Long Tombstones Poems
Long Tombstones Poems. Below are the most popular long Tombstones by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tombstones poems by poem length and keyword.
Tombstones can be plain
Baby girl smith 1845
Or fancy with scripture
Here Lies Pat “this is the day that the lord has made.
Let us be glad and have joy it it.”
Some of the modern ones have electronic videos.
You can hear the deceased singing or giving advice.
With one push of the button.
You can stay there all day and listen to this.
My children do not have to worry.
I do not believe in tombstones.
They seem creepy to me.
I do not like their implied message.
I think they imply that our shells are important.
Mine is not. I will not be having a tombstone.
I have already paid for my cremation.
Glad to take all this out of my children’s hands.
Unlikely noisy and vibrant mornings
everything was serene, celestial and calm,
so ideal for a spring's afternoon psalm...
when there should have been mourning sounds!
Sunrise had more brilliance as it illuminated all with grace,
it gave no comfort to souls in graves devastated by a cyclone;
they had no fresh flowers to embellish each ravaged stone,
even moonlight couldn't brighten their dullness and disgrace!
The next day the pelting rain fell to break their monotony,
apple blossoms carried by a sudden western wind adorned
the crumbling tombstones left unkept in drenched ground;
the only visitor was a Greyhound grieving his loss acutely!
Unlikely noisy and vibrant mornings,
utter peace was broken by a blaring and radiating lightening,
and as stormy clouds spread across
the atmosphere, Heaven began to weep with human feeling!
It’s late this night of Halloween
I’m lost and quite alone
Walking down an empty street
To find my way back home
Along this darkened shadowed path
A church in silence sits
So many days recall its past
I’m scared out of my wits
Flaking paint and rusted hinge
A sign that reads “Keep Out”
An iron gate that stands ajar
As spider webs do sprout
Its steeple points towards the night
While clouds now slowly flow
The moon is full and eerie bright
A howling wind does blow
Tombstones wait beyond the fence
Unearthly silhouettes
Chiseled dates of someone’s death
Lost souls of sad regrets
A faster pace my feet they move
Till something that I spy
Brings a fear into my heart
Caught within my eye
A tiny light does flicker so
Behind the stained glass pane
I try to look away but can’t
Oh, there it goes again
Now this is dumb, I know it’s true
But I can not resist
I sneak up to the broken glass
To see what does exist
I press my face against so tight
Horrific was the scene
Startled so I could not stop
And I let out a scream
The shadow in the window jumped
It knows just what I saw
The front door creaks its opening
An eerie shriek does call
I run so fast my heart it thumps
As I can hardly breathe
I feel a hand, the footsteps thud
It grabs a hold of me
I wrestled hard so frantically
I kick, I plead, I cry
And as the thing let’s go of me
My feet begin to fly
Running till my muscles burn
Never more to see
What creature lingers in the dark
Waiting there for me
Finally I make it home
Climb into my bed
Pull my covers way up tight
Covering my head
A lesson learned, oh that’s for sure
Of that nightmarish scene
I’ll never walk alone again
At night on Halloween
Written for the Halloween Night – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron
This was once a sea of mud
Where thousands bled!
Before it reverted to!
A field of Flanders Poppy Red.
Do lines of ghostly squaddies!
Plough through ethereal mire!
In an endless quest to!
Charge the enemy barbed wire.
Do Mill Bombs explode!
As machine guns bark!
Sending many of the brave!
Into death's final dark.
How many bodies sank
Into that glutinous paste
Just futile victims of
A futile war's waste.
Do those shades fight bravely
Or do they fight with despair
Knowing it was sheer folly
That they were ever there.
The Flanders Poppy thrives
It's vivid scarlet red
An enduring tribute to those
Many brave but wasted dead.
And the massed white tombstones
In their precise lines and ranks
Are tended with love and care
In sincere but inadequate thanks
17 October 1916 the Battle of The Somme enterd its 109th day and had 32 more to run. It lasted 141 day in total. It saw the first use of the tank in battle, and extensive use of air power.
Casualties: British and Empire: 420,000, French: 200,000, German: between 434,000 and 500,000.
It was classed as “inconclusive.”
100 Years On I feel like crying/
Peel back countless layers of moth-ridden curtains.
Feel an accelerating cold breeze brush against goose-pimpled skin,
exiting into the intoxicating unknown.
You walk through a sinner’s overwhelming rain
whilst the darkness washes over.
The scent of copper and iron fills an emptiness
occupying you on this unforgiving path.
The taste of death settles into the cracks of your tongue,
while wisps of moonlight peer through viscous clouds.
Decaying thistles graze against timid ankles,
startling you; a quiet heartbeat increases.
Picking up the pace, surrealistic silence looms.
Abruptly, thunder cracks, shattering through teeth and bone.
Flashes of lightning reveal tombstones tangled in belladonna in the distance.
Damp moss enrobes panicking feet.
Running faster, the scenery turns more sinister.
Trees sway and growl with the storm.
Murders of crows gather.
Dank, murky water blocks the way forward.
With no choice, you must wade through the sludge
as leeches try to suck the life out of your fleeting existence.
