Best Undertakers Poems
In nineteen eighteen there was an outbreak of flu
Caused little concern, only affected a few
But it returned with a vengeance later that year
And the world over it caused widespread fear.
First reported in Spain, and around the world spread
When it was over, fifty million people were dead
Hospitals were stretched and they struggled to cope
For both young and old, there wasn't much hope.
It affected the lungs and caused skin to turn blue
Only comfort was given it was all they could do
In effect it caused people to suffocate
And continued to spread at an alarming rate.
People advised to avoid crowds and to wear masks
They struggled to perform even basic daily tasks
Remote areas in the world were affected too
By this airborne killer virus, the great Spanish flu.
Effort's were made to slow down this disease
But slowly and surely it brought the world to its knees
Shops opening times were staggered all over the lands
People strongly advised not to shake hands.
Undertakers were struggling to cope with demands
Families' buried loved ones with their own hands
Healthy men and women and children too
Were all falling victim to the great Spanish flu.
Because of World War One, doctors were few
And those that were available, many fell sick too
Temporary hospital's set up in schools or church hall
With many brave volunteers answering the call.
They closed many schools, services were hit too
With workers struck down by this merciless flu
Late nineteen nineteen the virus reached its peak
Immunity grew stronger but it still struck the weak.
Sadly mankind had suffered and paid a great cost
To the great Spanish flu with millions of lives lost
The pandemic was now over, survivors started to thrive
But were mournful of the millions who did not survive.
Written 4th April 2018.
( Dedicated to the fifty million people who died
in the Spanish flu pandemic in the years 1918 to 1919. )
Solitary sun in sapphire skies,
beams its rays upon Earth's radiance.
A tepid breeze flows between
daffodils and bluebells, gently rocking.
Spring is in the air,
yet streets remain silent.
Masked men in green suits,
bearing arms, patrol -
perturbed by unsought peace.
Anticipating unauthorised motions,
they wander past eerie emptiness -
sleeping theatres, picture less cinemas,
sober bars, childless schools and unfit gyms.
Silence is disrupted by military vehicles
occasionally startling their comrades.
Echoes of continuous coughs,
hidden behind closed curtains,
prevent even the obstinate ones,
admiring scents from rousing roses -
whose petals are not idle in isolation.
Industry of death is thriving -
undertakers undertaking, grave diggers digging.
Crematoriums fighting coffin carpenters -
whose sympathies are disguised by greed.
As humanity evolves into ashes.
In the midst of clean air,
mother nature smiles,
bathing in tranquil purity of serenity
the only fire burning is the sun.
Silent One
Simple Musing
22 March 2020
A lonely coffin, bleak and bare,
with only undertakers there.
The vicar, saddened by the sight,
envisioned everlasting light,
and prayed a lost and loveless soul
could find salvation and be whole.
She didn't care about the scene -
and if the churchyard trees were green,
or wintry branches, void of life -
she only knew she was a wife,
a mother, granny, aunt, and friend.
The loneliness was at an end,
and now with parents, siblings, pets,
her tears were over, no regrets.
The vicar turned and walked away;
he'd three more funerals that day...
written 2nd January for Emile's Winter contest
Four walls
Stuck inside these four walls
The sky
The earth
The east
The west
Where does one run
Where does one hide
Four walls inside my head
Imprisoned by butterfly wings
Four hours and still counting
Four undertakers, to take me home
Freed from my imagined room
Forewarned robbens' on islands’ understood
Flowers sprout as rain drops fall
Over sunny skies these four walls are tall
Universal is the prison
Ruined when the four walls fly in the sky
Blowing up things, unfortunately,
Birth’s the printing of endless money.
By Gov’ments and world money makers,
That overwhelm global undertakers.
Yet we cry out that war is unsound,
That it spreads grief and guts all around.
Yet money printed that’s spent on death,
Shamefully gives our markets bad breath.
Which helps to inflate our portfolios,
And house prices rise when their money flows.
Which is a bummer when we are buying,
But when selling our spirits are flying.
That’s the nature of evil Ponzi schemes;
They’re a huge faux dough making machine.
But when interest rates start going higher,
The globalist fear’s become direr.
Yet they’ve pre-planned for any crisis;
Funding Hamas, Hezbollah, and Isis.
So all sides may have weapons for gore,
Creating more dollars; yes, much more!
But faux dough made on printing devices,
Is the main reason for all high prices.
So they help blow up half of creation,
To help lessen that sticky inflation.
But most aren’t aware of the real players,
Who divide and distract behind layers,
With ‘news’ and psyops that raise our ire,
Fooling us to put out the small fires
Oh fie, a poem about money and war,
What is the point of writing this for?
