Long Eulogy Poems
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living with a ghost is easy
sometimes scary
a bit hard on the nerves
at times but lovely too
I have been doing it for years now years I tell you
ever since grandma went or should I say didn't
you see I inherited all her things sadly some got sold
but I kept many including
her old favorite chair
an antique china cabinet
with her tea cups and collectibles
oh how she loved her collectibles now be gentle dear
I recall her saying to the little girl that was me
all
those
years
ago
after grandma's funeral ( I read the eulogy too)
I felt a presence in my nest my home I really did
but brushed it off . . .
then one day a friend who thought herself a physic
visited
she stood in the center of my living room eyes closed
for the longest time.... I wanted to say are you okay?
turned to me suddenly and said you have a ghost
I gulped I DO! . . . NO, she said you have TWO
she walked right over to the grandma's chair
she is right here watching you and she has a cat
A CAT? ... I said yes, a calico cat
I did not know what to say
you see... my cat patches who recently died was calico
well, I was not that shocked as me and grandma
had a special bond always
now often I will hear the china cabinet open (at night)
and in the morning the tea cups and collectibles have moved
sometimes the chair will creak and was that a ghostly meow
but I love my ghosts both of them I really do
and would have it no other way . . .
sometimes, I bring the chair a cup of tea
I even talk to it (never sit in it)
I know that sounds silly
but I swear, she is listening
NOT THE CHAIR grandma-
_____________________________________
June 5, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/Living With A Ghost
Copyright Protected, ID 16-797-557-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Any HM Ever
Sponsor, Laura Loo
Second Place
____________________
For the contest,
I Ain't Afraid Of No Ghost
Honorable Mention
We always eulogize a child on his birth
We also eulogize a person on his death
On both occasions he is unable to appreciate the praise
At birth he is unable to understand the words
At death his ears are unresponsive to the sound
Why do we always say good things on these occasions?
Must we confine our eulogy only to these occasions?
A child doesn’t understand our words at the time of his birth
So it doesn’t matter whatever our words may sound
The logic isn’t the same for a person on his death
We have an innate fear that his spirit is hearing our words
We wish to impress the spirit by using words of praise
Why should we impress the spirit with words of praise?
There is a belief that the spirit will leave after such occasions
Some believe that the spirits are not influenced by words
Our fate after death depends on all our deeds after birth
All good deeds will be rewarded by the Creator after death
Fate is not decided on words irrespective of how it may sound
It is impossible to infer true feelings from how the words sound
We often pretend to please others by telling words of praise
These pretensions are useless when hearing ability ceases on death
But may be fruitful when spoken to others on different occasions
It is ineffective when the sense of hearing is undeveloped at birth
The generation of feelings depends upon how we express the words
Human relations depend on how we express our feelings in words.
Expressions, conveying different feelings, are said in a varying sound
The effectiveness is lost when conveyed to a child at birth
Damaged human relations can be repaired through words of praise
The appropriate expressions must be chosen to suit the occasion
Feelings and expressions must amalgamate in the occasion of death
One of the most solemn occasions in life is that of death
While expressing feelings we carefully select the words
The choice of words matches the vibes of the occasions
The speeches are characterized by a particular sound
On such occasions we forget our true feelings and praise
Ebullient feelings are aroused on the occasion of birth
The strength of a relationship is expressed by the identity of the sound
The effectiveness of the expressions rest on the choice of words
Alas! The only expressions a child has are cries at birth
Robert Sherriff 08/07/1954 - Australian - Poet -Author - Singer - Actor - American Historian – Photographer
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Angela is our oldest, she was the prettiest baby imaginable
Her large blue eyes from her Daddy’s side of the family, spoke volumes.
She had a gorgeous face and curls that danced when she toddled.
We thought she was all that and she was.
At nineteen months she became a big sister, and she took it seriously.
Tracy, our second, became her “baby”. She adored her, loved hugging her.
We could not prop her bottle though because Angela would confiscate it
And lie under the crib drinking it with gusto, as she had recently been weaned.
Angela was allergic to everything green, so she preferred inside to outside.
She had weekly allergy shots when she was five; it broke my heart.
She loved school until some big boys she could not identify ambushed her.
It was the first time I let her walk by herself. I held her and sobbed.
