorious skies, orbiting so free
unique with life, an abundant, grand display.
As Jupiter and Mars round sun again
along with Venus, Pluto in its wake
this requiem of solar dance began
in ages past by God for His own sake.
A galactic promenade in gleaming reverie
ordained above in interstellar harmony.
Written on 5/15/2017
Call me not a child,
Treat me with adult words,
Eyes that scan the essence,
And see the centuries I have lived.
Ancient soul though young flesh,
Half my heart remains in an older existence.
I wish to feel the gentle,
The tenderness that comes with love,
Finger tips soft and feather like.
I yearn to feel the rough,
The firm grip of a lover,
Hands grasping hips in a fury of need.
Lips rubbing together in absence of a kiss.
I need to speak of higher things,
realms that others fear to not believe,
And visions that we both have seen.
Lie with me in clover beds,
Stars sparkling bright above our heads,
Birds swooping to deliver prey to young,
Eyes filled with awe at the world's cruel beauty.
Lie with me in open thought,
Minds roaming over hills and sea,
Connecting to the world.
Releasing raw unadulterated energy,
Through just a simple touch,
Conscious spreading to the sky,
To flit like hummingbirds.
Call me not a child,
For the things I have seen,
The memories I hold within,
Through one life to the next.
Falling, falling, down to the sea,
Bright sky, rolling green,
sharp waves black, crash against the rocks,
Awaiting our meeting of fatality.
Flowers high in weeds,
Grow up to itchy gowns,
And crunch beneath slipper-ed feet.
Corsets pulled tight,
Tight enough that I forget to breathe,
When in the presence of a man.
Blame the corset for my lack of breathe,
Though he steal it from my honeyed lips,
With not even a brushing kiss.
And a wedding band surprised,
Beneath a weeping willow,
With barely family enough to witness the event.
Four wheeled Slow rolling machine,
In comparison to today's technologies,
To ride a get away in sun lit heat.
Black with shinning seats and room for four,
Or even five if they would squeeze.
Two women, a daughter and a son,
A life of running, identity hidden,
Bolstered weapons for protection,
And an unending flow of cash.
Life seemed easy - at least when not being shot at.
So call me not a child,
For I have seen many years,
Felt the touch of lovers hands,
The cool of friends tears,
Felt the crashing waves,
As another life came to an end,
Spoke of many things,
And made otherworldly friends.
Kiss my lips with fierceness,
When I have yet again died,
I fear not the otherworldly,
So tell them not to cry.
Requiem of a Phoenix
Silhouettes and storm clouds loom,
etched against a blackened sky
by bolts of electric blue
and ashen moon rays.
I mourn at dusk; the death of the light.
Languid flames dance
from tree to tree,
as a passing of the torch
to the sacrificial pyre.
I mourn by fire; the death of the light.
A tormented world in anguish
heaves a guttural howl,
which resonates through the darkness
carving deep channels in tangible silence.
I mourn in song; the death of the light.
Absently numb, I view it all
with a looming realization
that I was never made for this world
captive to flesh and desolation.
I mourn alone; the death of the light.
I surrender to my captivity.
I surrender to the agony.
I surrender to the storm and fire.
I embrace the void.
From the cinders of night
skyward I strain on bolts of electric blue
pursuing the tranquility of the moonlight.
Unqualified freedom granted by absolute loss
is a new captivity.
So mourn I at daybreak, the death of the night.
4/14/17
For Contest: Mythical Creatures
Hosted by: Julia Ward
In the outskirts, where whispers weave through the wind,
there stands a farmhouse, its timbers groaning with secrets,
a silhouette etched against the horizon’s fading light.
Once, it was alive, pulsing with the beat of day-to-day,
but now, it’s shrouded in a cloak of solitude,
walls lined with the echoes of laughter long gone,
rooms filled with the heavy air of stories untold.
The woman who lived there, a mystery, a shadow,
wandered its halls like a ghost, her presence barely felt
but in the gentle ivory caress of piano keys
that floated through the night, a sorrowful symphony
played to an audience of moon and stars.
Folks in town, they gossiped, cruel jests hidden behind closed doors,
labeling her a recluse, a witch, a specter of the past,
never understanding the weight of loneliness she carried,
a burden that bent her shoulders and dulled her eyes.
She found peace in her music, notes rising and falling,
like the breaths she drew, deep and resonant,
a language only she and the night could comprehend.
The farmhouse, with its peeling paint and creaking floors,
stood as a testament to her existence,
its decay mirroring the abandonment she felt,
doors no longer opening to welcome guests,
windows looking out with a yearning for the world.
Inside, the piano waited, its keys now silent,
dust gathering like a blanket, a comfort in the stillness,
each particle a memory, a moment frozen in time.
And so, the house remains, a relic of loneliness,
a monument to the misunderstood,
its story floating with the wind, carried through the fields,
a melody played on the strings of time,
eternal, echoing, alone.
The rising sun has set.
Night has fallen.
The plow rests,
tillage and toil finished.
The corn ear withers,
but seeds are saved.
The scrolls are opened
event recorded;
the news spread:
"The sun has set,
the old Owl has flown
into the Heavens."
