Long Cemetery Poems
Long Cemetery Poems. Below are the most popular long Cemetery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cemetery poems by poem length and keyword.
What did I do?
I don’t understand my life
I don’t understand the Life
I am suffering a lot
Day by day and day to day
When will this be over?
When? When?!
Evil psychopaths following me
Psychopaths: Oh, no. No, no
Sociopaths, like serial killers
And they are psychologists
Sadistic killers, evil beings
Ruler of life, dark monsters
I am suffering, I have death feeling and panic
I am a victim of psychological human experiments
My life is ruined, I haven’t other, coming to my end
Yes, yes. Oh, sweet death, please kill me, and save me
I put my life into your hand, be my ruler, get my life
Take my life. From here. Far, far, and far. On the other side
This is one of my confessions:
I don’t want my life, I don’t need to live
I can’t do this life. It’s very heavy
Fearing, panic, alcohol, medicine
So many years ago I used grass and hashish
English psychologists took me into that life
Oh, God, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry
I try to live, I try to live, but evil people…
Evil psychologists makes me ptoblems
They block my life to the Life
My life is nothing. I am just a man from Europe
Maybe this is the problem. And I love women.
I loved someone
Someone
A woman
Hm, beautiful
But a bad memory
She killed me
I killed her
Bad meeting
Now graveyard feeling
I am in the cemetery
I don’t kill myself
I am waiting the investigation
I have only one way
Win
If not…
Then death
God
God
Help me
Help me
Give me power
I need these few years
The rest of my life
Dear death
Dear death
Give me more time
Wick lit candles provided lead the path to the cemetery
Event that honor loved ones who have passed and are buried
La Catrina walks side by side with kindred spirits marching in sync
Crowns of chrysanthemum flowers of the month are pretty in pink
Offerings of sweet bread and mezcal, for the afterlife, plenty for all
Mexican Dia De Los Muertos, a family’s time for reflection
Eyeliner and charcoal shadow, skull-faced paint is our tradition
Nudging is “Fall-back” one hour—daylight savings time engages
Our Thanksgiving blessings for our annual harvest of ages
Veteran’s Day celebrated, bereaved ones in tears
Election Day on the first Tuesday of every four years
Mascarade balls, ballets, operas, and all that jazz
Birthstone rings sparkle with yellowish-orange topaz
Eleventh month, the Full Beaver Moon appears in Gemini
Rapturous is the moon in November’s blissful sky
My sergeant said you've been trained well you know what to do
Your assignment an ambush, do not return until the sky is blue.
We gathered our weapons and lots of ammo
And waited till dark then said he it’s time to go.
We set-up behind a Pagoda in a cemetery
Surrounded by graves, it was kinda scary.
There in Vietnam overlooking an open field.
I sat and waited; on my lap an M-15 I yield.
In slow degrees though silent, the hours passed;
In the darkness my fear has yet to be surpassed.
It stated to rain obstructing my field of vision
I said a prayer; it was a time of deep contrition
In those clamorous moment before blood and death
I closed my eyes, lifted my head and took a deep breath.
Behind the Pagoda, the hour drew near.
I looked at my buddy's eyes filled with fear.
Before I knew it his M-60 let loose
There were so many it wasn’t hard to choose.
In all of those moments as the bullets flew,
The fear of death it griped, it grew!
There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
Still we remained instilled with Marine Corps pride.
The exchange of fire ended and my buddy fell dead.
I looked up to God and silently plead.
I saw the carnage, quivered and trembled in silent rage.
No time for sorrow, for the enemy we'll still engage
I sought the sunshine through bloodstained eyes.
I knew that in war we cannot compromise.
I sniffed the damp soil, decaying and pungent with leafy mold.
At eighteen my buddy laid dead, a life story never to be told.
I soughtGod's mercy to easy my guilt.
Pierced to its poisonous hilt.
With dark vague eyes I started to cry.
I held his hand and said my last good bye.
I felt deserted I wanting to go home.
For me--farthest from deaths port to roam.
For in this darkness I silently grieve
And sought my comfort to relieve
The worth of that, is that which it contains
Where a bullet-riddled pagoda still remains.
I have just read a lyric penned by Jenish Somadas titled "Sit Beside My Bed" which touched me very much.
As I have mentioned before in one of my poems, my Son David died eighteen months ago. I am being treated for anxiety and depression as his passing caused much unrest.
My life and that of my family changed forever. I became aware of the ugliness in life I had not noticed before.
I lost my trust in people. Socialising had lost its appeal.
I wondered why some humans could be so cold, selfish and uncaring.
My husband John and I go to the cemetery every Saturday to take David flowers.
It's a very peaceful place in a country lane facing the sea with cows grazing in surrounding fields.
Some of the tombstones are very old. There is a brick wall for the cremations.
As we walked into the cemetery we saw an elderly man sitting in a fold-up armchair, looking very comfortable and at peace with the world, having an in-depth conversation with his deceased wife whose grave was bright with flowers. It did not seem at all odd, it looked natural as though she was sitting there beside him sharing a cup of tea, oblivious of anything or anyone else.
I found this extremely emotional, it happened a few weeks ago.
The picture and feeling I had in my heart that afternoon stayed with me.
Jenish Somadas lyric brought this to mind again.
Thank God for love
We can so often forget it's there.
Skagway, Alaska in the late 1890s was sure a rowdy place alright!
It was seethin' with humanity a-raisin' hell all through the day and night!
'Twas the gateway to Chilkoot Pass beyond which lay Klondike gold!