When she was seven she got a new baby Sister, Susie. She claimed her.
Telling me one day “You don’t have any idea what this baby means to me.”
She was an avid book reader, had a fantastic sense of humor and a terrific laugh.
Constantly tried to please everyone, which was impossible.
As a preteen she painted her room black and went “Goth” years before anyone else.
I knew it was not a reflection on her soft heart and was unconcerned.
At 16 she was hooked on romance novels, so I took her to a Romance Writers Conference.
We had the best time; and she met her favorite romance writer, Helen Mittermeier,
Helen Mittermeier was gracious and asked Angela what her favorite books were.
Angela could name her heroines, heroes, and tell her the plot of her books.
Helen asked her who her “second favorite author was”.
Angela named someone, and Helen’s entire table of women writers burst out laughing.
Angela’s second favorite author was Helen Mittermeier, using an alias.
They were totally impressed.
Angela went to college and became a designated driver on campus.
No surprise; she always likes nurturing people.
She joined the Air Force when she was in her twenties. I was stunned.
My little powder puff joining the Air Force? What?
She did great; to this day she is a federal employee.
She is a GS16 which is high up.
I have always been proud of my daughter, but my pride was bursting
When she gave the eulogy at my mother’s funeral.
No one could have done a better job.
I am sure my mother was proud too.
Ancient Greek and Roman Epigrams
Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms;
hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches;
then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain;
for this is welcome shade from the burning sun.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads
by the windswept elms near the breezy beach,
providing rest to sunburned travelers,
and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage,
and drink cool water from the sprightly spring,
so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors,
may take rest from the blazing sun.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the grove of Cypris,
for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep,
that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy,
as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image.
—Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is nothing sweeter than love.
All other delights are secondary.
Thus, I spit out even honey.
This is what Gnossis says:
Whom Aphrodite does not love,
Is bereft of her roses.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most revered Hera, the oft-descending from heaven,
behold your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense
and receive the linen robe your noble child Nossis,
daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, my homeland of beautiful dances,
to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho,
remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me there.
My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go!
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pass me with ringing laughter, then award me
a friendly word: I am Rinthon, scion of Syracuse,
a small nightingale of the Muses; from their tragedies
I was able to pluck an ivy, unique, for my own use.
—Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords: ancient, Greek, translation, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, lament, mourning, funeral, grave, death, death of a friend, dead, bereavement, eulogy, funeral, goodbye, loss
I
Yours is a mystery no mortal man can comprehend,
and your name which I mistook for my sister's, is a riddle
that would remain unsolved…
I have searched and searched within the recesses of my heart
since we parted at the crossroads
to know why my heart suddenly fell
like a fly into the spider's web, like a creditor's call
on a debtor's door,
like rain on a sunny day for you (a stranger)
on our first coincidental meeting,
and why it never stopped falling…
II
Weird as it seems,
the resonance of your soft contralto voice
lingers in my head
as if it were moments ago, and I feel
the reverberations against the daunting din
of the crowd that encompassed us…
The image of your slim black body stands in my mind's eyes
like slender palm on a bar beach,
and the perfect projections on your comely face
reminds me of my mother in her prime
when maidens prided in the sanctity
of their innocence
and thinking of you lulls me to sleep, to daydream
youthful dreams of her
in whose shadows I weaned…
Doyin! Lightfooted archer* on the wings of fate-
the suppleness of your black skin and your matchless manners
are true reflections of your untainted roots,
and the playfulness in your cultured tongue exalts you
amongst the silken daughters of Eve
(and are mere reminiscences of our first meeting)
How can I define your superlative beauty in verse?
III
Doyin, you are not one of my sisters, you are not my mother's daughter
yet, since we parted at the crossroads,
I have been in despair longing for the overwhelming ambience
of your sisterly warmth,
to hear the sound of your tender voice resonate
in my head down to my heart,
to feel the enlivening breath of your inner bowels,
to rest beneath the sheltering canopy of your hair, and
be enlightened by the magic splendour
of your bespectacled eyes…
Doyin, I long to bridge this river between us
to reach the enchanting realm of your refreshing countenance
and dwell therein within
the friendly fountains of your heart.
