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.
They asked me to carry you to your final place,
I said I’d be honoured with a smile on my face.
But now the times here and I’m in the line,
I’m fighting to breathe brother, I’m not doing fine.
The tears in my eyes make things all a haze, I look to my mam she can tell and holds my gaze.
I can do this for you bro this last big thing,
So I turned to face you and the music started to sing. I carry your weight and yet you feel light, Are you even in there brother this just doesn’t feel right.
You should be with me out riding my bike, you should be teaching me about girls and going on that hike.
But instead I walk you down to your final place,
The wreathes all lined up and there’s a frame of your face.
We cry and we laugh speaking about when times were greater, I’ll miss you big brother this is not goodbye..it’s see you later.
The mocking is shocking
Aunty Mavis stopped rocking
Then mourners were flocking
A cavalcade blocking
The streets of South Dorking
Rumours and talking
Like vultures out squawking
Proportionate baulking
Reputation ignoring
So boring, I'm snoring
The eulogy diction
Precise in it's fiction
The perfect life stitched on
Close the sale, get the pitch done
Now the coffin is sliding
The red curtain slow gliding
Velvet box soon residing
On a mantle piece hiding
It's a travesty clearly
Distant relatives merely
Hanging round for a number
Pass the bread and cucumber
Social etiquette blunder
Now poor Mave is asunder
The circus is closing
Uncle Sid is left dozing
With sandwiches curling
The world keeps on whirling
Lesson learned: be a spender
Be a builder, defender
A love fight contender
Not reciever, but sender
All that thrift doesn't render
A relationship mender
Remember, remember
God decides where to send ya
When it's goodnight Vienna
Sam Scott
24th September 2023
A stitch past nine on borrowed time,
the memories come rushing back
The Wolf is feasting in Grandma’s bed,
Red Riding Hood a snack
A Cow gets ready to jump again,
when the moon drops from the sky
Humpty Dumpty a mess on the floor,
—the last horseman says goodbye
The candle burns for Jack’s last jump,
a quickening funeral pyre
The stepmother screams, Cinderella hides,
her daughter’s dress on fire
Little Jack Horner abandons his corner,
curds harden and whey runs aground
As Mother Goose watches the Grimm Brothers die,
—not a child in sight to be found
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
ORDERING MUSIC MISSALS RESULTED IN TWO FAMILY MEMBERS DEATH AFTER CONTACTING AMAZON WHO SENT US THE WRONG BOOKS OUR IDENTITY WAS COMPRMISED NEEDLESS TO SAY THE HACKERS WERE A PART OF THE STALKERS OBSEESED WITH MY POETRY EXPOSING OUR CREDIT CARD INFORMATION FALSIFYING DOCUMENTS THE NATURE OF THE BEAST COMMITING HOME INVASIONS HACKING INTO YOUR PRIVATE HOME COMPUTERS FINALLY YOUR POETRY ON YOUR NIGHT STAND YOUR AMAZON ACCOUNTS YOUR PURCHASES EVERYTIME YOU PURCHASE A BOOK FROM AMAZON YOU'RE HACKED SELLERS SEND YOU BOOKS WITH LITERATURE INSIDE A PROGRAM FROM A FUNERAL YOU'RE DED FREDDY TODAYS MISSAL LATER A CLOSE FAMILY MEMBER FRED IS DEAD JUAN IS DEAD THEE NATURE OF THIS KIND OF DATA BREACH LEAVING SHOE PRINTS ON YOUR FLOOR I BOUGHT NEW LOCKS THROUGH AMAZON ALL HACKED THE KEYS ALREADY DUPLICATED TO ALLOW ACCESS INTO YOUR HOME INCLUDING YOUR RING SECURITY CAM CYBERATTACKERS YOU BELONG TO THE SELLERS WHO SELLS YOU THERE BOOKS FROM AMAZON REST IN PEACE FRED AND JUAN I AM SO SORRY YOUR DEATHS WERE PLOTTED PLANNED BY THESE HACKERS TERRORIZING MY LIFE OVER MY AMERICAN POETRY GOD BLESS AMERICA CYBERATTACKS ARE REAL DATA BREACHES HURT PEOPLE TRULY NO FEAR OF YOUR TWISTED IDENTITY FRAUD IDENTITY THEFT IMPERSONATING ME IN ORLANDO RECIEVING MEDICAL TREATMENT HACKING INTO MY LIFE ASSISTING MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBANDS BUY CRACK COCIANE WITH ACCOMPLICE JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY OBSESSED WITH MY AMERICAN POETRY OBSSESSED WITH BEING ME AN FBI INFORMANT HOW TWISTED IS THAT WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI WAS NOT JOKE IT DEVASTATED MY VERY BEING SADLY ABUSE OF POWER FEELS THE NEED TO DRAG FBI INFORMANTS OVER THE RUBBLES TO HELP COVER ONE OF THEIR OWN COMMITING IDENTITY PERPUTRATING FRAUD AGAINST ME AND MY DISABLED FAMILY ANTHONY AND YOLANDA CATHOLIC WAR VETERANS GOD BLESS AMERICA
