Long Crematory Poems
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Eluding My Ressurection
Eluding the proposition of more work to be done
Prelude to the inquisition that is blocking out the sun
I can only conclude that the ammunition was hard fought and won
While the interlude for the intermission has only just begun
Statutory situations from behind a judges bench presiding
Defamatory imitations that aren’t worth justifying
Auditory insinuations that see a person testifying
Crematory conflagrations that are somewhat death defying
Intercontinental ballistic missiles heading for a major city
Coincidental trajectories on the inside that are the opposite of pretty
Environmental projectiles that leave humans loitering in complicity
Developmental officials that stunt the growth of those without pity
Acrimonious altercations that leave you shocked and stunned
Parsimonious purification that has men reaching for their guns
Disharmonious communications that make you feel inclined to run
Sanctimonious salutations that remove the laughter from the fun
Aberrations of contemplations that leave my thinking incomplete
Abdications of compensations that keep you working on your feet
Complications of innovations that seem to be headed for defeat
Combinations of annotations that keep your words strong enough to compete
Augmentation of technological conversations altered for their privilege and stature
Conflagrations of mythological consternations that have people waiting for the rapture
Insinuations of psychological manifestations that make you feel like you are captured
Constellations of astronomical configurations that engender awe and enrapture
I’m hoping that the tides will flow in favour of my direction
While eloping from the slides that show my wanting predilection
For downward sloping motions that grow upward in their redirection
As they live while coping in the know of my resurrection
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
My daughter heard
a Decent Cool-lio smart phone stranger
(with an African sounding name)
give a four fifty one Fahrenheit warning
Some said: the fellow was loco insane
Others said,
not taking heed was the crux to blame
Mr. O Mgeni
said he saw a sickly pale man,
in an ivory tower,
feverishly delirium shouting
And each time he opened his mouth,
everything went up in flames
When the spit started to gushing out,
it petrol-fyingly
burned down the calcium frames
Mr. Onyo
sadly viral said,
the charred voting remains
was carbon dust crematory claimed
Some said this stranger
was a Pygmy green card provocateur
Others said this Mgeni fellow
was a temporarily sworn Masai allure
But, I believe
what my daughter said
Shavola told me: Daddy,
the burning photo negatives don’t lie!
Each time he opened up his mouth,
everything burst into flames
When the spit started to spray out,
it gaslight-ingly
burned down the calcium frames
And I bare witness
to what she said
Mr. O Mgeni avowed:
The 451 Fahrenheit early warning came
Some listened for the ominous, approaching sirens
Others didn’t ... too their crying shame
The holographic records retinitis-ously declare:
When the ground-zero man spoke ...
everything not fire retardant
quarantined,
went up in a green pyre of flames
Every wouldn’t osteopathic frame
Tho’ the early warning foreign aid came
Nevertheless, the charred voting remains
was hot-white coals crematory claimed
Sometimes,
sailing in ebony blades
of saturnine seas
brings forth a forsaken froth
of scarred reveries,
when musk-ochre
tints of sunshine cease
to slice through solemn
scarlet skies and
cruelly-coloured black-pearls
shimmer as an obsidian beacon
of forest-green intentions,
caging pantoums of peace
in glass-jars of
bleeding sandalwood-scented
butterflies, entrapped in
sapphire patterns.
My spirit is often ablaze
as a crematory where
opal-gold truths are buried
eight feet under the raven crusts,
and I rise as feathery-flames
in hot-bronze furnaces
of diamond-dragon's
chauvinistic cave,
so that heart's papier- mâché
cells never sacrifice their
rosemary plasma to
eagle-edged egoes and
noiseless yet suffocating
sonatas of narcissistic
nestled woodpeckers.
I believe, life is wistful
like wilderness of a white-wolf,
growling besides midnight's
brim and howling to the
carmine moon, wrapping
peach-sunsets of serenity
in fluid-time, unfolding
scattered shades of
sonorously rustling foliages,
shimmering in breezes of
crumbling claret twigs and
satin seedlings whining
to the list of traitors,
for their unborn lavender buds.