But since we parted at the crossroads,
and you went your way while I stood watching,
the image of your fetching figure
lodges in the chambers of my heart like a golden fleece
IV
And why my heart suddenly fell for you
I cannot tell…
Was it for your fetching figure or matchless manners?
I still cannot tell
I leave it to fate…
You made up your mind to view the world
With different eyes —eyes recessed, eyes inundated with lustre,
Straining to catch every flight of the dancing seasons that hurled
Man and beast beyond frontiers with baluster.
You are the town-crier of our time, delivering messages printed on banners
That hail the energy of the heated earth.
What a voice you possess! So smooth and euphonious, it rings loud and clear
With the gumption of a king’s augurer, leaving behind manners
That haunt us pleasantly with bliss and mirth,
Suggesting frantically the suavity of a seer
Journalism has come to judgement, fragmented by words and the eloquence
Of time and grace. Are you not equal to the task?
The world admits you certainly are! And with supreme relevance
Your disciples are many, Dear one, flaunting the mask
Of imitation — they litter the world like tiny red beads flung and scattered
Beyond boundaries stretching from sea to coast
You are a lover of words, speaking with valour even on the arcades
Of fright, charming viewers with the powers of gathered
Attention when rainy nights and dewy mornings boast
Loudly of integrated existence of cascades
An anointed raconteur you are, reeling off tale after tale
By moonlight of cosseted playgrounds
I assume you frequented gatherings, prelapsarian, on a scale
So great that the sage spoke on select backgrounds
How do you do it?
Do you burn candles with scented tallow, and without
Need of a flint —thus reluming primitively dark alleyways?
You are the light that shines on tenebrous path and grit,
Revealing fey monsters responsible for the drought
That burned the pennants of truth posted on archways.
I never before knew an institution of mass communication
Until the bright age of running news crowned your labours
By way of a universally attended coronation
The world attributes to you the favours
Of heavens and caverns of Eudemons.
Arise, Dear One, arise and claim your special flair,
Make noise with the reeds of the Nile and dance gracefully
As you dine on stewed cinnamons
Rest assured you’re deeply blessed, Dear one with a dare;
I assure you mightily, speaking faithfully.
Eulogy
Sing eulogy, O wind,
Crying out the sorrow,
Howling deep within your zephyr,
For branches where you once entwined
Your restless fingers
Into a joyful melody of rustling boughs
In lyric song;
Hear now, as you pass, only memories
Floating on the air in search of forest arms
Where once the lullaby of giants
Spread like peace at eventide
Over every creature who daily felt
The vibrant, primal heartbeat
At the mystic center sustaining life.
Sing eulogy, O wind,
When you rush across the empty mountainside,
Where once the titans of the century welcomed you
With lofty grace as you orchestrated
Their symphony of seasons come,
Your searching swell frantically seeks for
Playmates of a thousand years;
Your cannot reach out with your arms
To lift the sparrows and the robins,
Nesting in their wombs,
Upon your wings
Nor cool the squirrels hiding beneath their skirts
Of rough, red bark;
The hillsides where you sang with grandeur
Lay as hushed and as chilled as marble tombs
That decorate man’s passing;
Death walked upon these paths
Leaving in deep chilling footprints barren hills to raise their
Voices in a wailing rage
Of mournful sighs on desolated plains and mountain slopes.
Sing eulogy, O wind,
Look upon the sun warmed earth,
Your friends with whom you shared the secret words
Of your song,
Who whispered with your every murmur
By lifting up their giant faces
In gratitude for the winter’s gift of sleep
And summer’s rain,
Lie still;
Your shout of mourning unheard,
Death closes up their ears to all
But it’s eternal dirge
And though you long to caress
Their lifeless forms,
They cannot feel your loving hands
Upon their brows
In a final gesture of farewell
Before they leave their forest arbor
Still abounding with their perfume -
The myrrh of burial for guardians
Whose life protected life
Where shadows intermingled.
Sing eulogy, O wind,
Then weep,
No resurrection for companions
Until the earth revolves
A thousand times
Around the sun
When they repeat refrains of joy
In creation’s pristine voice
With you –
With woodland peers –
Their voices silenced here to ears
That heard their chanting
And now must carry in the silence
Of their souls
A seed of memory
To tell the future’s child
A fable tale of giants
Passing now away.
