Long Pallbearers Poems
Long Pallbearers Poems. Below are the most popular long Pallbearers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pallbearers poems by poem length and keyword.
Shoot! Nothing like killing spree to bookend August 2019!
The latest homicide,
where gunman(men) slew
dirty deed done dirt cheap
half dozen innocent people drew
minimal horrific gasps, now a new
month (September two
thousand nineteen)
where goldenrods yellow
with morning dew
encompassing human zoo
welcomes unsuspecting killer(s) true
to form - predictably
will undertake to fire bullet(s)
setting calibrating counting queue
as month nine allows brisk business
bereaved will final adieu,
whether gentile nor Jew,
perhaps including
child named Caillou
instantaneously slain, who
knew
not what felled them
engrossed amidst social ballyhoo
ex post facto registering grievous hue
pallbearers accentuating somber view
eclipsing most recent prior massacres
similar to previous you
ululations yesterday's sorrows
without handy dandy blue's clue
motive explaining
cold blooded slaughter
unsurprising discovery
firearms Jane/ John Q.
Public kept stashed loaded, deployed...
guns up the kazoo
cocked, gauged, primed...
for unleaded opportunity
to unleash barrage
invariable generating hullabaloo
to curb bloody violence
trumpeting predictable brew
ha ha alloyed against National
Rifle Association almighty
Republican supported lobbyist crew
versus increased uproar
protesters chorus nearly few
tile opposition pitted grand Poobah
despite alarming statistics shew
plus increasing fresh gravesites dug
amidst freshly mowed fescue
attesting to wanton shell shocked
headlines indiscriminate brew
tilly assaulting sensibilities
without rhyme nor reason
yet, yours truly doth boo
leave rampant hatred
directly linkedin to
"FAKE" commander in chief
whose rabid vitriol hue
man fountainhead few
ming and frothing
lathers up right wing supremacists
greenlighting smoldering new
bile radicals hot headed
volatile mindset whereby
self anointed anarchistic Guru
possibly fuels global warming
evidenced by displaced Eskimos
flooding courtesy melting igloo!
First person shooter,
on a hate tour of duty,
swinging a bullet sling blade
Buying a death row ticket,
worth fifteen minutes of fame
First person murder shooter;
womb-to-the-cradle-to-the-grave robber,
using your Automatic Revolver
to solve your anti-social mental problems
Sharpen that sling blade
on a coroner grindstone wheel
Gather the scythe-shredded corpses
from the harvest killing field
Take the bullet-riddled body bags,
with warm blood dripping still ...
and kevlar
coffin
bury them on Tommy Gun hill
Guns and Roses —
Automatic Revolver 15 bullet salute
Let the gun pallbearers put ‘em in the ground,
and the saltpeter pew mourners
put the rose flowers on the graves
AR-15 bullet salute ...
Guns and Roses —
giving society another senseless violence eulogy
Guns and Roses —
weapons of war killing innocent children of peace
Guns and Roses —
ricochet death purchased with capitalist ease
No background check to vet tranquilize
the uncaged rage,
wearing a Second Amendment disguise
Empty thoughts and prayers,
full of politician hypocrisy
Thirty pieces of silver tongue lip-cluckers
offering a gun lobby: no gun control policy
A paid, no-money-back Judas apology
Snake oil teary talk rubbed on dry soul skin,
allergen empathy-free
Guns and Roses —
sacred shell religious philosophy
Guns and roses —
kinetic death violence theology
Gun manufacture worshipers
love deifying the work of their hands
They love to praise their golden trigger head
silver handle arms
brass chamber belly
lead barrel legs
paper green toes idol
Saying: Let your scimitar banana-shaped heart
always remain sharp
And may your lead scythe sling blade soul
never be dulled
Guns and roses —
waxy ears don’t hearst hear it ...
bulletproof hearts so iceberg smoking cold
Guns and roses —
plastic carnation petal spirits ...
metal detector salvation black market sold
I’m famous but they’ll never know me
I will never publish my poetry
and risk public violence against my honesty
Though fame was always my destiny
Freedom fighters died so my voice could be as loud as the colour of my oppressor’s skin
Yet still my sound cannot be heard over the valleys and mountains that still separate us
From our orthopaedic mattress to their plastic covered sponges
that prevents their tears from seeping in as they cry each night for emancipation.
Mothers of children who walk distances we drive
for an education that is a right to each
Yet they still have to struggle for.
Suffer for.
Barefoot on dry soil with cracks wide open yet still expected to feed the same stomachs that fail it.
Scorching heat on their back as we rub sun screen and block the burning fires of truth that we are no better,
Bank accounts that make us smile during the day and at night we toss and turn and never find sleep troubled souls of imprisonment.
Peace be upon your heart dear brother detached from the same cord of the same brother today is your enemy
The cord of creation from Adam and Eve until Madam met Steve
No, that wasn't just to rhyme Steve was the garden boy
that’s when skin colour mattered.
