No one told me the moment you parted.
My disheartened heart left the room the moment I turned the corner,
and saw his golden badge as he nodded in comforting dismay.
That day
My heart learned the rhythm of grief
Slow
Sickly
The kind that brings you past your knees,
and drives you six feet underground.
Who needs two burials in one day?
(Battle of Antietam, Sharpsburg, Maryland, September 17, 1862; 2,100 Union dead, 1550 Confederate dead)
the day September seventeenth
in eighteen sixty-two
found stalks of corn in Maryland
grown high as horses' heads
while rebel soldiers clad in gray,
invaders to this place,
stood vigil in dawn's wispy mists
as quiet Sharpsburg slept
when from the creek Antietam
charged boldly Stars-and-Stripes
so all-day-through fierce battle raged
in pasture, corn, and road
till sunset quelled the violence,
loud cannon-thunder ebbed,
replaced by floods of helpless moans
from maimed and wounded men
while from the carnage rebels skulked
across Potomac's flow
to breathe their safe Virginia air
as blue-clad victors wept
and set about the burials
of dead, both gray and blue,
three-thousand plus six hundred more
American souls lost
that day, September seventeenth,
in eighteen sixty-two.
Those tender eels you rescue by the shore
bring you empty news from the deep;
they aptly sing your sunken score,
vivid sounds from the liver of your ship.
You rely on your Sunday best to warm
your sins, fins and skin, but the heart...
the heart is scattered like the swarm
of pebbles that tear your feet apart.
Far, you glance at the fading distance,
which, in turn, presents itself at hand,
making itself unavailable in existence.
A darkest seagull hovers by, so stealth,
and you face the everchanging sand,
and you learn to woo burials, death.
The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.
Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.
Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.
If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.
I'm often called upon to write a verse
for someone's birthday or a funeral,
four or eight lines,
rhyme scheme of ABAB or ABBA.
But here are no rhyming line ends -
those small, same-sound four-footer ones
or those that have five feet or even more,
oh more, more beats than that, yes more than that, oh more than that.
Yes, no rhymes, except at times
within lines, yes, as you can guess.
Great fun, even for burials or cremations.
(March 2022)
*Image of Ghana's Dancing Pallbearers by CGTN.
Dance of Deliverance
Portend looms gravediggers ere dusk
Orange descend skies slipping purple
Their courage ascend embolden husk
Almost finished all extend into a circle
Heart mind soul a godsend arabesque
2021 October 27
*2nd Place*
Something Beautiful 5 line rhyme
~~charles messina: Judged 2021 November 11
*In some cultures worldwide, including parts of the USA, there's a festive theme for burials of the recently departed. A celebration of their lives reverberates ceremoniously in a joyous send-off, giving their loved ones a beautiful transition into the afterlife.
What if this is the start of the end
all those happy its over deceived
death broken down in percentages
lets all go back to the hells we had
call me pessi mystical-thats a joke
so many alone burials
Humanity you are what you deserve
lies so much easier from behind the mask
how can we fight an enemy
that is us
Walking hand in hand we pass a
Very old and abandoned church
That people gave up praying in
So many, many years ago.
Oh, my! The stories it could tell
Of births and deaths and tragedies
And sailors lost to vicious seas
In winter storms and gales of winds.
It’s seen the days of tall mast ships
With sails a-bellowing at sea.
It’s seen the steam from engine stacks
And generator powered props.
It has seen world war one and two,
Hiroshima atomic bombed,
Our rovers crawl on Martian soils
And satellites explore deep space.
It’s seen the farmer grow his crops,
Give thanks for them inside the church
And hosted many wedding feasts
As well as many burials.
Now it has seen a new couple
Taking first steps in their new lives,
Take a moment to remember
Then be gone as all other things.
W.C.Hull © 2020-I53-K53-22-L61-22
The naked truth sprinkles holy water
at curfew hours with touch of morbidity.