Yet, the sun will rise
and peek over the horizon,
the tractor will roar,
a new crop will sprout,
Green hands will turn brown
the flag will wave,
financial accounts recorded,
hospitality offered,
and the light of brotherhood shared.
Your torch has lit fires
that flicker and flame;
The fledgling will grow
and, hopefully, become wise;
New eras and life-chapters
will begin,
continuing the credo
as a Legacy to you:
"Learning to Do,
Doing to Learn,
Earning to Live,
Living to Serve."*
*National FFA Organization Motto
On a sultry, sizzling July day
I swear it happened just this way
In a tidal pool, a lifeless seahorse lay
He’d not galloped to meet his fate
But was caught in a wave’s cruel wake
High tide retreated, closed the gate
Oh, to have seen him in his prime
Not corralled by diminishing brine
But free to romp near the shoreline
Confined, he withered, but sparked some thought
Of the delight he might have brought
If, for an aquarium, he’d been bought
Tenderly, I cupped his sad remains
And placed him into the sea again
Where others of his kind were still in reign
Yet, before I could utter my last goodbye
A sudden movement caught my eye
In shock, my elation began to amplify
Kissed by cool sea, this sleeping equine
Proved the strength of his endangered bloodline
By swimming away from the sandy coastline
A once-in-a-lifetime moment for me
I cheered aloud as he trotted out to sea
So ponder this and I’m sure you'll agree
This magical rebirth is a lesson to share
When you think life is beyond a prayer
Just give it some help; hope is still there
*April 17, 2018
Released and slowly drifting to the earth,
the leaf departs her tree in mournful grace;
though both will live to see another birth,
none same will be returning in her place.
We meet as always in the space between
the branch's bud and parting leaf stem's end;
a tearful eye, a tugging force unseen
does will the laws reverse, gravity bend.
Enhanced though was the nearly naked tree
by springtime's bloom, her fallen trembling love -
released to serve another destiny -
in turn, will be the better than above.
Leaf falls to rest, and in her fading sigh,
she breathes to tree her final sad goodbye.
The outside world waiting,
Full of sublime buildings and parks,
As she sits upon the dusty sheets of the bed,
Eyes bloodshot and hurting,
Stomach rumbling,
Nights spent wide awake,
Days spent within the confines of a small room.
Her mind has a grip on every part of her,
Until its claws make her bleed,
Until she is forced to face her past yet again.
Sadistic, masochistic, pessimistic,
It kills every moment of true joy,
Because how can such a moment be real?
How can it be real when there is
This and that and another this,
To worry about,
To cry about.
This spring comes not with blossoming trees
And the warmth of the sunshine upon one's skin,
But with the ability to understand
The manipulative ways of her mind.
The darkness has become so banal, so cliché,
That she can only laugh about it.
Every single laugh is a victory
For her barbaric mind.
I found a dove lying broken
I knelt just as it died.
It had chosen my high window
as its own patch of blue sky.
A young dove it appeared to be,
too young to know or care
that windows are seductive
when one's flying in the air.
It was too young to wonder
where Summer's leaves had gone,
or to know there'll be new buds
along with Springtime's song.
Too young to taste wild berries
hidden by an early snow.
Too young to soar and soar someplace
where only birds must know.
Too young to choose a handsome mate
and raise its very own;
to age with grace and wondrous tales
of places it had flown.
Gently it's placed beneath an oak,
on fallen leaves to lie.
While its spirit, at last released,
will fly and fly and fly.
Silver-lined beckoning moon beams
dance along, disquieting sacred ground
unmasked by truth, barefoot unencumbered
broken promise-laden blue eyes.
You whispered flame into existence
as if a stark naked sheath of sparkling
midnight velvet skies, haunted in surreal angst
revealing the beauty I will never possess.
Lost in revelry, the tune continues to play
repetitiously, in tired mind and restless thought
raging ember pulse coagulating, until feelings whist
now eternally slowed, water breaks from horizon.
Restful reproach granted in heartbeat-time
the metronome of life, always captures its prey
succumbing in surrender, while the new dawn casts shadow
over an oyster-birthed pearl on a rainy day in love.
There is beauty in the dying of the day
where shadows lengthen in the dusk
waters ripple with enchanted hush
as twilight chases the sunlight away.
Stanza from Dying of the Day poem
written on 10/17/2019
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
Requiem
The map to Requiem
Is often long, confused, and composed
By differing charters...Also
Too layered to sort. So many movements!
Even the very shortest of lives
Could story a magnum opus
When tracked to its core.
A Requiem for one elderly
Could fill an orchestra’s entire concert
Season of song!
The roads to a Requiem
Course singularly in God’s memory,
Fully in the graces of his harmony.
—————————————————————
U
(c). Sally Young-Eslinger 9/1/2020
With help from Antonio Vivaldi
***Thank be to God!
A “For Sale” sign
stands out front
where once a parish
notice board stood
for a hundred years.
Inside, the pews are gone.
A stark, stripped back space
echoes an absence
occupied now by only wisps
of dust drifting through a shaft
of sunlight, a buzzing blowfly
and a spiders web spun
across a window
as if strung to snare
the frayed wings
of the last
escaping prayer.