Long Hearses Poems
Long Hearses Poems. Below are the most popular long Hearses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hearses poems by poem length and keyword.
Blue Cheese and Old Pickles Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
A dish of disappointment
mocks the kitchen chef
two anomalies sitting on his cutting board
all in their glory, dumbfounded
... and unappetizing
plated for aliens and not humans
or for a horse that doesn’t know better
this recipe’s giving him the blues and he’s seeing red
where …
his yellow brick road has two strangers today
two lost food groups
arriving earlier in hearses
a funeral procession
mythically carrying the deceased to his kitchen foyer
… some blue cheese and an old dill
that are down for an undressing
of his bitter words
like, fudge, where’s the beef
… or better yet Mars is up there
as a cloud of despair hovers over the kitchen
not a spaceship as one might think
darkness begetting light
salt, pepper and garnishes spooked
… a ready barf bag crashes this meal
Covid Christmas © 2020
by Bob Moore
T’was a month before Christmas, And all through the town,
People wore masks which covered their frown.
The frown had begun, way back in the spring,
When a global pandemic had changed everything.
They called it corona, But unlike the beer,
It didn’t bring good times, it didn’t bring cheer.
Contagious and deadly, this virus spread fast,
Like a wildfire that starts, when fuelled by gas.
Airplanes were grounded, travel was banned.
Borders were closed, across air, sea and land.
As the world entered lockdown, to flatten the curve
The economy halted, and folks lost their verve.
From March to July, we rode the first wave,
People stayed home, they tried to behave.
When summer emerged, the lockdown was lifted.
But away from the caution, many folks drifted.
Now it’s November, and cases are spiking,
Wave two has arrived, much to our disliking.
Frontline workers, doctors and nurses,
Try to save people, from riding in hearses
Bob Moore
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a brave warrior's jawbone or armor.
I held the hand of Jesus last night,
He woke me this morning and we looked outside.
Scratchy records played protest songs from
The 60’s, as hearses rolled by, filled with forgotten
dreams….”you can burn that paper box, boy, but
you still gotta show”
I dropped out, then got drafted, I told him…when
I came home, It wasn’t first class, you can’t breathe
oxygen in a box, stacked with my mates in the bowels
of the plane….
Now…… I like to pretend no one fights anymore,
everyone sings songs of love, pleasing to the old
trees, swaying in peace…..
Sunshine streamed upon
this page just now!
just this moment!
........my pen
shadows to the right of this word….I’m lighter now,
brighter,
……..brighter
03/18/11
6:49 pm
© All Rights Reserved
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and Grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets....
We walked away from our class,
Drank our coffees on the grass,
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a grey love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
The grey scrawny pubes made us ha-ha,
We gave the grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death......
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!!
Boys turned into men
Acting chivalry needing to defend
Thackray who never was
Due to the wasp woman wanting buzz
Gunners waited for Watford to arrive
“Foul!” they did claim in a cry
On target goal after the penalty try
Followed by one then another
Sunday’s mother
Agree those went in
Later on Arsenal committed an innocent sin
Deeny connected
Shot was not protected
Three one at the break
Story brewing about the yellow jacket relegation wake
Being well back
Singing stingers put together an attack
Calling upon Danny to give a whack
A nice song he did bellow
Not enough to save the hives, dear fellow
For the longest time
In her own mind
Mrs. Harris
Just home from Paris
Thackray did not cause any trouble
There was no reason to blow any bubbles
As time ticked away
Grealish earned his claret blue army pay
Slicking it through the post
Mrs. Harris a few seconds later returned the gesture with a kind toast
A draw
Was the call
And Aston’s Villa would not be sold
Since they did not fold
“Send down the Honey Cherry Buzz flavor”
Second tier league requested as a favor
Mr. Bourne with toffee candy in the mouth
His cherries ready to head south
But today he enjoyed a sweet victory taste
Wasn’t showing ill feelings or haste
Instead filled with Goodison’s grace
Citizens on the other hand made the canaries look like nothing
Man City netting five which was something
Four sixes were on the executive level table
Two were issued to pensioners writing a Chelsea fable
While the Red Devils had a pair
Enough to scare
That pesky fox
Now having respectable stock
“Worry about a single commitment next year
And enjoy that cheer”
Was the message
About priority addressing
As for Thackray, the west ham
Romantically united Mrs. Harris succeeded in her plan
Next time a gale force winds come through
Infecting play asking ‘what are you gonna do?”
Do not put the season in the hearses
Just be sporty write creative poetic rhyming verses
The End
I worry that my coat will murder me.
Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark.
I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting,
hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator,
ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet.
From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched,
the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void.
The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap.
Snap.
Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves;
babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death.
My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket,
socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary.
Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand.
(Competition title: No 1299)
~~FEAR IS A WEAPON~~
To steal the calmness from your
soul's calm vibrations.
Thus~ stop listening to the news.
A fear mongering sensation!
We eat and swallow it whole,
like a fresh apple off a tree.
Then we contact our friends, we
make fear, their commanding reality.
Agreement on fear and our end is
near, you will f'ind here in far too
many verses.
Instead of our dreaming of bright
tomorrows, we dream of black hearses.
It's so insane to believe all these
medical lies.
The no honor news, makes people think
we are dying like flies.
The co-morbidity numbers of deaths
are mostly unknown.
And one TV channel, posts the
numbers 24/7, more than a tad overblown.
The vaccine, people, wake up,
will not save your ****!
Nor the mask police, the biggest, most
obnoxious farce.
Do your own wise research and read
between the lines.
You will find the TV numbers, skewed,
and the recovery rate is quite high!
September 22, 2020
7:30pm PST
Is this a picture
of the crumbling edge of a new day
or a snapshot of its departure?
I photograph daylight
as it leaks into the plastic hearses
of empty bottles.
Moths undaunted by a sickly sun
turn carnivorous, seeking morsels
of whiff and wisps.
The world keeps wearing its clothes
though there is less of everything,
colorless rags hang up
along thorny margins.
The earth wallows
within waveless mists and shadows.
All is gray and astray,
the way an old man’s peppery hair
is whipped by an ashen air
funneled through hollow lands.
Somewhere
beneath an unseen horizon
scarecrows croon
over sunflower bones.
With its silvery veil the moon's pallid sheen
Spectrally cloaks and invests all the homes
Transformed into midnight mausoleums
While those who sleep within can never be seen
As cold as the tomb
As miserable as a morgue
As silent as the grave
As the sheathing of a sword.
The dark shades of night unfold
Where they lie deep shrouded in their beds
Dreams dance lively in their heads
While they look like bodies cold.
Closed to all are the eyes of their resting places
Blinded to outside view
Wrapped in night's dark blue
But within their still frames R.E.M races
Outside in the gloom wreathed like hearses
Stand their silent polished cars in rows
In preparation for sadder blows
When funereal will be the verses.