Long Dirge Poems
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O God, the pangs are crushing body, soul
And spirit—working deaths where sunlight fades—
My arms are trunks of pain and taking toll,
While tortures, stings, and sickness hauntly raids
To close the Gates of Hell to shut me in,
And heaven bows to greet while Hades seeks
To send The Reaper with his failing grin.
And illness ruins lives while havoc wreaks
The squalored throes of daily living on—
While body wastes away and breath remains
To sing your dirge while I still carry on…
Like trampling cattle trodding broken frame,
I live between the sunshine and the grave—
Like flowers cut and dying in the vase
I yearn for when my troubles were as frost flowers; when the intermittent wresting
of my inner strings was natural , a part of growing up, and when, from tender stem ,
there emerged feelings of confliction that whirled into a strange collage-puberty's
design. But whether my ordeals then were unique, like the latticework of
snowflakes, or as simple as a raindrop on my pane, each one, wing footed,
eventually melted from my mind.
Later came the common plagues: marital discord, effects of growing old and other
irritations, weeds I plucked and dandelion fluff I blew away. These I could abide.
But other winters passing now have brought trials which are as a thorny web.
In unexpected times of drought, from seemingly nowhere. . . they sprout. Star
Thistles (over which I've no control) come time and time again to prick my soul.
Unlike the fleeting flowers of frondescent youth (whose memory retains for me some
beauty), these thistles of infliction are both ugly and unyielding. Surrounding me are
melancholy notes, and though the melody is rallentando, I think this dirge may
never have an end.
For Catie Lindsey's "Dark Prose" Contest
Frank J. Paul
1866 - 1887
The first I was!
Into the first hole they put me.
Down the lane they carried me that day,
Tearfully singing the first dirge for me –
Frank J. Paul –
The first to be interred on Willit Dorland’s property.
Mother and father – Thank you. Thank you.
You both prayed long into the night –
For a fortnight –
Fervently prayed on bended knees with folded hands
For my dubious but full recovery from diphtheria –
Wept and prayed -
Fasted and sang for my afflicted body –
Prayed and pleaded continuously-
As my breath shortened and
My heart slowed to a stop.
Mother and Father – Thank you. Thank you.
Indeed, the first of many I was!
Me – Frank J. Paul!
For I was -
The first sunrise!
The first breath!
The first smile and
The first embrace!
Nothing left to say, except
The first I was!
When you are watching the surging water
rushing to a breakwater by Lake Michigan
under the dusk gathering reddened sky,
and the water flies in the air for a moment
to form the spray and hits the lake’s surface,
it returns to the depth of the water where it came from
then, the passing time that is drifting on the water
pushed by the heartless surges turns its back to see
the trails left behind, the life somewhat lacking something,
and as time swells to yearn for its past
the oncoming time draws nearer to swallow the past
with the waves of oblivion
and when past time sinks into the water
you’ll hear the singing dirge followed by
a procession of wordless spirits and the blindfolded future
carried on a funeral bier.
While watching the sunset glow
I was thinking with a thousand thoughts crowded in my mind
and to my surprise, with my waning shadow
I can still recognize myself through my eyes.
Although I was always victimized because I am
such an insignificant being to others’ eyes. How should
I accept the fact that I am still allowed to face the days.
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
Pale orb the bleary wake incites
Pallid streams procession ignites
Twilight's caravan gives last beams flight
Deep browns, oranges funerary pyre light
Glare from Day's spent hours moon's spawning rays spite
Day's face shares last glint then bier shutters tight
Into gray abyss Helios's flaming spirit doth kite
In ethereal corridor veiled remnants with chilling vapors slight
Night's doleful dirge; sprightly pallbearers shoulder blight
In vapid sanctuary, a jading stillness appends eerie rite
Nyx's strobe earth's dimmed floor with shadows doth requiet
Sidling tributaries in contrite cadence blink at earth's plight
Slow rhythms of Nyx's bleating requiem soul's sleep doth invite
Written: April 05, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perched delicately on the shiny cobalt.
