Long Living dead Poems
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Association of the Living Dead Republicans
In India, several years ago
A man falsely claimed his brother
Was dead so he could inherit the family assets,
The dead brother had to fight
To be declared legally not dead
And contest the will.
“The Association of the Living Dead”
Became a movement
Of thousands of people.
For in India apparently,
It was a thing to declare
Your relative is dead.
I never thought
That the US would have
To form their own
“The Association of the Living Dead”
Until this week.
The cyber ninjas
In their infamous non-forensic audit
In the 2016 Arizona election
Claimed that hundreds of dead people
Had voted.
They gave their list of the alleged dead voters
To the attorney general
Who contact all 300 dead people
Found that 299 of the 300 were in fact
Not dead and none of them knew
That unnamed political operative
We’re claiming that they were dead.
The one dead voter was alive
when he voted early.
But died before election day
Thus making his vote not valid
But there was no fraud involved
As he was alive when he voted.
Perhaps they need to form
The “association of the living dead”
To fight for the right of the non-dead people
To continue to vote and receive other government benefits?
What a sad commentary
On the farcical nature
Of contemporary life
In these disunited States of America.
Born unto the White race with no hood over my face
I see the rainbow in everyone’s eyes
Why? I ask God, why all the lies?
Some may think I bleed green
But that only happens in my dreams
When my skin burns, I turn red
‘Specially when faced with the living dead
Free yourself, while you still can
That is what I said to the sad man
Who eats rubbish from the badlands
Whose freedom is sleeping on park benches
Or screaming obscenities' from behind white picket fences
Suckin’ on brews about the Good News
That the Lord is gonna save us from our sins
And we can keep on chewin’ in the pews
Spittin’ our cud on those who refuse
To believe in the Lord of the One who knew
That we’re kursed with a sky the color of blue
We steal from the mouths of strangers,
pluck vowels like fruit from someone else's tree,
and call it harvest.
Call it homage.
The dead speak louder than we do,
their sentences polished smooth by a thousand tongues,
worn into grooves we trace with our own breath.
I lift a phrase like lifting a stone from a river,
still wet with another writer's meanings,
and press it into the architecture of my own grief.
"To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
But whose mind?
Whose death?
The words belong to everyone now,
to no one, a key passed hand to hand until the metal warms,
until we forget who first turned the lock.
Perhaps all poetry is borrowed,
each word a ghost we summon,
each line a seance where the living learn to speak
in the voices of those who wrote the world before us.
I’m afraid of dying young
Of leaving things yet undone
I’m afraid I’ll leave this place
Yet not leave a single trace
I’m afraid I haven’t said
All that lives inside my head
I’m afraid I’ll disappear
And no one will hold me dear.
I’m afraid I’ve yet to touch
The hearts of those I love so much
I’m afraid I’ll never see
Who it is I’m meant to be
I’m afraid, for can’t you see?
Not much time is left for me.
I’m afraid, oh, I’m afraid
Soon I’ll lie silent in my grave…
With my stories yet untold
With my dreams yet to unfold
With my songs yet unsung
With my words yet on my tongue
With my passion tucked away
With no more prayers left to pray
I’m afraid……
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don't be afraid of dying young
of leaving things as yet undone
for don't you know that fear will kill
and you'll be left without the thrill
of living life, that's full and free
and making dreams your destiny
Don't be afraid of things unsaid
but rather fear not having bled
it's true once said, the words can sting
but then perhaps, much joy they'll bring
Then find the strength to give them voice
your life will bloom, by will, by choice.
Don't be afraid to reach and touch
the one you love....so very much
for though rejection be the price
just take that chance and roll the dice
A touch might turn to an embrace
and kisses then may grace your face.
Don't be afraid to dream your dreams
For heaven then much closer seems
And death is but a little sleep
while you yet live, why do you weep?
Don't be afraid of dying, dear
then you won't live because of fear
So spread your wings and take to flight
Soar high above, towards the light
Listen close, to one like me
You can be all you're meant to be
So do not fear the silent grave
Live life today, be strong and brave
There's nothing worse than living...dead
Because there's fear inside your head
So live each day up to the brim
follow each wish, each dream, each whim
and you will chase the fear away
Oh, little one, hear what I say.....
Don't ever be afraid......
For Silent One's Response to First Poem Contest
September 28, 2015
Have you ever raised above the static in your head
And wondered
Am I really alive or living dead
For fear to tread
Of going to bed
And reciting prayer's
In ever increasing realms of despair
Doth anyone care
That life is not fair
And the cross for whom to bear
Is those at whom we stare
In derision and quiet contrition
While nothing changes
Waiting for angels
We buy our answers
In well marketed shinny parcels
Going out tonight
I know I will see no end in sight
Of modern delight
Where being polite
Is so contrite
But if i do not try
Am I not perpetuating the lie
That the static in my head
Is both alive and dead
Along with a haunting horde trick-a-treating
Dressed as ghosts, ghouls and goblins,
Dancing dwarfs and teetering giants,
Despicable despots and snarling demons,
Pirates, warlords and mercenaries,
Blood-sucking vampires and wolverines,
Dracula, zombies and Frankenstein,
Skeletons, Spiderman and scarecrows,
Walking deads or the Grim Reaper,
Pretty princesses or the wicked witches,
We too tagged along with this
wild and weird looking carnival,
Hiding our sinister thoughts
and evil designs behind
our smiling Joker's masks
to garner the most candies and toys
with our macabre charm!