What religion speaks of wealth and colour?
and hails it more precious than the poverty they suffer.
When the pallbearers whisk you around like a light feather carrying you back to where it all began,
nothing but dust and ashes
no lights or camera flashes
Or your pompous tongue lashes
did I mention the fake eyelashes.
When we race for the finish line what awaits us in the end?
Education is freedom
Ignorance is illiterate
but who weighs our intelligence?
Against who or what?
The rich versus the poor
How did you get rich?
The rich versus the poor
How did you stay poor?
The rich versus the poor
What defines such?
Form:
Off to Nain, Jesus, his disciples and the crowd.
See the gate! Approach the fate of Nain.
Coming out of the gate, a widow, and a crowd.
Her only son was being carried out of Nain.
This son of Nain, was in a wooden box.
The widow’s only son carried through the gate.
Tears of the earth touched the heart of heaven.
Jesus stands before the gate, “Don’t cry.”
Moving amidst two crowds, Jesus touches.
He pierces eyes & ears. The crowd is silenced.
Jesus touches the coffin of the widow’s son.
The pallbearers stand still as sentry guards.
Later penned, “Jesus wept,” when Lazarus died.
Just for now, his heart goes out, “Don’t cry.”
“Young man, I say to you, get up!”
The dead man sat up and began to talk.
The son of Nain, the widow’s son, began to talk,
and God’s only son gave him back to his mother.
The disciples and two crowds, filled with awe,
“Praise God! Praise God! Hallelujah! Praise God!”
The news spread. “God has come to help his people.”
The good news spread throughout Judea and vicinity.
One crowd going in. One crowd going out.
Both stopped in their tracks as a miracle occurred.
The fate of Nain was in the hands of God. He said,
“Don’t cry.” This Christ will wipe tears from our eyes.
Later crowds would dissipate. They would abandon
a broken body upon a wooden cross, that of Christ.
The crowd would mock, “He saved others. Why
did he not save himself.” He was our salvation.
The crowd didn’t believe it. The crowd couldn’t see it.
Saving, you better believe it. Christ is the sacrificial lamb.
The lamb resurrected. The news spread.
The good news spread. Hallelujah! Praise God!
Luke 7:11-17 inspiration
The Ivory Tusk Carry Me Home
On an island in my mind,
waves of despair roll in and out.
It never ceases.
An albatross plays the piano,
my last song and dance.
It's sad.
Even the filthy rats cry.
I muse,
I develop a rapport
with my pallbearers.
I jest
my clown pursuit of life.
And say.
Carry me to a rat hole,
I really do cry.
I can see the reincarnation
among the rats,
their bitter eyes
matching mine.
Yet it would be
a step up from this life.
If only people knew
like who would really care?
My mind's eye sharp.
Mom and Dad knew
they gave me this apple,
this apple
filled with malignancy.
It grew orchards in my mind.
Contempt.
"You were a mistake
my young child."
They were a mistake,
my fist tightening,
hitting the wall
of wanton
predispositions,
repeatedly.
Their flame,
my ashes.
Their flame,
my ashes,
my pet phrase,
an unleashed dog
barking uncontrollably
in my mind.
It won't be long now,
I shrug.
So do the rats.
The rats will be marching in,
hurrah, hurrah.
Yes, I smile a tear.
Is it the piano man,
or is it an albatross
playing
my funeral hymn?
Tears of sadness in his eyes,
I would like to think.
I write the final days,
to journal,
on this island
in my mind.
My words,
like flares shot
high up in the sky,
summoning,
summoning
for help.
But no one sees.
No one comes to rescues me.
I gather a prayer,
Dear family
thanks for nothing.
I wander
the last few breaths.
I find my bed of albatrosses,
and sink low for the last time
as the music sends me away.
connie pachecho
6/11/17
Note-I was inspired to write this piece after reading the entries to Craig
Cornish's current contest-God Knows Where I Am.
we dressed them in thinned clouds—
no lace,
no hymns,
just wind.
innocence was light enough
to carry
in a breath.
"careful, don't wake her."
naïve had shoes tied wrong,
"she liked it that way."
the earth didn't mind.
hope—
never still,
tossed petals as she went,
still believing it was a game.
"her new home will always rain daisies."
no pallbearers.
just memory
folding paper cranes
in the corners of our silence.
by the road side,
stood
Hate.
in tailored quiet,
lipstick a stinging red.
she dropped
one
white
carnation
on the soil—
not mourning,
just marking her work.
she didn't stay.
just smiled,
as if to say:
"what did you expect?"
and walked off.
thin heels clicking—
her goodbyes.
don't wait.
for answers.
we buried the tiny coffins
beneath a tree
that once grew letters to santa.
we said nothing.
the wind said enough.
they said it wasn't murder.
only
"what happens
when you learn."
