Long Obits Poems
Long Obits Poems. Below are the most popular long Obits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Obits poems by poem length and keyword.
The alarm blasts me awake
From a fitful night’s sleep,
Another day of bills to pay
And promises to keep.
Dropping Patanol in my eyes
As I attempt to slowly rise,
Feeling disparate deja vus
As my morning coffee brews.
And I make a mental note
To try and get more sleep
Then just as quickly forget
As I leave the room to eat.
Sitting at the breakfast table
Where I find that I am able,
To spend a few, quick minutes,
And rummage through the obits.
Is there someone I know?
And then right before I go,
Count how many are my age
Before I put down the page.
And I make a mental note
To eat less and workout more
Then just as quickly forget
As I rush out the door.
I arrive at my job.
Turn my office doorknob,
Begin my daily routine
Taking breaks in between.
And my boss storms in mad
Says “You did something bad!”
And I make a mental note
To do better next time
Then just as quickly forget
When I leave at closing time.
Returning home feeling famished
I notice some damage
To the roof and the doors
And the siding and floors.
And the gutters are hanging
And the shutters are banging.
And I make a mental note
To make time for repairs.
Then just as quickly forget
As I climb the porch stairs.
I finally make it inside
And after eating decide
To relax in the den
Before my favorite show begins
Then I notice God’s Word
On the table undisturbed.
And I make a mental note
To take time to read God’s Word. . .
Hey, wait! I can do this now!
So, I open up God’s Word
“faith follows the thing heard”
And I understand the hope
That allows us all to cope
And I make a mental note
To read, meditate and pray.
The Holy Bible gives us courage
So we can face another day!
Our aging- how we reckon it depends
on where we are in life that given time.
The preteen celebrates to reach thirteen-
and then at twenty-one- cheers with a beer!
The border crossed at thirty is not dire;
most times adulthood has matured by then.
But hitting forty bodes a turning point-
the trip to middle age will soon proceed.
For most, the age of fifty earns a prize
for reaching one half-century of age.
When sixty comes- retirement's in view;
then seventy- that's when the worries start.
That aging stage- a topic shared by friends-
comparing ailments, meds- physicians too.
Scanning obits- enduring mournful wakes;
attending nursing homes- as case, or guest.
This phase of aging- not the same for all;
health issues strongly shape how long we live.
Through every step, we pray to stay robust;
live best each treasured day- one at a time.
June 6, 2019
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest: Aging
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Judged: 06/26/2019
To glorify the leading star he obits the big named performer
with blank face in shabby clothing and for his part is so minute
it doesn’t matter whether he exists or not.
Although, he falls under the sword with gushing blood,
killed by a single gun shot without a word, or dies
by a thrusting spear with a short groan, no one cares
to cry for his tragic death, because he has no name, no tomb.
A day of extra’s life is to learn how to wait and to survive
through one day at a time. He roams around the studio patiently
for his given day and, while roaming around the empty studio
he becomes a dim shadow under the darkening sky,
and when the sky getting darker and darker he follows the sets
with a moon, with the stars, to the location where the scenery
that is to shot and glorify the big name, as the truckloads that
move along in a long formed line.
If you spend a day in Hades, it will shorten a day of given life.
For death is proof of the contrary to the living, and waiting game
is the part of extra’s life, though the life seemed to be worthless, and therefore, no cast of a play is given for his sake, the extra, the leftover life, also is the existing being until he falls under the sword, killed from a single bullet, trusted to die by a spear.
WHAT IS THE POINT
What is the point?A comment so
often made,a question in some
bored moment.A reflection to pass
away some dull moments ‘til something
other provides a momentary distraction
to fill the mind with a temporal
train of thought.Soon the question
is then forgotten.Life is too short
is it not?Yes it is,pick up the ‘obits’
read the news,watch the straplines
on the twenty-four hour news.Yes
life is often very short for some!
The question then becomes so
acute and relevant.What is the
point?The point,dear friend is to
find the answer to living.What
is that you ask?To turn back to
your maker and live out His unique
design.He created you.That is the point!
Listen to me recite this and my anthology of poetry on youtube under name ichthyschiro
Two friends from far-off Mumbai
Used to interact in the media
With me, one always supportive
The other invariably vituperative
Both are now silent and mum
Since many days, quite unlike them
That made me over-curious
To probe their Facebook pages
Alas, the guys haven’t posted
Anything in the last couple of years
Where have they vanished?
