Long Coffin Poems
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Reflections of the Past, Visions of the Future
You have paid the ultimate price,
And I, made the greatest sacrifice.
When the time came
You answered the call
And gave your all.
My son, what remains of you
Lies in this casket in dress blues.
I hope the cause was just and true,
So, I, will not your death rue.
I know that you were brave
And other’s lives did save.
I know most will forget your name
But I can’t find it in my heart to blame
For they may be standing here like me
Knowing what it takes to be free.
As I look at you lying in state
I wonder what the future holds
For more families that will be
Forced to look into the coffins
Of their children.
I ask myself, will humans
Ever learn to control
Their war like impulses
Or will we continue on
Until there is no one
To stare into a coffin.
~he murdered me~
I was only 21 years old
Here I lay, beyond the cold
I granted him, the best of me
Praying for his love endlessly
I never listened to anybody's advice
Only to my husband and his lies
He bore a bad habit of beating me
No matter, his love was all I could see
On my last day, he took me by surprise
Now everyone around me cries
It's too late to tell all my loved ones good-bye
Or, even understand the reason why?
Today I'm in a place where he can't touch me
In a box called a coffin, only I can see
While you stay and rot behind in jail
God did and took me away from your hell
:)
ghosts pass us all the time
like ugly gray clouds
wrinkling smiles
of smooth baby skin
turbulence shakes
we shiver
from the outtakes of
our abandoned scenes
unexpectedly the ethereal
appears, kicks up
turmoil dust, the wisp
of strange sensations
a rose in surround sound
black suit in coffin
happiness all around
in familial celebration
you want to run
from the dangerous situation
the ghost moans with trepidation
a white sheet slapping
the subliminal neurons of your brain
no box will hold the ghosts
that leak light, illuminating
through every darkened pore
every creaking door
ghosts spot on suspended
in the leaky roof
of show’n tell
Scrooge’s future tells
points to where we go today
perceiving all
that won’t go away
take the ghost walk,
even off the plank
dive right in
no short sighted ghost
ever existed
you feel the icy grip
of each emotion
the rusty chains
the loneliness game
shy forever after
ghoul-green jealousy
shrieking anger
the sheet goes stiff
in fair weather,
slowly drifts
away
don’t worry
it will be back
to haunt another day
1/18/2018
As twilight fades he stirs in his coffin bed,
for thousands of years now he has been dead;
and as the night darkens to inky eerie black,
he leaves his tomb looking for a bloody snack.
The darkest or nights is the best,
for he can walk among humans with no unrest;
he walks silently the streets, and crowned parks,
and on many he has left his bite marks.
He prowls the city until the moon and stars fade,
and he sees a girl looking through him unafraid;
he feels the aching of loneliness and a sensual need,
oh, yes this pale beauty he will make bleed.
She comes to him as if he is one of her lovers,
and for a moment over her delicate beauty he hovers;
then, he sinks his teeth with lust into her skin,
and carries her to his coffin so they could lay within.
_________________________
October 17, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/In Response
Copyright Protected, 10-1295-799-17
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
A Collaboration with Silent One
Written for the contest, Collaboration With The Silent One
sponsor, Silent One
Second Place
(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women)
women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy
ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads
whether young or old ought to be appreciated
not waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
and holistic landlubber
wanted to point head lee
hammer home one secure
heterosexual bondage stronger than
omnipotent Marcy's Playground
weather beaten pail
Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
against bevy of beautiful babes
within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
for being average, hearty and hale
yet feel compassion for those engaged
in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
hmm... perhaps hiding ample bosom
akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
without envy of lithesome women,
who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
yet possess much love to avail,
and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
prompts madding crowd of man
to waggle tongue with slack jaws
as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
While strolling through a military cemetery about a week or so ago,
I became transfixed by the sounds wafting about that serene plateau.
An inviting bench beckoned me to sit and muse a while,
And gaze upon those hallowed grounds and my varied thoughts compile.
Over just a little ways I heard Old Glory snapping in the breeze,
And the soothing soughs of zephyrs meandering amongst the trees.
I enjoyed the sweet melodies of birds as they flitted to and fro,
And the water's melodic hymn as it flowed in a rippling brook below.
I was startled by the rhythmic clip-clop of horses' hooves across the way.
Alas, a funeral was being conducted for a fallen hero that very day.
A flag-draped coffin was borne by a caisson followed by an honor guard,
The measured cadence of their shiny boots striking the pavement hard!
I was rapt as I heard the Chaplain offer his words of consolation,
And the Sergeant's remarks as he presented the flag from a grateful nation.
I heard the muted sobs of kin as the flag was presented on ben'ded knee,
To the soldier's little son who I judged to be around the age of three.
The twenty-one gun salute rent the afternoon air as if fired as one,
To honor a gallant comrade for his faithful service and laurels won.
