Long Churchyard Poems
Long Churchyard Poems. Below are the most popular long Churchyard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Churchyard poems by poem length and keyword.
Steeple lit by lightning loud
Moon that's full peeks round a cloud
Trudging through the churchyard mud
Unwise shortcut: THUD, THUD, THUD!
The sound is muted ’neath my feet
No one there I wish to meet
Sodden hair and soaked to skin
Contemplate my every sin
Thunder, lightning, crackling air
Time to hightail out of there
Prickling skin: can’t hang around
Portentous skies and groaning ground
Slipping sliding progress thwarted
Planned escape at once aborted
Through the storm the church bells chime
Shadowed figure… asks the time
Where he came from I don’t know
Neither did I see him go
Stood alone in worsened shower
Still his voice enquires the hour
Flight, not fight my first reaction
Once my feet acquired traction
Reached the exit P.D.Q.
Asked the time by who knows who
Homeward through the icy rain
Darkness asks the time again
Local paper on the mat
Front page headline tells us that
Town remembers Howard Peak,
Funeral was held this week
Police have found no weapon nor
The watch that he was murdered for
“A life of disharmony with nature will dehumanize us. Never ignore nature’s power to heal and restore and fuel us with new enthusiasm. The younger generation, glued to the cyber space do not know what they truly miss.” ~ By Poet.
have you ever been into a forest?
do you seek solace in nature’s lap?
in my loneliness, I often turn to nature.
in her soothing embrace, I find such joy.
Today,
into the woodlands, I leisurely walked,
where trees grew huddling one another.
they talked to me in a lingua, that I could easily understand.
rustling leaves whispered love’s enchantments in my ear.
I felt they were my friends of a primordial age.
the birdsongs were a balm for my soul.
and my mind too joined in their symphony.
in hidden glades, I saw a world of flowers thriving,
they bloomed and blushed in silence.
unattended and unnoticed, they will wither in a day or two.
this thought left me sad for a moment,
and Thomas Gray’s famous lines,
in ‘The Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’
came to my mind.
I saw wild orchids of creamy white and bright orange.
below some trees, I noticed a wild array of daylilies,
nodding and dancing delightfully in the breeze.
their sweet fragrance came wafting into my nose.
around them, I saw bees and butterflies, reeling round.
from far I heard the babbling of a brook.
its soft murmur was at once soothing and alluring.
I could see its glimmer as it wound its way,
through jutting rocks and crevices.
as I stood losing myself in the serenity of the place,
forgetting all the noisy cacophony of the streets,
I felt my cracks and scars quickly being healed,
by mother nature’s soothing embrace!
Looking back to long ago when they used to throw us in the water
We all know that it was another woman that held us under
It was her voice that first shouted witch in the churchyard
It was she that revealed our sins to free herself of her own
We played together in closets with our poppets and thread
Sewn our red strings through each other's hearts, fingers embracing promises from which you fled
Sister to Sister
Look in the mirror
Why do you forsake me so
We were both bathed in these rivers but you've sent me down into the undertow
Sister you were once as wild as me, the same magic singing in both our veins
The same longing to be free
But Sister one day you used my back as a bridge to secure your future
I see your life turned out well
Hiding behind your pickett fence
While you've condemned me to hell
The green of summer gently yields its hold,
As England wakes to amber, rust, and gold.
A sudden chill infects the morning breeze,
And whispers briskly through the changing trees.
The morning mist hangs low upon the down,
And wraps in silk each sleepy market town.
Above the fields, the fractured sunbeams break,
To paint a golden path across the lake.
The ancient oaks that guard the country lanes,
Now drop their heavy, bronze-encrusted chains.
The acorns fall, the chestnuts split their shells,
While woodsmoke rises from the hidden dells.
Along the hedgerows, scarlet berries gleam,
Like crimson jewels caught within a dream.
The robin sings his solitary note,
A melancholy tune from feathered throat.
In hollowed ways where shadows love to hide,
The copper leaves are swirling side by side.
They dance in circles on the dampening earth,
A final waltz of beauty and of worth.
The rivers flow with slower, deeper grace,
Reflecting winter’s fast-approaching face.
Yet in this fading light, a magic dwells,
Enchanting mossy banks and rocky fells.
The churchyard yews stand solemn in the rain,
As yellow fields surrender all their grain.
The harvest gathered, and the barns filled high,
Beneath a pale and shifting northern sky.
And as the twilight pulls its curtain down,
And throws a violet cloak across the town,
The hearths are lit, the cozy parlors glow,
Defying winds that from the ocean blow.
For autumn here is not a sudden death,
But nature holding in her sacred breath.
A beautiful, prolonged, and golden sigh,
Before the silver snows of winter fly.
On this piece of earth don’t say “peace”
Some folks around might get confused
Their customs seem rather peculiar, please
Watch out for the language they use
Lives are owned by the state, which is merely God
Don’t show off in their churchyard how critical
You might be about this philosophical thought
Otherwise they’ll make you a criminal
They are criminals too, but the difference is
They maintain their lies as the truth
They’re descendants of the coup’d etat so this
Could be viewed as a kind of excuse
But the main problem lies in the ethic
Their derivative culture’s obscene
It can’t set the consensus, being too pathetic
Can’t absorb what the “empathy” means
There’s less drama in death of the uncivilized
The barbarians reap what they sow
But aren’t we a little like them? - not surprised
If we are, to a point, when alone.