The perfect painting, for Me,
is always in my memory
Coming home from school, looking for Mommy
Down the creaking wooden staircase
In the soggy basement, was She
Painting a masterpiece
Smiling up at me
My Mother was an artist
So, I too, went to art school
The Professor then told me, "there's nothing we can teach you."
So the best of times painting,
I remember with my Brother
I created A woman with long, flowing hair
When my Brother fell ill
Her face grew muddled
Or painting together, with my first Love
I painted a sensual nude
and gave the painting away
After his Funeral
Painting can be Bittersweet
Reliving all Life's memories
Or dreaming of passions
Long since past
The perfect painting
Will never last
We await the daily mail delivery with eager anticipation.
Alas, today came another batch of worthless information!
Of course there were the usual bills that arrive without fail,
But where's the check that guy promised would be in the mail?
We've received more return mailing labels than we'll ever use.
How our names got on their mailing lists, I have no clues.
To top it all, a summons for jury duty was today received.
Now that really ruined my day and left me sorely aggrieved!
A startling piece of mail from a realtor wanting to sell the house.
Thinking I had something to do with that really upset my spouse!
A blatant ad from a vinyl siding contractor wanting to make a sell.
Interesting we should receive that since in a brick house we dwell!
Another envelope had alarming news from the local funeral home.
Do they know something we don't know about a trip to the Celestial Dome?
Our life insurance company sent their usual annual birthday greeting,
Breathing a sigh of relief that our hearts are both still beating!
Lord have mercy and deliver us from this onerous perdition!
Curtailing this stuff would certainly improve our disposition.
On the computer I can simply stop such stuff by clicking 'delete'.
Oh, for such a simple system to make junk mail less replete!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Who are you to question why I write!
My thoughts laid bare in each scribbled line,
penned by me through my vision... My sight!
There are parts of me you could never define!
My opinions are mine, that is my right!
Do not scorn me with ideas you push upon me!
It is I who will decide to acquiesce or to fight,
or, perhaps, to pay homage to a flower or tree.
Within this humble self, I am the wright!
Like the florist, or the painter I am the creator!
My beauty and sorrow I pen, be it dawn or midnight,
or share my thoughts on Mrs.Ginsburg--Ruth Bader!
I think of the virus and each funeral rite,
of Hong Kong and Thailand, and freedom's cost,
but within me lingers beauty, and the pain of love's plight!
For me, without soul's solace, I fear society is lost!
10/18/2020
It was sunny the day our hearts broke away.
A decade has passed—but some wounds ignore clocks.
The news bloomed like bruises on a nation’s chest.
Shoreham stood still.
Time forgot how to move.
Eleven men.
Men of mornings and small routines.
Lunchboxes. Laughter. Motorbikes.
Some had children. Others were children—still.
And one…
one kept wildflowers on his phone.
Too shy to say, “This made me think of you.”
There’s no symmetry to this grief.
It leans sideways and doesn’t apologise.
It smells like engine oil and funeral flowers.
It hums in the throat of widows and mothers,
grows moss in the cracks of pub tables,
clings to the wings of the plane that didn’t stop.
Somewhere, a bottle of red remains uncorked.
Somewhere, a bike rests against a wall no one will move.