Old growth redwoods now gone.
Jawab-e-Shikwa
THE ANSWER TO THE COMPLAINT BY ALLAH ALMIGHTY SIDE TO PIOUS PEOPLE OF THE WHOLE UNIVERSE:
https://youtu.be/EXRl5VKq39M
When passion streaming from the heart turns human lips to lyres,
Some magic wings man’s music then, his song with soul inspires;
Man’s words are sacred then, they soar, The ears of heaven they seek,
From dust those mortal accents rise, Immortals hear them speak;
So wild and wayward was my Love, such tumult raised its sighs,
Before its daring swiftly fell the ramparts of the skies.
The skies exclaimed in wonderment, “Some one is hiding here,”
The wheeling Planets paused to say, “Seek on the highest sphere.”
The silver Moon said, “You are wrong, Some mortal it must be,”
The Milky Way too joined converse, “Here in our midst is he.’’
Rizwan alone, my plaintive voice began to recognise,
He knew me for a human who had lost his Paradise.
And even the Angels could not tell what was that voice so strange,
Whose secret seemed to lie beyond Celestial wisdom’s range.
They said, “Can Man now roving come and reach these regions high?
That tiny speck of mortal clay, has it now learnt to fly?
How little do these beings of earth the laws of conduct know;
How coarse and insolent they are, these men who live below.
So great their insolence indeed, they dare even God upbraid!
Is this the Man to whom their bow the Angels once had made?
Of Quality and Quantity He knows the secrets, true—
The ways of humbleness as well If he a little knew!
That they alone are blest with speech how proud these humans be,
Yet, ignorant, they lack the art to use it gracefully.”
Then spake a Voice Compassionate: “Your tale enkindles pain,
Your cup is brimming full with tears which you could not contain
Even High Heaven itself is moved by these impassioned cries;
How wild the heart which taught your lips such savage melodies!
Its grace yet makes this song of yours a song of eulogy;
A bridge of converse you have formed ‘Twixt mortal man and Me!
Behold, my hands arc full of gifts, but who comes seeking here?
And how shall I the right road shew when there’s no traveller?
My loving care is there for all, If deserved but by few!
Not this the clay from which I can an Adam’s shape renew!
On him who merits well I set the brightest diadem,
And those who truly questing come, a new world waits for them.
I hit the wall today for the first time since you've been gone, screaming to god what you did wrong.
I shouted as loud as I could, asking him why you couldn't see your good.
I want to smash every mirror I own, because every time you looked in one, it only made you feel alone.
You couldn't see your beautiful, you were blinded by this worlds lies, and for that it's the devil I despise.
He took away your sister far too soon, he took her far away, out of this earth, over the moon.
I tried to tell you that you'd see her again, up in that bright sky, but in order to do that, you had to die.
Call me selfish, call me greedy, but your voice was the only one who could feed me.
Now I'm starving for a sound I'll never again get to hear, and now voice mails and videos are the only things that can help me bare, but it's just not the same without you here.
I hated to see you cry, but please don't mind, while I do the same, because I can't help but to lose my breath whenever I hear your name.
I've spent half my life, saving your hand written letters, and all of your cards too, but my heart wasn't prepared to finally lose you.
I knew it would hurt, I just didn't know that it'd hurt this bad, because when I lost you Monday, Tuesday I realized I lost everything I had.
Now I'm down here listening to songs that remind me of you, and right now, they're the only ones getting me through.
I guess I was one of the lucky ones, because I accepted your faults without reason, and I never once blamed you for leaving.
Demons come in different forms, and yours came in the shape of a tiny pill, get the best of you again,they never will.
You're finally safe now, and far from the devils reach, now you're collecting seashells upon heavens beach.
If you should miss me, hold one close to your ear, so that whenever I say I love you, it's my voice you'll hear.
Adele sang that she'd turn black and blue to make another feel her love, but I'd break every bone in this body for one minute up above.
I'd use every second to hold your hand, and walk beside you upon heavens sand.
We shared a bond that will never be torn, but now it's your chance to be reborn.
I'll get mine one day, just not right now, finally love yourself, I hope those angels show you how.
So good bye for now, to the mother I adore, maybe one day I'll too, not hurt anymore.
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