It’s for those with an enquiring soul,
Who care to see that our sons remain whole.
Foxtrot for dances or horses?
Both I suppose.
Who does it better?
Comparing them would be
Like comparing onions to Lazy-boy-recliners,
Comparing lima beans to undertakers,
Comparing lavender to unicorns,
Comparing poetry to poetry.
It simply cannot be done.
Can I have this foxtrot, Mr. Horse?
At odds about the undertakers fees, Mark Twain jeered:
“There is a system of extortion going on here!”
What horrific prices to pay for just a box and hole
When it's not the body we care about, but the soul!
This clerihew is derrived from reading Mark Twains views on burying the dead. His only quotation is the second line. ( Mark Twain and the Carson City Undertaker) - February 1864
Sandra Hudson, 1/18/2012
DEATH WISH HAIKU (AS Musical History of Cigarettes)
L.S.M.F.T.
Snooky Lanson sang it clear
smoke in every ear.
From your Hit Parade,
Frank Sinatra blew the words one time
Didn't Fence Him In.
Dorothy Collin's voice
America there's only one to smoke
Lucky Strike's the one.
Drifting up her nose
pulling smoke into her lung
biting on her tongue
what is she doing?
coffins closing in with nails
death as slow as snails.
Do you want a Lucky?
More satisfaction pleasure
undertakers measure.
Camel smoke was nil
More Doctors smoked Lucky Strikes
Than Mike Hammer smoked.
Nicotine all day
tie hers up in Christmas bows
blow it out her nose.
Free on Navy ships
Sailors never saw the light
Though the match was free.
Lift the wailing wood
Hammer the tortured nails
Place the ghostly steps
Below the battered rails
Invite those crazy strangers
Dressed in stranger clothes
Join the mighty miracle
Ready to unfold
Building a stairway
In the desert
Aimed toward the pure and honest sky
Building a stairway
In the desert
Going to rise for miles
And miles
Leave this evil town
Where scorpions share your bed
Guilty snakes make a home
Deep inside your head
The bleeding sun
Burns your feet
Hangmen joke
Beggars weep
Buried bodies
Cry for help
Undertakers
Steal your wealth
Building a stairway
In the desert
Aimed toward the pure and honest sky
Building a stairway
In the desert
Going to rise for miles
And miles
We’re laughing and
We’re dancing
In the desert
Dancing in the desert
Of our lives
Can’t you see?
We’re dancing in the desert
Dancing in the desert
Of our lives
Feel so free
Dancing in the desert
Dancing in the desert
Of our lives
Free….so free
In the desert
Dancing in the desert
Of our lives
Lift the wailing wood
Hammer the tortured nails
( Hum to the tune of "Get me to the Church on time!"
The old guy's getting married to a fat virgin,
Ding dong, the wedding hearse does shine!
That's what he gets for perving!
Get him to the morgue on time!
The old man's getting married to a fat virgin,
Ding dong, the wedding hearse does shine,
Both the coffins are ready,
The undertakers are steady,
Extra large for the fat groom and bride.
The old man's getting married to a fat virgin,
Ding dong, the wedding hearse does shine,
The bride is wearing her thongy,
His sons are bringing their bongies,
Get him to the morgue on time.
The old man's getting married to a fat virgin,
Ding dong, wedding hearse does shine,
The mob are bringing marijuana pesto,
The transvestites are saying hello,
They can be mothers of the bride.
The old man's marrying a fat virgin,
Yes, that's what you get for a'pervin,
The morticians are all ready,
The coffins are standing steady,
Get him to the morgue on time!
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.
As the known hunter shut up the lion with his bullets.
The jungle lamented over another fallen king.
The other animals weep as the undertakers lift the King's casket to its apartment six feet down.
Tears mixed with sweat as other animals cried and following the casket with the same uniform.
It was like the sun shone darkness, and ocean hovering blood
All I could hear is the known hunter saying.
Mortals carrying a mortal, dead men weeping for a dead man.
Who is living? The dead or the living.
This same hunter will lead you home.
This same hunter will end your worries and predicament.
Lives already dead, while their blood yet flow.
Some had already stop breathing before their heart stop its bit.
Many are just a drum for the sun, while others till their land in a cool box.
But none of them will ever escape the known hunter.
They waste their time proving hierarchy and the difference they posses.
They even compare themselves with one another.
But just like the lion, the known hunter will settle their differences.
The mighty has fallen, they'll say when the known hunter strike.
Maybe they have forgotten, the known hunter is the reason the little and small shall fall.
So I ask again, who exactly is living? The living or the dead.
When the dead had absolutely no worries, and the living is simply surviving.
