Long Funeral Poems
Long Funeral Poems. Below are the most popular long Funeral by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Funeral poems by poem length and keyword.
The clock on the wall says 7.30 sharp
And the bell on the alarm clock rings loud
A tear fills your eye as you realise why the sound as woken you from dreamland
It's the 9.00 rush here to use up your life all for the sake of the wife and the kids
You leave the mortgaged up house and drive in the car which your paying back for the next 5 years
Wearing the suit that you bought for your good father's funeral
who passed before time because of his job and the dust and the grime
You sit at your desk wishing your work hours away
But you only live once and them hours and days are lost off your life clock for good
your shift ends at 5.00 and rush home to see the girl of yours dreams and your child
You open the door and find on the floor a note to say au voir dear
with the furniture gone, and at the same time your hopes and your dreams
So you open the note to read why and it seems your never about and didn't give her the time she deserved, and now she has left you for good .
so please remember this tale and spend as much time as you can with the ones that you love .
Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Texting at 7:00 pm.
Is almost too late.
People are washing dishes.
They are tired with wrinkly hands.
If I texted anyway,
Maybe the shadows would leave.
Texting at 9:00 pm.
It’s never ok, it’s always too late.
If I had texted at 7:00…
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad…
If I texted at 1:00 am.
They would hate me forever.
No one would ever text again, and I would die in a car accident alone, and no one would show up to the funeral.
So at 1:00 am, I write and scribble nonsense in a journal.
I cry into the journal.
Which is a little more satisfying than a crying emoji, anyway.
I keep the journal in a drawer.
That cannot be deleted.
Unlike most things in this digital world.
I had a dream . . . (at least, I think it was a dream)
I was walking in a beautiful garden,
and wandering down pretty paths;
a church was built right in the center,
among all the flowers and lovely green.
The door of the church was ornately carved,
but a sign hung- DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR;
so, I turned back to the garden,
but now, my view was totally different.
It was filled with graves,
headstones stood instead of beautiful flowers;
music drifted in the air, and
I could hear and see a funeral was taking place.
So, I went and stood with the mourners,
who looked down into an open grave;
each person was tossing a red rose,
tossing it upon a shiny black coffin.
Oh, why not, I said, to the girl who is me,
just toss one in- and then, I woke up;
weeping, weeping, oh I had done this
before, yes, we had thrown red roses . . .
on my mother's coffin,
I look at my hand and the red rose
I am still- holding . . .
___________________________
August 29, 2018
Poetry/Verses/The Red Rose I am Still- Holding
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1055-775-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
A tepid breeze delicately descends,
embedding a sphere of embers engulfed in saffron flames,
but intrinsic illuminations cannot soothe somber sorrows.
Splashes of persimmon and periwinkle horizons,
turn indigo, before twilight disappears into ebony hues.
Nocturnal pondering drifts to magical memories.
In the middle of the night,
when butterflies dance to the moon's song.
A plethora of elegance surrounds,
as a million fireflies prepare a path of crystal fragility.
Fate has little sympathy for forgotten symphonies.
In the mysterious music of tonight,
pearl in the sky reflects in scarlet shades,
moonlight shimmers like blood on distant tides.
Strings of sorrow serenade in stentorious stings.
melancholic mind moves like a funeral march,
yearning for veiled daylight behind mute mists.
There is an ache in absence,
a despair in distance -
reflected through lamenting eyes.
If only we could smash this cocoon,
that prevents us from floating free -
but majestic chic wings remain in chains.
My lips are like velvet petals,
forming the grandest golden sunflower,
confined behind onyx structures of frailty,
vulnerably yearning to be healed,
by tender rosewater kisses.
Painful palpitations from a pomegranate heart,
bleed in bitter shades of black.
A hollowness only separated souls silently sense.
Hope can be hidden behind
a canopy of Cimmerian clouds.
To create a rainbow,
love requires sun rays and rain drops.
To weave an eternal pattern,
where beloveds ascend in peace and harmony -
forever.
THE SOLID TRUTH
On the day I was born.
Everyone put me on a petal stool.
The Angel's played a trumpet horn.
While everyone called me a ~precious jewel.
Harps played!
Doves flew!
That's how my birth was displayed.
As I got older ~ As I grew!
My heart of gold started to fade.
Sinking down in to the blues.
I hide my thoughts under the shade.
Wondering how one screw got lose.
I removed the pin from my own grenade.
Like TNT~ I lit my own fuse.
Blowing myself away from your masquerade.
My life has no buttons to defused..
My heart is twisted with barbwire as a barricade.
I live this rotten life, no reason to hit the snooze.
Sweating and letting the thoughts of revenge cascade.
A level of rage and hate is my only muse.
You camouflaged into a blonde beast with the eyes of jade.
