Our hands are tied, Death
Since you dawned on us this New Year . . .
Shapely bottles of champagnes have shone
And have broken to fragments with the ululation
Of firecrackers that warmed cold and dark wintry skies.
Now, aphonia sets in from unending lamentations.
Headlines, buried by the chilly bones of winter,
Are barren of good tidings.
A chionophile besieges the rim of a sedulous Yuletide
Grieving by oneiric alleys . . .
I speak of the Friedhof of haunting grimness behind
The curtains of howling winds;
Chants that frequent the disease of frightened melodies, stained
With the aged banality of youthful death;
And the purlieu of cremated souls and consolidated ashes.
Daggers are drawn to paint skulls on canvas slit by the
Whispering tongues of fire
Candles burn their tallow gently on the skin of cancer,
A stinkaroo that stinks with rage.
We do not know how else to turn the calendar.
The edges brim with hostile, burning blood,
Frozen with bits of hate and servile penetralia.
New Year hangs the singed sigil of death
On the bosom of fattened scrolls.
"...Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. [7] Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it." ~Ecclesiastes 12:6-7 KJV Bible
he isn't there...
i remind myself again
must keep from digging and digging...
and climbing in with him
"absent from the body...
present with the Lord"
i repeat this Biblical mantra...
my mental shield and sword
it hurts me so to see his grave...
so lonely in our cemetery
a gentle meadow close to home...
the peaceful plot where he's buried
when it is our time, my husband and i...
we wish to be cremated
our remains mixed with soil and seed...
and thus to grow and life created
two stately trees, that reach up high...
our limbs~ his head stone shade
and pointing to our heavenly home...
and to our baby boy... not in his grave.
Let us start at the end because that is where it all began
Ashes
I clinched my fist because I did not want to let go
I literally watched you slip through my fingers
I cursed the day
The day I looked into your eyes, lying there
On a bed that represented hope
Until that moment
The moment I realised that you were actually sleeping on your death bed
You told me that you wanted to be cremated
And you wanted to be scattered in the ocean
Since you never got to go when you were capable
And you made me promise that I would make sure it happens
I blindly agreed because l did not have time to digest it
As l watched you take your last breath and expire
Now I am standing on the beach thinking about that day
And I rue the day l made you that promise
I foolishly agreed because I did not realise that it meant I would have to lose you twice
I was clinching my fist because I knew letting go would be losing you all over again
But I had to fulfill my promise
So l let you go
Ashes
That is how it ended.
A month named after Maia
A transition from spring to summer
24 rotations on its axis
19 circles round the sun
a boy born, his future uncertain
years of hardship, keep enduring pain
Heart shattered at 16
and haven't recovered from the loss
her body cremated and ashes in the river
never got a chance to bid farewell
turned 17, oh what a miserable life
school life turned to hell, full of rumors and lies
At 18, graduated from school
his efforts and work never came to ripe
I hope you're okay on this fine Friday
accept my regards as this poet turns 19
Cause I haven't given up yet
I have given many a thought to what happens when we die, specifically, what happens to our bodies. You have the option to be classically buried, cremated, donated to science. I think I don't want to be cremated, kept in a jar or the specks of my former self thrown across water. I think I don't want to donate myself to science, lying on a cold metal slab for years. I think I don't even want to be buried, at least not traditionally, set in a wooden or metal box marked by a plain slab of stone. I want to be buried in the forest, no casket, no headstone. Mark my resting place by flowers, wrap my body in leaves and let me melt into the ground, decaying alongside bones of animals forgotten, let birdsong be my funeral organ, let the willows do the weeping, let the toadstools and earthworms feast themselves on my corpse. And let it be that my soul does not rise to heaven above nor to hell below, rather seeps into the soil, into the seeds and moss, allows the remnants of my earthly form to grow into beauty once again.
When I die
I will be happy for I have lived a very long and plentiful life
I want to be cremated and sit idle until the day my wife passes
I would like for her to be cremated so that our ashes can be blended together in perfect harmony
My dream is that people not mourn for us but rather celebrate our life and love together
I want the "fun" to be put back into "funeral"
I see people dancing and playing music loudly and telling memoric stories of the lives that we have lived for we have truly found love and our love should be celebrated.
This is my dream for when I die
~ Pauly G
I love trees so much
I would want to go up to pick one
And put my arms around it as far as I could
And hug it and love it for all of its beauty
When I pass away
I hope to be cremated
And have my ashes mixed in really rich soil
So that a tree can be planted in that soil
And that I can give back to the Earth
As it has given to me clean fate
A place for the birds
A place for people to rest my shade
And even bear fruits
To feed animals and people
This is my dream wish.
