Best Urn Poems
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
“we look for that that does not come and go
it cannot be organic form, subject to decay
thoughts and beliefs are fickle, how little we know
yet come what may, our inner child continues to play”
The 'umbilical cord',
hereby symbolic,
its severance
where
initiated,
a soul of three,
and then much more.
Growing up was an
in-depth shared
furtherance,
whereupon,
directives were encountered,
either embraced or tossed aside.
Time and again, instant moments,
encouraging considerations,
imbued ponderance,
whereto,
we tether ourselves
to a sizeable pole of justifications.
Hail to a fitness club, or a cab to a McDonald's,
intermittent intervals, slim down or fatten up,
choice batters about a pole that remains,
until life expectance,
leans awkward,
wherefore
for time indulgence,
slacks a major facet as the pole evolves minor,
for one's immediate concerns, lies elsewhere, a priority.
All the while, the pole was steadfast but never silent
taking a backseat to the urgencies of the moment
significance tallies the hours near,
wherein
one now realizes that time is fleeting,
wonders how one's pole has shaped itself, was it worth their while.
At that instant, open their eyes
and see the poles that are
standing around them
bedside so they can
measure their
worth truly.
Where
we mete
out ourselves
to whom we truly
Blessed Assurance.
Eyes flared in agitation
Damasked in utmost lament
The tyrants laughed in vanity
Remains of his mother lie still
As if the winds were holding their breath
The urn cracked and cold as night
Alone, the eyes softened
His heart a hermit of radiance
Temples tingled as silence stayed
The unprofaned laughter now ash-shamed
Hot tears of fervor reduced their pig-headed ways
He kneeled to his mother as they gazed
In the urn she no longer cried
Even in the urn did she not abide
April 28, 2014
ashes in an urn
a lovely new urn
whose ashes are they
who was burned that day
what races
what religions
what sexes
what nationalities
maybe they’re all mixed in
ashes indistinguishable and
undiscriminating in one
could there be hope
He was our best, an urn in time
With all the fragments of jewelled history
But now today hear how the bells chime
The griot's pen scroll another pain on memory.
For all his knowledge of the scrolls,
the dark charon came and rowed him away.
Surprise translates not in this expectation
urning lark song and sage alike.
The griot, `til his yes were dark as the underworld
of pyramid and tomb, had sung this strange thing
that substanced splendour and dread with a long shadow from the womb.
What is death? What is it to dread?
He who dead kingdoms studied should have known.
He should have seen the ages past and Egypt's glory gone.
Dread never did enter that granite mind amidst the crumbling
of black Atlantic pillars that bore the globe's splendour;
It eroded mortal heart and urned past. Some tolled sweat
to sing what time had done outside his fortress window.
O, he knew by heart how time imperial creeps
and set itself against all a man's desires, urning them.
Death is the coming of the night, the silence of the voice,
the fall of rage like leaf from a temple of a regret.
For all his griot days of song, he was sad to rejoice
now the past is dead, and no presence urns the void
sepulchre of stone
holding more than just my heart
still I feel your love
Suzy Baker was genuine white trash
Scorning fiercely, her teeth ready to flash.
Fending her homemade trailer park jungle
Dodging her dark and imminent funeral!
Lucy Walker was a pretty lady
Smiling friendly her lips always ready,
Living quiet in lovely suburbia
Meeting non-whites with xenophobia.
Why did the potter create them this way?
Was it because there were two types of clay?
One forged as a Cistern the next as an Urn
And exactly whom should this mess concern?
this urn
beside the sun
golden like the moon
old moon’s teeth sparking
some slow white light
rusting & fresh
old careless bin
beside the mid-day sun
in a century
of some thunder-stormy years
a-waft in a forest
of a billion breathes
the eye twists her bright-set
urge
upon
thine dim’d old bloom
ah, rusting & fresh being!
Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked
feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing
down to carve out craters in the earth, barren.
She crunches memories once perfect between
her toes - the past squelching-squashing
in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears.
His ashes, once held in an urn, float
now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase
cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand
grieving. It is said she walks under the moon
searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at
grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together,
her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame,
a skeleton of pottery.
a
h a
p g
l e
a m
o
O_____________O
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If all you need to ask, "Is beauty truth?"
It isn't much you need to know on earth.
It's less than what appraisers say it's worth,
This jar with frieze depicting frozen youth.
Curators and collectors both agree
If forged or stolen, sold dishonestly
Museum art debased on pedestals
Makes hiding art seem safely tenable.
It may be better beauty be destroyed.
A little worshiper of idols still
Resides inside and ever, always will
Until we're much less worldly employed.
While thirsty an ascetic often thinks
Urns beautiful when everybody drinks.
(8/29/22)
The urn of the past
On a decrepit mantle
Scintillating piece
Shines brightly in the moonlight
Telling of its demeanor
Russell Sivey
a pot of clay to some
a piece of art to others
a muted shape of brittle ashen brown
with subtle ridges hidden to the naked eye
meant to be discovered only to the touch
my hands linger caressing the arches and the curves
etched like an old vinyl record played again once more
just between the you and me ~ that one thin wall of clay
protecting your ashes lovingly contained within ~
solemn the urn stands here in its place of honour
AP: 2nd place 2022
Submitted on March 6, 2022 for contest FORM I - IMAGISM sponsored by CONSTANCE LA FRANCE - RANKED 4TH
I awoke with sadness
a yearning cry of an alias
that was tied to an Elton tune
was a sad day even for me
that morning
a few clicks was about it
some would say
the thought of lever
etched their mind's
to them was genius
it fit well
it was already being sung
he got here fast
his following friend came
and nothing like a cork
his followed with a dent
searing though his blind's now
waiting for me
a feast with bottle's of champagne
he took one
shook it up
mysteriously he was tied to it
hard to the cork with grief
he popped the cork
that day
shot straight up with it
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter” – John Keats
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**|| beauty is truth, truth beauty ||**
||SOUL HAPPY LOVE||
M M
E A
N D
deities or mortals
*cold pastoral*
for ever wilt thou love
unravish'd bride of quietness
E P V S T P
C U I A E A
S R R C M S
T S T R P S
A U U I E I
C I E FI O
Y T S CE N
stone silence; artist
c l a s s i c a l
i d e a l i s t i c
artistic
MAY
1819
JOHN KEATS