The truth has come out, with an unacceptable excuse.
The solid truth, is like solid waste.
A force of mean, turning a heart cold.
Here's the truth do you want my new sour taste.
Forget when I was sweet, when I was bold.
I enjoy this new feeling of being out of place.
The truth was told..
In your face.
I laughed at the way it was all unfold.
Walking with a smile~ one day you will die,
and pay for what is owed.
While I sleep at night with Glory..
You'll wake up everyday to my untold story.
With the solid truth that lies have no end.
Guilt will have everyone crying at my funeral.
Wondering what happened to their "precious jewel.
by;p.d.
Held My Hand
You held my hand the moment I was born, kept them in yours as I grew from young to old. Lifted them up when I first learnt to walk, clapped in joy once you knew one step two became three then four. At night by my bedside tales you would read, to send me to pleasant dreams and keep the monsters away from me.
My hand in yours as we walked my first day to nursery, the joy in your eyes when I returned to your arms. Then school days came, infants and primary how you wished the years would stop and your little baby I’d always be.
We’d sing songs and makeup games, your records played and I’d sing along, summer fun or winter long , if I fell in your arms you’d carry me and say don’t worry the pain will soon be gone.
Once I came of age no longer you but friends of mine to school I followed, in the background you was always there, encouraging and helping me along, when they made me cry, in you I knew there’d comfort be.
Now all things change roles reversed no more growing pains, summer games have all but ended my life now I live as you watch and advice give whenever I seek.
The joy in your eyes when ere you laugh, and the moons silver rays light up your hair throughout the night. Now tis my turn to hold your hands though slight with age, still oh so strong, the fear I hide deep down inside, because it won’t be long for the mournful song.
Listen to my voice and be at peace, remember the nights of those years now past, of how you’d rock me off to sleep.
Rest on, pain no more just peaceful dreams, and when you open them once more your little child I shall be, fingers entwined as you oh so gently hold my hand.
By
Patrick D
Fire flies : Glow worms in warm glow
Glistening Glowing Glittering
Sparkling shining twinkling blinking
Slipping on dense bushes, upon mass of mossy grass
Flickering ! Fantastic spectacular show at night :
Amazing awesome unique scene.
Marvellous Miraculous non parallel dancing display
in own specific whimsical fashionable approach in dazzling design
An Ecstatic Etherial scenario on preparation
of sacred funeral of cluster of d lovely fireflies
in sublime solitude : Self immolation
to divinity : Bright lifestyle of fireflies
He said, "Where ever you break down, call me, and I will come to get you".
One day he picked me up, and I was taken aback when I saw an open can of Beer. When I mentioned it to him, he said to me, "You worry too much".
He told me things in private that I would not repeat, and he said things publicly when we were together that sometimes embarrassed me, but I would not trade my friendship with Al for anything.
It appears that Al had lost faith in Christians and organized religion, but he believed in God, and he believed in me. I was free to let Al be Al, and he was the same toward me. Al was clean, neat, transparent, unpretentious, unmasked, and free.
Al was an opened book easily read and overwhelmingly interesting
to anyone who loved novels. I must confess that I do not like novels,
but I loved every page of Al's true-life story. No, I do not miss Al's foul
language, his heavy drinking, or his bitterness, but I miss some awful
my dear friend Al, vintage Al, the genuine article, the real McCoy. Yes,
I miss his great mechanical abilities which served me well for some
20 years, but I miss his honesty more. Al knew his limits and always
stayed between the lines with me.
Prior to Al's passing, I had never attended a funeral without masks.
In other words, his funeral was also an open book, a mirror reflecting
vintage Al. I tell you, my life was enriched by the friendship of Al.
070220PS
In Shallow Hours, graves are dug
By words morose,
Their hollow powers seem mundane,
But are much worse.
Being Lonely in a crowded room,
With empty words
Muttered by survivors;
Whose frosty breath in time,
With second hand,
Will still ones heart with breach of mind
From gestures grand;
So gentle souls as we,
Will speak no more about it.
This too shall pass as melancholy.
Whispered mischief of the gods;
The poisoned fruit of folly.
As seasons run their course;
Whose touch so coarse,
Flow unrefined.
A baking of our Maker's choice,
Upon which we have dined.
Too many courses chose
Again, the Blackened Rose.
Life without salience
For such as those.
Naked She,
No longer seductress,
Temptress to youth
Our lives attempt atone.
Experienced eyes, now show revealed;
A Harlot to the bone.
What drug could so impair?
What game be more unfair?
What beauty in beholder's eye,
Less rare?
False Gods flail.
Chariot wheels on ipad screens
In most minute detail.
Now kiss your new God
Soft upon His cheek
And in a moment, through Alexa,
He may speak.