So, swear not under the afterglows
of august skies and
let me float on the
crest of azure waves, in my
snowflake-capsule, being
immortally evanescent,
As every promise is like
a betraying magenta melody
of crepuscular youth, fading
in forged futuristic pastels.
Unknown, unseen, the invisible demon has arrived to annihilate
Anybody out in open becomes a pray of his wrath
Soon gasping for breath, gone forever
Such is his might that no one dares to go near dead body
Lest they be killed mercilessly
Huddled at home, a life of scare
Millions dead, count increasing
Governments battling the hidden enemy
Nothing is working
All are living a caged life at home
This monster has spread its tentacles all over the earth
Dead bodies fill crematory, human population coming down drastically
Surprisingly he is targeting only humans
Nature, trees, animals, birds, insect, air, water, all are happy
They are glad the monster came to save them from human atrocities
Land animals still living in little space, now roam about more freely
Water bodies are relieved as they are no longer being used as a big dustbin
Trees are breathing fresh air
Birds are chirping merrily
No honking of vehicles, no loudspeakers, no loud human noises
It seems this monster is a friend of all except humans
He wants to kill humans for atrocities committed against others
Man's ego stands crushed
One who thought he was the greatest
stands helplessly in front of a microscopic creature.
Earth belongs to all, live and let live
Stop destroying earth, or I will come kill you
Message is loud and clear!
05.05.2021
Contest Name : A Poem of Horror
Sponsor : Funom Makama
The temporary altar, Translation of Etiemble’s quintet: Le reposoir by T. Wignesan
For us
As for me, I have renounced the noxious vault
where the other life child concealed a father
whom he had sometimes betrayed his mother
who took him for someone else
the baby she sensed to be a clone.
For you, I have renounced the death mask
which earlier on I yearned leaving on this earth,
baked dust. Pride? But tomorrow you wander about
looking for me in this me, void of feeling,
i‘d rather leave nothing: all: my image in you.
For you, I have renounced the common grave
where, in me, eponymous heroes mortify themselves.
Pride of another kind – hero and zero, these rhyme! –
which provoked me to disown my verse thanks to theirs
in swarms: for you, my passing is not news in brief.
For you, I have renounced the morgue’s formalin:
life lingers on in me as a Sorgues medic
glides me in a body-bag after the great organs
of the death mass. I’d hardly serve to
disgorge your viscera live, and dead, to undo you.
For us, I’ll burn in a crematory oven:
not love’s fires which burnt their poems:
not loves gone cold which had me in thrall
-the floodtide of sperm and blood, mixed with anathemas-,
but of wood and for you. Death, where’s your victory?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
This Poem about an instance of pain and plight of Sex workers.
Red Frozen Flower:
Multiple cars flashing the red lights,
Coating red lipsticks on street.
Decorated like a model,
Hair perfect as a wig,
Eyelids having shine of summer sand,
Eyelashes curled like a wave,
with a red rose smile.
While neck loaded in golden figures,
she was garbed in red glittered dress,
in heels giving her ache of a ninety year old.
Several cars slow down,
Pricing her worth,
Touching their crouch,
Ogling with dripping saliva,
Having thought of,
mounting her like,
A lion on it’s prey,
tearing her spirit bit by bit.
Every time a car stopped,
Her heart’s beat hopped,
As the ordeal of,
prior days still haunted,
Gathering her scattered guts,
She hopped on in a red Skoda,
Naive to her future.
When arrived at crematory,
The human mask melted and sinisters appeared,
Advancing to rip her clothes like a bandage,
while they took turn like on a fiery.
She felt the pain of frying in hell,
stabbing of multiple knives,
the crush of several mountains,
and slipping into coma.
The terror went on,
filling the night's silence,
with the ring of her,
pig’s alike squeal.