When time is the only difference between each strike of the known hunter had made and will make.
Please can you tell me, who is living?
Truekenyan writes..
DIE THE DEATH!
(Dona eis requiem sempiternam)
Die the death and transcend vanity
O poor vernal flesh and bone,
Waned out of this primal valley
And sink like the moon beyond the coast.
All expectations, ‘tis the greatest
Reclined at the backdrop of the heart’s throb,
Relegated by mortal necessities in crest
Clouded by mist as the shrouding robe round a knob.
Farewell thee, to vanish from eyes.
Fear not, minds still shall keep thee
Though a while, less a bother to human plight,
The dire need for yen, companion and spree.
The undertakers trades fare supreme
And mourners sonorous rhymes are music prime;
Downing the lees of wine to spike faces grim
With throbbing drums, jigging feet and chime.
Great the awaited moment to close the eyes
And farewell the world with all her bother.
A descendance is paramount than to rise,
To die to live than live to die is best order.
Great ease is the last prize to pay
And refund the muck to its source beneath
Nothing else abide but merry mongers sway
Over nourished ordure, once a breath.
Why not sadness at the joyful tale of birth
And merriment at the woeful news of death?
Onward would be to the backyard of earth,
From incubi, toil and deformed breath.
Night veil drawn over our visibility,
In twinkle the pupil dilate a life span’s knell
Wedge in limbo, shrouded by mystery,
Knowledge only worms and flies can tell.
What need of life, fun, food or friendship?
All but a three episode script of dharma:
Ignorance precedes pain and then comes sorrow,
As circadian sculptor pruned our feature.
No mint can purchase back days gone by,
Neither riches to reverse a twinkle;
For a lifelong tie earn a profound sigh,
A spot on shoreline washed by sprinkles.
Poison, sickness, circadian effect and accident
Are final returns wherein all expectations lie.
Rather in life, in death is its fulfillment
And no further businesses have I but to die!
First draft
I
By his deeds he was duly judged
And by his greed he was condemned
To the bowels far beneath the Earth-
Cursed tenfold to rot and feed the maggots unfed.
Stark Kilns was his doomed name
A man who burnt with hideous flame-
A name to forever tumble to oblivion
With its proprietor’s ruins and vision.
Not a soul wept
Not a tear on cheeks crept.
Not a soul attended the funeral
Save Kilns’ only overdue Aunt Feen-
A shrunken lady of a hundred and fifteen.
There petched on the solitary scaffold
Was the casket, a sad but terrible thing to behold-
For every inch of it gleamed of black-
A thing that still makes me tremble as a feeble stag.
The old priest by dogma read the eulogy
And alas! The casket was lowered
To the bowels of the cemetery
As the Sun hid its pale face
Beneath the horizon.
Thinking that this had brought the end
I turned away from my hiding behind the fern
But my attention became arrested
By a hollow sound, as if a drum had dropped.
There, the very black casket had reached
The base of the grave harder than intended.
Or perhaps the undertakers were in haste
For I had noticed them on edge and none chaste.
Then the undertakers fell to filling
And cursing that grave which today
Is marked by nothing but a pale olive tree
On which every evening perches a mute owl.
For ten years, that olive tree has never a fruit borne:
For ten solid years the owl has had itself sworn
To keep guard on that tree, that hideous tree
And Wait for its doomed master, I presume.
It had braved through like the very true son
Who had lost to the claws of cold death
The best dad in the world. So it had braved
Through the rain and cold that had plagued most days
How the town stirred upon becoming sentient
Of the cold guest at Kilns’ resting place.
Nothing but the owl was on the people’s menu
Many a townsfolk went to see for themselves
How the owl stared back with so much nonchalance
How the creature just glared back, its huge eyes inert.
The townsfolk upon leaving would but mutter:
“A ***** creature! I never trusted Kiln’s death.”
It came that these very townsfolk then sat
And secretly planned to bring to its death
This inert guest upon Kilns’ grave.
II
A cold crypt lay stone figured in the earth, as if it were the old man's reward.
Dark and bewildered the eyes of the beast, rested six feet on tranquil depths.
Shallow and without remorse, engulfed by the undertakers grit.
What death awaits under the devil's window sill.
Monotonous the cheer, hurray!!! hurray!!!!, an audienca, dethroned was the king, his
assassination by critic, no prize for his next of kin
No sorrow, only tears of a dream failed by others,
Who are we not to call his work art...left with an evil grin and the scent of gasoline
spread, burn was his words,as he fell silent in the flames
As the curtains rolled, applause lauded out, a true genius, a master of a play.
As it was in name death of a play-write,
and the end of his script