Why! You could scoop up nuggets by the bushel, or so it was told!
Jefferson Randolph 'Soapy' Smith 'owned' the town and was so very brash.
He came up with nefarious schemes to relieve newcomers of their cash!
Madame Gertie arrived with her soiled doves and set up houses of ill repute.
Among the ladies were Ethel the Moose, Mollie Fewclothes and Maude the Mute!
Tinklin' pianos and screechin' fiddles played in saloons invitin' boozers in.
Hordes of horses whinnied, dogs howled and mules brayed addin' to the din!
The Home of Hooch, Red Onion and Mangy Dog saloons flung open their doors,
To sate the thirsty sots before they tried their luck at diggin' by the scores!
Hawkeye Blevins, notorious gambler, grabbed a table at the Hungry Pub Saloon,
And with slight of hand relieved many gullible rubes of their moolah all too soon!
Even preachers tossed aside Bibles and grabbed shovels to join the endless queue,
To foolishly struggle up Chilkoot Pass in the dead of winter with that motley crew!
A few hardy stampeders found their Eldorado but many more came to naught!
Death, disillusionment and starvation stymied the quest for which they sought.
Many a hapless feller lies beneath that frigid land never more to roam.
Infamous Soapy Smith lies at rest in Skagway Cemetery, there, his final home!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Ode To Survival
As I sit here in this still cemetery facing nomadic west,
Under these ancient oaks with deep green leaves descending,
I see the ghostly dead before me rising up as star zephyrs,
The men and women that once spoke a multitude of living words,
Once strolled a lifetime of miles with quiet footsteps unheard,
Through effulgent gardens of copper rose and mountain laurel.
They come now with feet of dust upon the mossy tombstones,
Human beings from the old times now vanished like the grass,
They that spoke of the stories of success, survival and tragedy,
They that woke at eternal sunrise to once again stare into a mirror,
To once again see an aging face with ageless eyes staring back,
These past human beings, opening and closing a thousand grunting doors.
These blinking apparitions, caressing and embracing a well of heartbeats.
Where they once sat and talked on summer afternoons remains unknown.
Where they found accepting love on dizzy evenings remains uncertain.
Now they exit the cemetery gate waving condolences to the fearful living.
They whisper prayers and invocations to the cedars and the lilting lilacs;
Whisper entreaties and supplications never recited before, never heard before,
Now they lumber by me with frozen knowing grins and nodding fingers.
I recognize their unsmiling faces from old linen postcards in sifting time.
I now continue to sit here in this still cemetery facing nomadic west.
Under these ancient oaks with boughs of deep green leaves descending.
Daisy Magill
1889-1919
A person knows when she will die.
I knew it.
My uncle Harry knew it.
And my consumption knew it too.
My dying day was a sunny one, my friends.
As the July sun bathed my garden flowers outside,
I felt my life force slowly ebb away from me,
There, inside my lilac-filled bedroom on Comstock,
And I knew, all the hours of that dreaded day,
That I would soon be buried in my cozy coffin here,
In this weedy tract of Mt. Olive Cemetery,
Under these friendly walnut trees.
And while struggling to stay awake that last hour,
From my final sleep of death,
I thought back in painful anguish,
Back to my youthful carefree days,
When I was seventeen,
And my long auburn hair was in braids;
When my friends were all alive and happy,
And when life was good and free under the sun!
But Time took control of the reigns,
Of my coming days and years,
And more often than not,
Left me weeping for the past.
The past, when I had my time of incredible magic!
A single rapturous moment of utter bliss!
With him!
Roscoe Settle and me that day!
Meeting secretly at twilight time,
Embracing and kissing wildly,
Under these friendly walnut trees,
Here in weedy Mt. Olive Cemetery!
Cecil the Magician knew a heap of tricks,
But, alas, couldn't get himself out of this fix!
Carl was laid to rest for his eternal snooze,
Brought about by guzzling too much booze!
Pete was a rock-hard liberal Democrat.
Lord, be merciful and forgive him for that!
'Twas well-known that Cletus was such a crooked politician,
That he had to be screwed in the ground by the mortician!
Buster was shot while fencing his plunder.
Now he lies a-moldering six feet under!
Clarice was an avid tea party conservative Republican.
Democrats need her vote - Lord, convert her if you can!
Fred met his doom when his plane malfunctioned.
To make matters worse his parachute disfunctioned!
Here reposes the mortal shell of Marty McCall,
Who met his doom in a barroom brawl!
Bob sank without a trace and things looked grim.
He tried to tell them that he couldn't swim!
At last he found peace when he suddenly died,
But now his shrewish wife dwells by his side!
The doc warned him about all that cholesterol.
Too much meat and taters brought about his fall!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
November 25th, 2013
"Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity."
--Khalil Gibran
She returns here every May sixteenth,
the day she was to marry.
I saw her GHOSTLY visage there
at the GATES of the cemetery.
I went, as I've done everyday,
to lay flowers upon her GRAVE.
I, the GRIEF-STRICKEN groom
just striving to be brave.
Just as the sun set and darkness fell
I heard a ghastly GROANING.
I ran to where the sound had been
from a tomb I heard her moaning.
Just by the rusted, wrought iron gate
stood a GODFORSAKEN soul
in gown of white GOSSAMER and grave dirt.
My weak heart beat out of control.
Then suddenly a flash of light,
and she was as she had been.
I was in my good white suit...
they must have buried me in.
Together, hand in hand again
we finally got to marry!
Then we entered our eternity
through the gates of the cemetery.