As she bled lying on crematory,
In the shivers of the naked night,
Like a Red Frozen Flower.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Such egoistic heads tell not to worry
And at our back talk oscillatory
Bad about us, creating a crematory
Where they bury their own glory.
They have a bad attitude of sanatory
Coward, showy, deceitful, predatory.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
I too had such a mad hoary
Who was ready with an itinerary,
Where all bad & deceit come corollary
As she had a base habit of obfuscatory.
She knew less concepts contemporary
And thought herself vital primary.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if I hunky-dory?
We knew those emotions were vapory –
Happy, then sad, angry then nugatory!
Her emotions changed as witch’s allegory,
Hate, spurn, prune are her favourite mandatory:
Now singly fights with colleagues hortatory;
Alas! Does not know her faults & category.
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if hunky-dory?
At first I tried to be a promontory
So that I can save her crematory;
Blind with pride, less corroboratory,
She spurned me having derogatory.
Now also I pity her as she is a hoary
But wish she improves her oratory.
Thing About It for a While
St. James is determined to be demanding
Resulting in a mysterious misunderstanding;
At Midway and Two Eleven much wind blows;
Have heard there won't be the likes of Lowes.
Also, is some news about an elegant story
Resulting from the presence of a crematory
And on my patience is now wearing thin;
Were people in St James really dying to get in?
Two Eleven and Midway are a combined, central hub;
They need a place there to read poems at a pub
But St. James have supporters who are staunch
Like buying up Brunswick County carte blanche'.
Then time after time and question after question
Having a major seaport is an outsider's obsession
Who in the area does not and prefers not to live
And up anything will never have to give.
Now that Southport had their day in court,
Why should some outsider want to sell them short?
Not only that, many fine tourists it will bring
After they may install more then one swing.
So try to think about it for a while;
Southport sure has such a lovely lifestyle
But meanwhile for present which is now
I am sure Southport will get by somehow.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Bolivia, NC
RiverSea Plantation
Love Honor and Respect
For Crowe's Mortuary and Crematory
By Franklin Price
02/08/2022
My wife was lifted up by God
While we held her by the hand,
With her, our daughter and myself,
As she left for promised land.
She passed away in early evening,
Was almost half past seven.
Crowe's came and took her body,
Though her soul had gone to heaven.
They lifted her with love and care,
As we cried to see her go.
I was glad that I had called them.
Their caring softened up the blow.
The house was feeling empty.
A loved one's loss has that effect.
It could have been a lot worse,
But for their honor and respect.
Theirs is not an easy task.
They only work when there's a shroud.
The way they made me feel that night
Had me thanking God out loud.
Her passing was three weeks ago.
I found an urn with hummingbird,
She always loved to watch them
They hovered 'round without a word.
I called Crowe's, and asked them,
If they could transfer all her ash.
They said that they would wait for me.
I should not hurt myself and dash.
When I got there, they were waiting
And with respect they did the deed
I very highly recommend them
If you ever are in need.
It seems old age has filtered in
without so much as fanfare--
rapacious, unforgiving, feeding
on my body everywhere
like those precocious maggots
standing by in ignorance,
their bit of consciousness
still unapprised of my arrangement
with the crematory down the road.
Ah, poor fellows, that you are,
I have no fear as I deny your table
in my final earthen home.
Something I like
of going out with fire...
Something to refine my years of lust,
my trust in paradise
laid down upon my breath,
and then dispatched in breathlessness
at every spasm of creative power
that I released for Adam's glory,
or carnality.
What then, do I bequeath to you?
Not fortune, clearly,
not subjective wisdom
that you must encounter on your own.
To you my hearthside chats with God
are something alien that you would
crumple and consign to flame.
My love? Of course there is no doubt.
No, I pass on to you
that which was given me
within my loins, and yours to be
within that strange eternity
that we address, and tremble
that it lowers upon us all,
beckons like a lorelei,
makes food of fantasy,
and of itself becomes
the towering acumen that we
breathe in the far estate of God.
~