Ebony eyes eclipse ripping away sun
Moon blooms of golden gloom
Lips lacking limerick’s lift
Onyx mood swings back and forth
Like grey grandfather clock
Time ticking as a blues bomb
Raining purple passionate pain
clouded by lemon lyrical labyrinth
Of love lacking it’s sweet liquor
The bittersweet longing embraced
Tastes like red regrets sifted through time
Straining to be reinvented not lamented
In black bird’s somber death song
Sacred and solemn in honor of loss
Mourning is important inked in green
Like poison ivy uncomfortable
But never worthless as it is digested
And creates cranberry calling to
Remember the fallen angels
With soft tears laid like roses
On the cold creamy colored casket
I’m a headless chicken with a revelation of escaping the pen
I’m the paraplegic who will walk again
I’m Lazarus three days in
With the silent stench of death, body rotting from within
In a moment of weakness begging the light not to send me back to my weaker form
And Jesus weeps
And Martha groans
And Mary calls me brother
One day when i lay in my casket
they bring the out letters in basket
What i wrote when i losing my last gasket.
One for my mother the strong and brave a women full of strive never knowning my pain.
One for my father the one that broke the fairytale story i wrote when i looked up and thought of love i now know nothing of.
One for my sister, my best friend and the one whom left me most dent.
Making me question everything i send, did i phase this right, and i doing whats right, will i leave tonight without a fight as i look towards the night my last string of hope in sight.
One for my friends the ones i lost on the way clearing my mind of what will they say and will this be ok
One for the friends half lost who's better of not being one at all cause how can you love someone you only partly shove when seeing someone else
And finally one for me, all my hopes and dreams laid to rest with my letters right next to me.
I have a casket that tells tales of war
Letters wrote by my late father-in-law
That he sent home to his wife and young son
Those he had missed since the horrors begun.
He was a poet, a pastime we shared
I put his poems into a book, him unaware
It was a gift for his birthday, ninety three
He opened it, loved it, deeply moved was he.
He said it was his best present ever
Those words are etched on my heart forever
It was a pleasure to do and to gift
The time it took was truly worth it.
Now I hold the book since he sadly passed
A treasure of remembrance of the past
An insight into a soldier’s thoughts
When he was living through conflicts of war.
The saying is:
I think,
therefore I am.
So,
if I don't think,
then therefore I am not.
Does this apply,
to the corpse I see,
laid in that casket.
Her hands, tight round nettles,
that carry no flowers or buds,
and make her hands burn and hiss.
But she is not thinking,
so she doesn't feel the pain.
Rather, the flesh,
begins to rot,
off her, and her dress,
is stained with blood.
That dress. The one,
her loved ones picked out
for her.
I'm sure it's a lovely thing,
probably fashioned from a bolt of silk,
and stitched together with care.
But now it is stained,
and no one removed the nettle,
from her hands.
So maybe you should think before you leap,
but don't think to hard,
or else,
before you are even put to rest
the entire thing
has rotted away.
Such lads there are, as find their mettle,
Pushing down upon the pedal,
Holding for a thing of scorn,
Stately drivers press their horn;
Ah, but well those honks might state,
There are two ways you can be late:
With speed not lead, but rather follow,
To a casket dark and hollow.
The lid hums like a throat that cannot sing,
Sealed wood remembers my last breath’s wing.
Lilies stare with their white, blind eyes,
Their perfume is pity—how it lies.
I stitched my silence with a needle of bone,
The air outside has learned my tone.
Fingers folded, a prayer mislaid,
The earth rehearses what it’s always said.
Moonlight drips through the chapel glass,
A ghost of me watching my body pass.
They will say I was calm, composed, divine—
But grief wears my face beneath the pine.
Now the worms, those patient brides,
Beginning the banquet of my nonexistence.
My name dissolves, like salt, inside.
Resigned to that place, before I was born.
a black dress
an open casket
friends and family all around me,
trying to reach me
i couldn’t hear them, not at all
the only thing i could look at
was the face i once knew, the face that was my lifeline
laying lifeless in front of me.
Casket by Adejola Joseph
Casket
Six feet deeper
Deeds of man is questioned
How did you live your life?
Time to give account
Every man will die
Surely, every man will taste death
But death is not the end of a journey
It's a transition to the unknown and to the unseen
Casket
I rejoice at the day I see my casket
It's a homecoming
Glorious homecoming
Casket.
Laying in this casket, buried deep under
Dark skies; raging with lightning and thunder
There’s no coming back, I’m staying under
Time to waste now, just idling my time
In my right hand I’m turning my last dime
Gone to soon, I’m still in my prime
Laying in this casket, buried deep under
Dark skies; raging with lightning and thunder
There’s no coming back, I’m staying under
Days and nights thinking of a life I could’ve had
If only I had stayed good and never gone bad
Plenty of time to think about it, no point in being sad
Laying in this casket, buried deep under
Dark skies; raging with lightning and thunder
There’s no coming back, I’m staying under
The stench in here is rotten: I could do with some fresh air
If I ever get my life back, I will do better next time, I swear
I continue to recite and repeat my forever wishful prayer
Laying in this casket, buried deep under
Dark skies; raging with lightning and thunder
There’s no coming back, I’m staying under
Laying in this casket, buried deep under
Dark skies; raging with lightning and thunder
There’s no coming back, I’m staying under
THEY RATHER LIFT YOUR CASKET THAN YOUR DREAMS
Dreams are made
just like beautiful caskets.
Dreams can be waylaid,
even in reality outskirt.
Dreams do come true
but death has only one rule:
that is, the inevitability of death.
With colossal demands,
a dreamer rules the earth.
Despite your reprimands,
your corpse is lifted up
only to later undergo a drop.
To lift the casket of a corpse,
it takes 6 to 8 people max'.
Now, fathom the possibilities
and probability of the visiblities
of those 6 to 8 people,
eradicating portentous evil
in a man's life when actively alive
and save a soul about to starve.
Let's lift each other's dreams in life
rather than wait for the coming of death
to lift our casket while dissipating wealth.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? April 10th 2023.
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)
A losing struggle over his life,
Cancer to make no mistake
Of a blunt knife;
Its image takes as The-At-Stake
And the ongoing struggle Stark Strife!
A death helped by a Hurrying Disease
Lewis’ blasphemous anger at his unease:
“Then, God does endorse The Sadism
Worse than Unholy Nudism”.
A bitter quitting of Britain for a discarded village
And helpless reoccupation of a farm ridge:
A final instruction to close friends
About his preferred casket
Curses raining on friends-turned-fiends,
Who some other choose at the market.
Silent
is she whose
sharp mind
unraveled;
she died.
This woman,
friendly,
loved to gab
and laugh.
Unsmiling
in her
casket now. . .
her face
is strangely
beautiful.
May 13. 2019 for the 'Charlieku New Form' Poetry contest of charles messina
Poetry form description: The poem must be 15 lines long and the syllable count must be 23232,3232,323,23,3 Also, it must be 5 lines, 4 lines, 3 lines, 2 lines and 1 line.
The Casket
I saw a coffin the church
Didn`t see the body
The casket was bare
No flowers
They are wasted on the dead
I have no religion
For me, death holds no sting
It is merely the end of life.
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