All the life, hearing cluttering of weapons is rough,
Being a single daughter is tough.
Last I remember, you held me when I was six,
I was injured and you were trying to fix.
Mama died saving me, I needed immediate attention,
But your one stare and even at that tender age, I was an addition to your tension.
I felt like that day not only my mother but also my father was cremated,
For nothing remained the same after that day - ill fated.
Years passed, the distance between us grew,
Had it been ten years ago, it would have been new.
You don't answer my calls anymore,
My ears dried waiting to be called just once more.
Your missions now last for days , weeks or even months.
I waited, waited for you to get over your grief and say "Mi amore, papa missed his little girl"
Alas! I grew up, not being treated like a pearl.
With me now lying in my pool of blood,
You might be holding me close to your chest and crying a flood.
But..... You got late, Dad
There was no other option 'your little princess' had.
Loved you so much Dad, that neither words can express nor you can guess.
Should I die and be cremated, please preserve my little skull,
For like a nut when the meat is gone, all's left is but the hull..
My skull is house that traps my thoughts, wherein does reason dwell.
Where words upon this paper, spring to life from brain's compel
Do not crush and blend my skull, as though it's a power shake.
Yet my body's bones after death, I care not if they break.
Find a pretty box, where my skull can rest in final close,
Where dreams can live forever in eternal skull's repose.
Betsy Winters
I try drawing you from old memories
but can't get your eyes right. I don't see
the body that destroyed my earnest vows.
I can't see your warm young breasts and
nipples that grew so hard by my caress.
I can't see us dancing naked in the dark.
I wish I'd kept the photos. I cremated us
in an ashtray and I can't see us anymore.
She is out of her mind her relatives said.
They wanted her embalmed, cremated or dead.
Lucinda had her wits and was not to be dissuaded.
She gave them all the boot, they were downgraded.
She had a dream, and intended to put it into action.
Wanted a gingerbread house to give satisfaction.
Builder and construction crew were happy to do it.
Relatives inheriting nothing had a huge hissy fit.
I'm doing my best, at what I can, I've absorbed some
Life from boy to man, uncertain at times, now i find
Times are uncertain..' Much fear and denial while some
Are tearing the curtains.' The established fear-mongers
Peddle; the lies, same as before, so much sympathy? homilys
DIsguise; and furore.' A main threat is something will be taken away'
As such is attempted, by night and by day you recieve your
Matter and always you pay, as the object decreases its value
But hey.! When you're all done chasing, and storing; adoring' all such
You in turn; will be offered as goods, pretty much! You'll be stored up
And cleaned up, and boxed up, for ill or for good? you get eulogised
Lionized, maybe buried at sea.? Or feted then cremated?
Or a diamond could be.? Its all human mullarky, from the
Start to the end, while someones always paying, Its death and Taxes my freind !
If you strip away our skin,
We are the same.
Where we differ is thoughts
In the brain.
If we are not cremated,
We are six feet down.
We all end up as a pile of
Bones in the ground.
Your heart pumps your blood
Just like mine.
We share the same sky and
Sunshine.
The color of our skin is
A pigment.
You and I are not that
Different.
There is male and female and
Something in between.
Born with the anatomy of a king
And feels like a queen.
The difference lies deep
Within your mind.
You choose to hate and
Be unkind.
No one is trying to take
Anything from you.
We want to be allowed to live
The way you do.
To be happy, in love,
and raise a family.
Overlook the difference,
Bond with commonality.
Is it that big of a deal if,
The dude looks like a lady?
Who cares if Dan wants,
To be called Miss Daisy.
You are not in charge,
You don't make the rules.
You are just the captain on
A ship of fools.
TURBO1904?
For far too long
I had allowed myself
to be scorched
by constant heartbreaks
and broken dreams
through the flames of the enemy
constantly spinning my wheels
and seeking my security and self worth
from empty vessels who cannot
provide me with the water and fire
I need to sustain my eternal
health and soul
all the did was drain my energy away
until my soul is cremated
into a heap of ash
as black as a wreath
at a funeral procession
When people love to criticize
Please do not stay there long
Quit that spot by being wise
Or else you may prove wrong
When your efforts are not lauded
Instead when they are attacked
Then, only agonies get added
Happiness can never be tracked
When only criticisms badly flow
And terrific opposition is there
To smartly exit, you must know
Or else you will suffer, dear sir
When too many rules are quoted
With really no good intention at all
Your original talent gets cremated
Then in a deadly trap, you just fall
Never give serious attention to that
Where your genius is easily buried
In case you love to develop regret
Listen to the discouraging deed.
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