Ah! To be buried in an old English churchyard
With the dark green ivy and wild roses
Where the sweet nostalgic aromas hill the air
And the church bells ring their clear tolls
My soul with the LORD in heavenly glory
While my aged weary body rests
Under the soil of my ancestors in England or Wales-
Sweet peace with trees and birds in their nests
I would like a little bench under a willow
For those who wish to stop for a visit
Perhaps, a kind word or amusing thought
Every four or five years would benefit.
I'd like a pretty gravestone - not too tall
Simple elegance - my life portraying-
Complete with maiden name and husband's name
Birth date, death date and a few words saying
I came; I lived; I loved; I parted
That I was kind, fair, honest in word
And I cared; yes, that I cared - Listen to the bells!
Glory is absolutely exquisite with my LORD
Evelyn Pearl Anderson
*Image of Stringer Davis and Margaret Rutherford by Fanpop.
Miss Marple's Nephew's Double Mysteries
~~0~~
Agatha Christie,
Agatha Christie slights through half her years,
pens a fictional, Miss Marple,
a Miss Jane Marple by her peers,
Agatha's best sleuth qualities had a nephew,
a nephew named Raymond
not into crime stuff like his aunt,
not like his aunt who'd felt him as Rainman,
though he thought much of the world,
the world he thought of much,
~~0~~
such as the Death Valley Sailing Stones,
stones sailing by magic touch?
some stones are seven hundred pounds,
seven hundred pounds some stones are,
wintertime,
wintertime flats fill with little quantities of rainwater that freezes so far,
day's sun melts the ice splitting it into sheets,
into sheets, they're splitting,
desert winds hit the stones that slip and slide,
slide and slip making results fitting.
~~0~~
and in Raymond's follow-up study he did of Richard III
death and all,
death and all?
after his remains were found, his head was bashed repeatedly,
bashed repeatedly appall,
no defensive wounds led to believe he had no helmet,
no helmet had him,
furthermore, *Shakespeare's spinal deformity an err, he had no limp,
no limp or a withered limb,
furthermore, his remains were found on a battlefield setting,
a battlefield setting, not in a churchyard,
"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse", alas none were seen,
none were seen near this Shakespeare die-hard.
~~0~~
*Shakespeare's cast of Richard III in his play re his spinal deformity appears to have been exaggerated.
2022 July 24
My father worked the land with
Both horse and tractor plough.
That family way of life is past,
We are all city dwellers now.
My father and mother dead
My brother followed them on
I’m the last of that generation
And my country links are gone.
In the churchyard family graves,
Their once turfed burial mound
Unmarked by stone, are now sunk
To be level with the ground.
I use words to paint for grandchildren
Pictures of working days on the land,
Of much less complicated times:
And I know they try to understand
But i am just grandad reminiscing
When I tell of past country ways.
They try listen patiently, but
We are all connected these days.
After a while their patience goes.
They feel the call to be on line
To worlds more exciting than
That long passed one of mine.
So I dream of Fordson tractors
And the tall powerful Shire horse
And they dream of things
From their more modern source.
I wish them long and rich life
Happy and with good health,
Sad they’ll not experience my world
Once rich in everything but wealth.
Consider my grave your resting place too,
An empathetic soul who rests here.
Worry not poet, it haunts no more,
Covered with maggots, I've rotted here for a while.
These sockets are now emptied, I see nothing to judge.
With my brains swallowed,
I am no critique.
Only bones adorning dirt and bugs.
Justitia, you can call me.
Lend me your ears and I'll spit the truth.
They cherished me when lived,
Now left in a churchyard to rot and suffocate.
Did I not serve them well?
Recall the fights I fought, for our pride poet.
Yet, lie here, with mates, died in my lap.
Never craved for this grave,
But a life, unafraid.
Early, wasn't it?
My beard never turned grey, in fact.
Celebrate my story, in a poem in your next birth.
Its roof well overhung by boughs
From the old Churchyard trees
Our small cottage rested like a
Penitent on subservient knees
Windows at least a crack open
The old country lore reason
To let in the fresh air
No matter what the season
Lying in my childhood bed
At the beginning of every day
I would wake to the sound of
The branches creak and sway,
Hear the leaves rustle whisper
Moved by the ever shifting air.
Content for a while just to
Lie drowsily happily there.
A sort of enchanted silence
Except for the tree noise
Frozen in the moment
Appreciating the joys
Of the apparent stillness before
The intrusion of waking sound
As the village woke and stirred
And there was noise all around.
There was birdsong of course
But it just blended in, a part
Of each mornings special greeting
That made up every day’s start.
There was other sound of course
As the creatures of the night
Each pursued their business
Under cold moon and starlight
Now in old age I am once again
Living close to mature trees
Once again bird and tree-song
Are carried to me on the breeze
Sometime just for a little while
On some very special days
Then and now trees combine
As the years all wash away.
Again I’m a child of the village
Young healthy body instead
Of this creaky arthritic frame.
Whole of life stretching ahead.
And just for a little while that
Special stillness descends
Until reality slowly returns
And that special feeling ends.
I take my daily walk through
The park’s avenues of trees
Enjoy their rustling chatter
And I feel so much at ease.
There’s a magic in the air
As I slowly walk the grounds
Encircled and enchanted by
Many living tree sounds.
,