I stood as the haunting notes of "Taps" echoed o'er the plain.
My eyes welled with tears as they always do when I hear that sad refrain.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The 8th generation of cats has been born.
As it has always been,
The milk is limited.
The space is limited.
They seek a first kiss.
Not milk, but the mother’s first lips.
The one who claims it first
Re-creates a new life for the days to come.
Pushed away. In a body struggle unseen,
I taste the holy water of the first nipple, yet I am pushed away.
Little by little, from that nest,
Little by little, I am pushed out.
Craving that kiss of first desire,
I draw near, but already,
Hunger has conquered my flesh.
I could never dare to gaze into my mother’s eyes.
Not even the blade-like lashing of her bitter tongue.
"Isn’t this what our life is?"
In the end, loaded onto a coffin,
Without ever getting drunk on the rich, milky taste of my mother,
I am sent away to my earth.
"Isn’t our life like this, too?"
In an era of material omnipotence,
In hunger and in fullness,
We do not seek out the baby kittens.
In the end, it is merely a designed pyramid.
The well-fed pig pursues a dream,
While the hungry pig longs to be full.
"Which class do we stand upon?"
Are we loach fish writhing in the muddy pit?
Or are we the grass blades
Dancing with the wind?
"We are all mere observers."
The living witness life,
The dead remember the fragrance of the primal mother’s milk.
I observe the new 8th generation of cats.
The 8th generation of cats observes me.
"If this alien dies, will we finally be free?"
Thank You For Comimg
I like it under these shady walnut trees
It is a restful spot where Time can sit and pause
And maybe breathe a little too
The casket is a beauty; alabaster and golden cream
My friends are here and I appreciate their presence
They are sitting in folding chairs in front of my coffin
Their silent heads are respectfully bowed as if in fervent prayer
Or maybe they are listening to the ghost music soaring in the trees,
Like electric guitar birds seeking shade with the night blooms
Maybe they are waiting for me to rise up from there with my song
But it is just a sad madrigal for strings and a prepared-piano—
My choice to share—as these dead leaves descend like lost stars—
Exploding with fire and memories and used-up words
Is my funeral finished now?
How nice of my friends to strew forget-me-nots upon my grave
If only I were truly dead and not standing over here alone
Then I could at last taste the discarded crumbs of life again
What a feast of bones and teeth and dust that would be!
Chicka lacka Micka lacka Boom Boom Bah
Germanic witches bring the owls with a caw
They dance in rhythm, shaking their petootsies.
Dracula hides from them in a coffin with moronic Mootsies.
Chicka lacka Micka lacka Boom Boom Bee.
The witches are warming up as the crowd can plainly see.
A finely choreographed dance, they dance with dignity.
Delighting their brooms with the power of their ‘she’.
Chicka lacka Micka lacka Boom Boom Bay
I wish the witches would honor us with this dance every day.
October should come around in August, June and May.
I love seeing the way they perform their craft this way.
Chicka lacka Micka lacka Boom Boom Blight
The witches have given me some happy dreams this autumn night.
I find myself dancing in my sleep, twisting my hips to the right.
I wish I could join the Wiccans, Germanic power so very bright!
I was standing alone
Just above to the side of the grave where she lay
Thinking thought so no mercy abundance
Children we raised
It was a glimmer of hope
That all our memories that I have of you of her would not fade
Away
Oh how I miss
Miss I the statue of her height
Ooh, oh I miss I the look in her eyes
Oh how I miss I her plump lips
Miss I all that I miss
I so miss her conscience
Oh how I miss I this circumference of her chest
Oh how I miss I the beauty of her bliss
Oh how I miss I the texture of her touch
Oh I miss I the beauty of her heart
Oh I miss I to touch of her skin
Oh I miss I the first time we began
Oh I miss I to stare they those brown eyes glance
Miss I of the first meeting by chance
Awe and wonders I the 35 years of knowing,
of acquaintance of courtship of marriage this I do miss
Missing I these those subtle disagreements
To array the slimmer of fights verbal disagreements
To later reconciliating in the spooning cuddling
In the nights miss that I missing I the spoken word
Shutter I miss the aromatic smell of your heart surge
O how I miss I that the way you write you're cursing writing text
Beyond this and that I miss the sound of your voice
as I stand here alive above the grave site
Down below the grasses the dirt the turf 6 ft away below
In a casket it's just your remains but alas it's not true
Inside this coffin not you you're not here/there
Forever darling you're beautiful soul is in heaven, forevermore away
O' and yes got took His daughter back home, won't lie still it hurts, you see I am a man who TRULY LOVED BEING GODLY MARRIED...
DEDICATED TO MY WIFE CARMEN LEE BROWN LEE
SUNRISE1954---SUNSET 2018
WRITTEN BY JAMES EDWARD LEE SR © 2021
3/27/21