Very much so as in our mundane lives
Each morn after a fitful night,
We put on the masks of
good cheers and civility,
Hiding the day's concerns and care,
Envy, hate and jealousy
behind a hypocritical smile and keen dress.
But on this eerie night of Halloween,
We get to let our masks down for a while!
~"Halloween Poem" contest by Carol Eastman
This could be a true story
Before I'm through you'll feel that way
I sit on a bench beneath the shade
In the park eating lunch most everyday
It's been going on two weeks now
That I've watched that girl walk by
Normally a plain girl like her
Would never have caught my eye
But there was something about her
That for days I could not grasp
The look of anticipation that she had
Didn't match the hesitation in her step
You see there's this P.O. Box in the park
On the far upper east side
After visiting she would leave each day
With disappointment as her guide
Without really knowing her
I can't be sure of what it is she's looking for
Perhaps a letter from a lover
Or a husband off to war
But this day it was different
As she reached her hand inside
Pulling out that for which she had waited
What now seems like all her life
With a look of total elation
She jumped up and down awhile
The joy beyond contagious
I could not help but break into a smile
No longer in her step, the hesitation
She tore at the envelope with anticipation
On the bench next to me she sat
At the turn of her life's transformation
The first tear it dropped and found its mark
Upon the pages as she read
A world oblivious to the pain inside
As the birds chirped overhead
Disappointment came back to guide her
So much had changed since it last held her hand
This time life it held no purpose
As she strolled away, the living dead
She left behind the tear stained note
Dare I even try
To gaze into the only clue
Of this now tragic life
As I reached out for the letter
A breeze blew in from the South
And took with it that longing clue
To what this tragedy was all about
Nowadays I sit here on this lonely bench
I never saw that girl again
But my mind often goes back and wonders
About the letter and what it held within
She wails to your soul
The coming of pain
The black fairy appears
Voice of the undead
in the darkness
Waking through the mind
Piercing my inner most shell
Bringing the death of you
Pure heart turns black cold
I slowly open my eyes
The nightmare begins
To fade
Let me see the colour of light
My soul covers
the heart in white
To stop the rot of hell
Saving it in times
of darkness
The shield of protection
In black its bound
to roam this earth
Forever more
One soul passes
the graveyard of life
Passing through fairyland
Colours a blur
the heart begins to beat
searching with the eyes
in living dead
This body numb with pain
a dusting of light appears
angel rays
appear through the cracks
dark horse detects
the vampire's grave
Leaches sucking
what's left
crossing the undead hell
a zombie
I feel my pulse
there is always hope
Dark horse rears
on his front legs
slowly standing
on his feet
the mood changes
the banshee
heads straight to hell
With the coachman
of death on her tail
rattling passed
Two ivory coloured
headless horses
leading the carriage
straight to hell
Dumping the darkness
into a bottomless pit
locked away
in the dungeons
no more to see light
I found you love
dark becomes light
colours everywhere
my eyes wide open
my hands outstretched
Raising them high
to the heaven's
no more the fool
the banshee buried deep
in protection
of my heart
in the hope
she wails no more
Far away a distant thought
some say she lives in the pain
not heaven's light
barred to the darkness
where she never sleeps.
Years gone by I photographed
The sun rise and set, capturing
Kaleidoscopic colors cascading
Dawn to dusk across the untouchable touch
Of God’s unfathomably deep skies.
Overlooking cathedral towers and
Ancient battle fields where blood flowed warm and red;
Church steeples standing sentinel over cemeteries
Of the long ago lovely, now dreaming and drifting past
Stadiums over-filled with laughing, languishing, living dead sentient beings;
Museums, libraries and roads connecting and converging
Past, present, future and all points infinitely between.
In my mind I photographed these.
But now I sit devoid of film,
No camera lens to capture stills
Other than this life I’ve led
Step by step inside my head from
Life to life and death to death,
Ever so thankful for every flower, seed, smile
And whisper of gentle wind upon my face.
Step by timeless step, inching towards the inevitable rendezvous
Of who I really am, knowing
Somewhere between the light of day and dark of night
I’m bound
To end up where I began: With ONE
Eternal Photograph in Hand.
With all the new ones returned from eternity, a cohort of bewitched fates,
we'll long through the spell of forgetting, the tiny ones with giants' shades,
sad avatars with grins of joy, the graveyards blooming bright,
mountains with a view toward the sea from inverted mirror's sight,
the many words gone silent, the mute ones crying out in spectral echoes
to bring us memory from the future past, just for a day
white-as-the-night, a necklace made of crystal tears, the summer wise
insane for the first eternal time, from peak-abyss, a flood
of drought, asthenic evening electric, maidenhood's path-wise,
floating burden of your mind heavy as smoke, from a
spring buried in August that was forgotten-remembered,
like before that winter wise demented in my mind
burning with astral ice, temperature without degree, curvature
without angle, a sacred parody of healing sickness, appendix
yellow-violet of autumn living-dead, of your hysterical
zen leaf that dances ritual on the dead branch full of sap...
Pun hard as water, vapor made of stone, fog curly-smooth,
amor of alchemical longing, magic council of pithecanthrope
illuminated priests, sweet pain from priceless wealth, dowry stolen
by fairies, story-truth, of her hair's arrow-crests,
with cursed grace, but causeless gift, my nocturnal spark
diurnal, with you-phantom, alone in crowds, on a sky
of earth with private-public stars, in total part,
to me and you and no one, the eye-full fate blind-seeing
in cubes of hot ice baked-raw like burnt honey,
of your mute desire for whispers like thunder in the fullness of silence...