Just the vicar
four pallbearers
and nine mourners
gathered at the graveyard
for the funeral of my husband’s best friend
In line with strict regulations
we stood apart wearing masks
whilst the camera rolled recording the service
for those who were unable to attend
I had to fight the urge to go over
to give his distraught wife a hug
as she bent down to kiss the coffin
before saying her final farewell
Then ... I couldn’t stop the flood of tears
at not being able to comfort her
My heart aches
that we couldn’t console his wife at her time of great need
that his son and daughter had to watch via zoom
that his many friends couldn’t gather to say goodbye
and we couldn’t give him the send off he truly deserved
Just nine mourners allowed to attend ...
my heavy heart still aches
Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
04/25/21
In Our Hearts (Legacy)
When we lay you, gently,
in the most glorious mahogany box.
And you are borne high on shoulders of six pallbearers.
When we march, lazily, like a pack
of starving school children,
dressed in black robes and red eyes
and pale faces.
When we keep you at the mild mercy of new neighbours - rude maggots.
And tuck you neatly, gradually,
in heavy blankets of sand.
When we give our tribute in teary visions and saggy tongues
When, one by one, we leave
our roses on your eternal bedroom
and leave reluctantly, one by one.
When we visit you in three days,
and rinse your grave again - with
unrelenting tears. Will that be all?
Tell me.
I beseech thee, tell me. Will that be all?
Shall we mourn you for two weeks and
forget you for two millenniums - forever?
Or don't you know?
That it is not of massive funerals,
nor is it of costly coffins. Nor of elegant cemeteries.
Nor of giant gravestones.
That it is not of loud, noisy obituaries;
and it will never be of a thousand
gathered vanities.
But,
of the golden memories
painted by your noble finger
on the canvas of many hearts.
It is not of the man that slept,
But of the silvery legacies he hung high
like chandeliers, like calendars
on the walls -
of our hearts.
So when we lay you, gently,
in the most glorious mahogany box.
Will you rest six feet below this ground
And at the same time,
A thousand feet above this ground, Up, high
on the pinnacles of our cosy hearts.
Will you?
9/22/1983
I drove your shining,Cadillac, Daddy!
The lead car to the cemetery.
A stuffed bear, your Borsalino,
In the August, back window,fino!
You, in the hearse, a few feet behind..
Tears on the, wheel, almost went blind.
Silent pallbearers, waited, white gloved.
Upset was I,.into earth, you'd be shoved.
Priest stands in prayerful solemnity,
Oh,God, take not my Father from me!
Family, friends around the grave stood,
Then, gone, into the silent, earth's hood.
You, who presented me as a debutante.
Beside myself, now, not nonchalant.
You left me to a world,full of want.
For your lost love, I always have sought.
A few days later, I came to sing you, your song.
The one you sang, though many years long!
"Daddy's Little Girl", you sang to me,
When I, was still the star in your tree!
Lyrics
Bobby Burke and Horace Gerlach
1949
" You'e the end of a rainbow, my pot of gold.
You're Daddy's little girl, to have and hold.
A precious gem, is what you are!
You're Mommy's bright and shining star.
You're the Spirit of Christmas, our Star on
the tree.
You're the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me!
You're sugar, you're spice, you are everything nice...
And you're Daddy's little girl!"
"""""""""""""
Song is also on. You Tube
Still love you, Daddy!
Panagiota's First Elegy
Dedicated to you, Dad!
'Round about eight o'clock each evening the massive iron gates are closed.
The moon's mellow glow shines upon spectral scenes that are now exposed!
Phantoms that by day lie peacefully in their graves now freely roam,
Reliving mortal dramas when the earthly stage was their home!
I've never witnessed such things but I've heard from reliable sources,
That nigh midnight a spectral hearse travels about drawn by ebon horses!
Six ghostly pallbearers march behind the hearse chanting a mournful dirge,
As they escort the macabre procession and at a gloomy crpyt converge!
A specter desperado is seen dodging 'mongst the moss-covered stones,
Chased by a sheriff, his moldy funereal shroud flapping about his bones!
"Crazy Bob" Womack who discovered gold up around Cripple Creek,
Sits on his stone guzzling booze and gazing wistfully t'ward Pikes Peak!
Pat Brady, Roy Rogers' old sidekick, races about in his jeep, "Nellybelle!"
Rebel soldiers scramble from their graves and loose a fearsome Rebel Yell!
A gorgeous young wraith clad in white wafts to and fro seeking her lover,
Adding to this eerie scene, perched in ancient oaks, owls hoot and hover!
Ghostly apparitions peer from windows of the haunted chapel on the grounds.
Grinning skeletons rise from musty tombs rattling about making their rounds!
Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Romana" resides here in her special nook.
She leans against her stone observing all, perhaps researching another book!