God forbid the scary thought
And then here is another guy
He is getting admitted he informs
In a hospital for a minor procedure
Hopes to return soon to our midst
With his latest literature
His children then write the next day
On his wall, he has flown away
There is a social media site
Which publishes news
About my locality and surrounds
Mostly death news it carries
Of those in their sixties, seventies and eighties
With their pictures and family details
Some faces are familiar
Others difficult to recapture
Media has done distance away
Obits are the order of the day
Tailored for both the well-known and unknown
Tears and folded hands abound
To be forgotten before the Moon completes a round
The octogenarian me looks around
Misses several faces known from childhood
Time has levelled the ground
Palmyras of yore have gone
Unfamiliar foliage now abounds
That is life, boy!
My bones creak philosophically
Lemme raise a toast
To all those who meant
Something to my being
Biding time
Till another page opens up
Before my closing eyes
To a landscape
Of towering palmyras
Swinging their long hair
Like Arab ladies of the Gulf
In a frenzied swaying dance
When I’m away The New York Times
Gets piled beside my door.
(For longer trips, I hang a bag
To keep them off the floor.)
I read them all when I get back,
In order that they came,
Enjoying news that’s “old;” at least,
That’s what some people claim.
I likely know the bare bones
Of most stories and their stars
From radio and news shows.
(I’ve been gone, but not to Mars!)
Still, there’s so much in the details
A reporter gets to break
That it’s worth a read days later
(And to me, it’s never “fake!”).
So I’m catching up on articles
And crosswords and obits
And until I’m where I should be,
I will never call it quits!
Memorial Day 2025
Soon Memorial day will be upon us once more,
And unhappy memories of the past will be excavated again.
My younger Brother was a highly decorated soldier
rising to the rank of Master Sergeant in his twenty-three years.
He did four tours in Vietnam and each time he came home
I could see a change. After he retired he just drove away
from the house one evening and never returned. For thirty
years family searched the internet, contacted the Army and once
after a family death we had to send our letters to them
and they in turn forwarded them to him for his signature.
We had no family problems or ill will at all. He abandoned
his family and his four children also. He just chose to
live alone for whatever reason. Only God knows why.
Another brother who had cancer couldn’t sleep one night
and thought he’d search one last time. He found his name
in the obits where he had died that week and was in a
mortuary in Texas. I contacted them and was told
he had a power of attorney and would give her my number.
She did call and I assured her that we wanted nothing that he had,
Just his ashes to bring home to the family plot. She first
said it was a go. We made plans to leave the next morning
but she called back and said after talking to her man he said
no and ditched his phone. She said his wishes were to be cremated
and ashes scattered on another soldiers grave.
I had shadowboxes made for his children as well as self.
But I tell myself there are tens of thousands of cases like this
or worse. I don’t know why things were like they were. War is
about self preservation. A soldier can’t undo, or unsee, or forget
the stench of war. They do the things they’re told to do in
defense of this great country. This Memorial day I will be
mindful, That “all gave some, Some gave all.”
Tom
And suddenly, 50 was here, all the music got
louder, all the drivers for younger. My hair
was on a farewell tour, visiting the sink and the
shower more than my head. The kids got older,
some didn't grow up, but they were older, and
living on their own, visiting when lives allowed.
Then 60 snuck in the back door, kids had kids and
the house was louder, the cars were smaller,
driving themselves, and I lived in a neighborhood
populated by dumped wives, all gossipy and lonely.
Their husbands gone to younger women, or to the
grave too soon, who knew, I didn't care to listen.
70 turned the corner and caught me across the
puss with a backhand when I looked in the
mirror and saw an older person looking back.
Everything got louder with my new hearing aids,
driving became harder, too much going on. I stay
home more often, alone, reading the obits to
find friends I had lost and I wonder,
who will miss ME when I go?
Another name is added to the ongoing list
authors, actors, visionaries, advocates of change galore
now, passed on to the obits of evermore.
Too many from my youth and younger ways
found the cause and time to mark your days
with dreams and wishes, seeking changes on parade.
Today, the less well known
seem to cater to kings and dictators on a throne
with the masses bent and adoration prone.
World Wars and police skirmishes
sought to imprison those who resist
and a generation's senses awaken and with fires burn.
History repeats itself until we learn
freedom reigns free only if we earned
the humanity for which we yearn.