The brumal sky is where it lies.
A sight that truly captures the heart.
With such beauty, there is no disguise.
Pearly salver shines with a radiant glow.
Amber and pearliness, as a full moon show
Surrounded by a mist of ashen hue.
A wolf, feeling glum and bleak blue.
Solitary and desolate it stood.
Amid night depths In a gloomy mood.
A bluesy dirge, yowls in the night.
Oh, the woeful wails of leaden plight.
Echoing through the depths of sorrow's reef.
Watery paint that runs under the leaf.
A mournful melody, heavy and deep.
In the heart's chamber, it does seep.
A melody dances, in mild waves cascades.
A rippling composed refrain.
The heart sings its sweet serenades.
Whispers of golden yearning strain.
A dirge for the ancient and modern
city.
Damascus a lamentations of the
blood spilling;
Of the blood of the dying crying
'avenge me' like Abel of old.
Of orphaned children lost in the
war of adults.
The wounds of Damascus are so
grievous that has defied
all treatments.
Swallowing its young generation
etched in hatred and
vengeance;
Of ideologies that consume the
very soul of Syrians
This is a lamentation for the wasted
generation, of a gap
deleted forever.
The city of Paul's crusades and
conversion.
Of foundations of a hundred
generations.
Damascus ancient and modern
on the brink.
She still smiled,
even when she knew,
life looped over her,
like a hangman’s noose.
Imagined it was a melody she heard,
in the rising cadence of a dirge.
But…in her laughter was the echo,
of smothered sighs, shot involuntary,
from the corked up bottle of her heart.
In a hilarious company, she languished
like a cockle in the shell.
Seemed so calm
when a sizzling inferno burnt within!
Tears, long held back
froze and hardened within her eye pits.
Now a total stranger to herself!
On the beach, as the sunset hurled ecstasy
across the skies, she only saw the virulent waves
lashing on the shore and their tug, inviting.
On the way back, with an eerie interest,
she watched water lilies,
withering away in pools and ponds!
Neither cursed nor moaned
over her soiled identity;
but wondered why only discordant tunes
now came out from her flute
on which, once her rehearsed lips
created such harmonious melody!
Under her calm demeanor,
was veiled craftily the anguish of a life time.
Yet in pitch darkness,
counting the luminous stars in the firmament,
she lay-
a seed in wait
under furrowed lands
for the first summer shower!
(This is the sad story, I happened to hear of a woman who contrived AIDS from her lecherous husband who was a truck driver! But she put up a brave fight! I don’t know if she is still alive. It is so sad that often innocents have to suffer in life!)
The left produces people, who sometimes give themselves away by quotes
Its amazing how many fall for this, and still give them their votes.
Bill Ayers said to kill all the rich and to bring the revolution home, kill your parents too
Amiri Baraka wanted poems to be daggers in the belly of the owner-Jew
James Carville said if you drag money through a trailer park, there's no telling what you'd find
Hillary Clinton despised the deplorables, her attitude wasn't kind
Chelsea Clinton called her Secret Service agents "personal trained pigs", a phrase that was terse.
They objected, then she said her parents also called them that, which made things worse.
But at least Chelsea has honesty and explains
Novak described Hatred of George Bush unprecedented in a half century of campaigns
Judi Bari said that to save the ecology, we must destroy our free market, others agree
Jimmy Carter trusted the leader of North Korea, for his stop-nuke treaty
Lyndon Johnson said he would have black people voting Democratic for the next 200 years by giving them money
Doesn't quite show respect, the hypocrisy is quite funny.
RFK junior said that disbelief in Global Warming should be treated as treason,
If I were Trump, I'd stay away from him, just for that reason.
George Soros said that the main obstacle to a just World was the USA
Michael Swift, a gay activist, said "we will seduce your sons" and make them gay.
All this is depressing, from what rock do these types emerge?
Perhaps we should add to poetrysoup a U.S. funeral dirge.