Somewhere, wildflowers still bloom—
and someone remembers
the man who loved flight,
but stayed grounded
for everyone but himself.
Still.
Author’s Note:
For the eleven lives lost on 22 August 2015 at Shoreham:
Dylan Archer, Richard Smith, James Mallinson, Mark Trussler,
Matt Jones, Matthew Grimstone, Jacob Schilt, Daniele Polito,
Tony Brightwell, Mark Reeves, Maurice Abrahams.
You are remembered.
Dear Editor,
I won’t let you stand on my throat—
Stifle my compassion,
Weigh down my shoulders
With a chip — not sweet like chocolate,
But sharp like ice.
Not from the old block,
But cracked from the freeze
You placed in my bones.
You guillotine my fire
And return me only grief.
Dear Editor,
I know your job is important—
But is it louder than the truth
That begs to be heard?
Just because a stanza doesn’t touch you,
Or it ends without rhyme or convention,
Does that make it any less real?
Dear Editor,
Please see the substance beneath the design.
We poets are crucified
For daring to call out—
For letting our voices
Tremble, burn, and bleed.
Dear Editor,
I once wrote about loss
So heavy, it cracked the sky.
A plane fell — and a friend was gone.
And I wrote it raw.
And I sent it whole.
And it came back with silence.
Maybe the timing was wrong,
But the pain was right.
Dear Editor,
I beseech you:
Look into your heart,
And look at the piece.
Admire the craft,
But let truth ring through.
Then maybe more of the unheard,
The undervalued,
And the unpolished
Will shine, too.
Homeless I lived,
without even a marked territory
to claim as my own!
How I wished I had access
to a mattress to lay my weary body
or a ceiling under my head!
But I had no place to be in
I have slept in roach infested tunnels,
under bridges and doorways,
walked alone through city streets-
a shadow lost in the absence of light.
In the night I have walked through empty streets
where feral cats and dogs, stalked.
During day, people would walk past me
Looking away as if I were a plague
Amid the crowd, I searched for a kind face
But I could see none.
Sometimes, a hand would occasionally toss
a coin or two into the begging bowl by my side.
In the absence of a marked territory,
I kept walking from place to place,
until my muscles ached and my legs
refused to budge an inch or take another step.
I lived poor, so poor, a lost soul in every way.
When I died, my body was wheeled in a hearse,
with a few following me, with hesitant steps,
more as a custom than a gesture true.
The open gates of the walled cemetery,
allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave.
In a remote corner it stood,
close to an overgrown hedge,
among many a mound that bore no name on it.
Oh, the indigent and the lonely
are destined to huddle together
in death under the sod
with their identities merged
into a single clan!
My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
and as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
the distinctions of rank
extend down unto dust
and follow one like a faithful mongrel
While the rich lie in mausoleums
and in tombs with their names engraved on marble slabs,
think of the many, mere chaff in other’s eyes
who, in life or death, are never fated to be in marked territory!
A torn page from life’s tome!
A story ended and deleted forever!
When I died a queen in ancient Egypt it was the custom,
To entomb the powerful with all their earthly wealth;
On the walls of my tomb were paintings depicting my journey,
The entrance to my vast tomb was sealed with a scared carving.
In hieroglyphs it warned of my magical and demonic powers,
In pictures and symbols the writing told of my dark secret;
The seal of my tomb was to never be broken- the writing stated clearly,
Tomb invaders could not understand the puzzle writing of hieroglyphs.
They broke the seal and entered my resting place with awe,
Touching all my sacred things and filled their bags with gold;
Casting aside the sheets of papyrus on which my funeral text was written,
My coffin was opened- it was silent in the tomb as light touched the walls.
The invaders did not respect the dead it seemed and I was angry,
They were excited with rummaging and did not notice the air;
That changed with electricity and I rose a hologram of the queen I was,
And with me came my beloved leopards who killed the invaders quickly.
We left my tomb- beautiful holograms of evil to exist again . . .
____________________________
May 1, 2016
Poetry/Verse/When I Died
Copyright Protected, ID 784-551-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Any Poem You Wrote This Year 2016,
sponsor, Skat
Fifth Place