I'm on the brink of shortages -- of food and faith,
parading before my eyes the endless stream of bodies
dispatched to crematorium and the more summary procedure of
temporary burials in city parks!
Suddenly the bright idea of a volley of oaths
takes center stage, the winged angels of death
plucking up inequality and the monopoly of
the privileged, striking rich and poor with the
same perverse velocity, a great equalizer rejoicing
Karl Marx in his grave. The proletariat of virus
turning up its fury in shanty towns and
castles like an unstoppable killer with the watchman
sleep at the wheel. It cannot proliferate without our
internal polarization.
Victims of coronavirus unite, throw away the chains
of dogmatism, embrace the contagion's challenge of
human solidarity, across the great divide of
capitalist exploitation and greed breeding
ineptitude and designed failure bespeaking a
great betrayal.
I am not a geomancer
but I do sometimes read earth
on a new grave,
how it struggles to represent
even though it’s thrown haphazardly;
yet still, let the wind, sun and rain
shape it and it becomes a tale told to a deaf man -
eyes go deeper.
Pity that we fill-in now, and do not raise
that important mound
burials need height not depth,
the Native Americans knew this,
even the birds know this –
see how they dance on each other’s bones?
Attainment of pleasure lies in life
Pleasure is attained in the willing hearts
Weddings and festivals are its examples
The pleasing eyes are its rewards
Men struggle to achieve it once ,twice or trice in a lifetime
Villagers dances to the traditional songs to attained it
Guns sounds are heard during burials to fulfill its history
Wines are drank on king’s table to celebrate it achievements
Speeches are made to inspire and provide pleasure for the speaker
The day’s activities pave a way to her embracement
She is in the hearts of those that love and deserve her
Life is the surest destiny of her gains
Make dreams a reality and attained her to the fullest.
'Grave!' said I, 'thing of deathbed'
Oh, I'm remembering many critical, weighty burials
Say you will not accept my spirit
As my cold flesh body lies dormant
Much I marveled the appalling graveyard
That moment my soul grew enormous
By the grave I saw the burials
The catastrophic cemetery coffining
Say you will not accept my spirit
As my cold flesh body lies dormant
Deep into that darkness sobering
I awoke and flung the profound
What could there be more purely close?
And the burials never pressing
'Grave!' said I, 'thing of deathbed
I refuse to lie here
My true self is with God and Jesus
4/19/19
Blacked Heart
Within the blackness blissed lies the love that has been missed
For within the miasma mist a darkish deprived heart does resist
Of the silenced sounds heard escapes a lonely wounded word
Of the slumbered souls spurred amidst the dormant eyes blurred
Amongst the burials buried blind my lamenting love is left behind
In a clustered cave confined echoes of a manqué mind maligned
For in a cathedral chastised chant my thoughts in a ravaging rant
In a primal punitive pant bled emotions erected in a penile implant
Where my apocalyptic asylum stands ruling tyrant of sin commands
And demons dream of wastelands I parochially pray with idle hands
My heart a deeper dark by the hour is left in a storm a fragile flower
Upon this shattering shower ardently abandoned with a dying dour.
Music by Enigma - 'Amen'
June.26.2018
Abandon 2
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
The clouds above
Reflect on your waters.
On your rough shore
Walk mothers and daughters.
Indians roamed here,
In distant past.
Their burials are near
Spread across lands vast.
Your waters, cold and clear
Softly caressing the sand.
In the light you sparkle
like diamonds on the hand.
Jealous others are,
As they pale to you.
Your beauty and grace
In your deep, hue of blue.
Oh mankind what have you learned?
What have you gained from the bridges you've burned?
Have you sat and determined how much its cost?
Or counted the burials of the children you've lost.
What have you won but war torn lands?
Does it really matter whose lines in the sand.
The freedoms you've abused all in the name of pride
Just to have your own way and feel justified.
But soon ill return to put and end to your scourge
And restore my Kingdom and evil I will purge
So mark the time well and turn a blind eye
I will make the world see it was not in vain that I died.
Love Jesus
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