The resounding repetition of an uneasy queasiness hits
until you rip your way from the waters.
The graveyard is within sight.
Tearing the nightshade from the granite, it says:
“You should have never stepped into my mind,
for I’m nothing more than a dangerous dream,
swallowing everything I love into this hellscape.”
Petrified and slowly slipping, you reach for the other gravestone:
“Welcome to your new home,
locked perpetually in this comatose state,
mechanically alive, yet lost forevermore—
rotting inside a forgotten shell.”
Memories come with the saddest prologue
Shadowed floating minions which come and go
A silent movie without dialogue
Sometimes a carnival with a freak show
I have seen blackened skies and felt their storms
I've touched the salt water that falls from eyes
Felt the slings and arrows that came in swarms
And heard the anguish from a heart that cries
All that was is now buried in the mind
Around their graves are fleeting tomorrows
No monuments nor etched tombstones to find
Only the ghosts of so many sorrows
The still loneliness of time will move on
No one will remember when I am gone
1/15/19
I love the tranquility
there is a peace like no other
where hidden birds sing melodies
and little creatures scurry
and time stands still
I like to read inscriptions
on tombstones in the dappled sun
or rain wet or snow covered
gravestones monolith
flagstones flat and small
all the RIP inscriptions
camera in hand and journal ready
I note one stone's inscription
it reads U N K N O W N
this of all the stones
among the rows and rows
with no name, no date, no record
no flowers ever I am sure
no memorial of any kind
this unknown stone has broken my heart . . .
____________________________
November 9, 2017(edit, April 21, 2020)
Poetry/Free Verse/Among the Stones
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1245-487-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Strand Pick B
sponsor, Brian Strand
Third Place
Inspiring coffins side by side they lay
Cemeteries are old, eerie, and so beautiful to me today
Walking amongst the tombstones - I feel a calm peace
Of how bad these souls want so desperately again to breathe
Semicircles of magickal pixie dusts
Forever I believed you had my full trusts
But I guess you didn't feel the same
Riding into the sunset - forgetting my name
Midnight to Witching Hour I walk beside the dead
It's only scary if you imagine them as still being beautiful in your head
The dead need guidance, love, friendship, compassion, and interaction too
That's why you take it as a flattering invitation when they choose to walk among you
The loneliest of spirits - they will not rest
They'd rather walk in their lonely, invisible silence - I'd suggest
But I'm sure they get a calmness - a love from you too
When you're the only understanding living soul who can help them not to be blue
Twisted catacombs of the dead lining the ancient stone walls
Sarcophagus of skeleton warriors lie peacefully in the Veteran's Halls
The graveyard of the pasts, pick up my empty life
So I become friends with the dead because it's right
With utmost respect, I tiptoe through their final resting place homes
Every spirit knows every other phantom, spirit, or ghost
And every spirit, phantom, and ghost knows that the mundane witch like me
Can make the lonely, angry, lost and frightened spirits happy even in eternity
I'll read to them, speak to them, respect them and then you'll begin to see
That the more you gain rapport & acceptance to them -
The more they ain't ever gonna let the evil entities ever come close to me
Weeping Demon
Beautiful old and magnetic antic cemetery
So nice, old, silent walk. Old monuments
Names. Dates. Old stones. Old cards
Hmm. Just walk on the path. I walked. Sad
Yeah. This way. In life. In my alone
Just walk. Emptiness. Deeply in the land
A cemetery. Love of death. Dark wine
Of my life. My soul here smells like
Graveyard. Tombstones life cards
I am just watching them. Old friends
Hmm. Or I'm laughing at life. Is this?
Stones, monuments are dancing
Just dancing around me. Lives of death
I don’t know my life. Mortal? Immortal?
Still alive? Or just walking dead? Hmm
“Hmm. You are not alone”, said a voice.
A deep, metallic, like ore, a friendly, sad voice.
I turned around to find the origin of this sound.
A demon sat on an old, beautiful gravestone
A man. A demon man. Around four meters high
Wise, aristocratic, noble old face. Sad wings
Unearthly gaze, all-seeing eyes. Demonic intelligence
“Yes, your fate is not a serial case.”, he said
“Nice to meet you. Why are you saying this?, I asked
“Because I am immortal. And your sad life is my all the time.
I live here always, in this cemetery; the human world is not my life.”
He answered. He just cried and cried. I had a wine in my bag
I always keep a wine when I am walking. We drank together
We toasted. The glasses were cemetery vases. Blood wine
Hmm. Reel blood. Oporto. My grandfather has this grape
Oh, yes. I loved. I like this wine. My grandfather made wine
We drank in this English cemetery the memory of this blood
Demon said, “ I love this noble wine. Good friend.” Oh, yes
I love to remember my grandfather. “ He was a good man.”
Demon said. Hmm. Yes. But he is in another cemetery.
“Not here. In Hungary. Then you visit Hungary. Flower. Please.”
I will do. I said. “Okay.” I don’t understand this friendship
A good, hearty demon. And I. “Look, we can’t accept humans.”
“Are you a human?”
“Look for that.”
“Bodily”
“Soul
Is
Demon
Like”
I am
Laughing
Smiling
Now
Demon
Is
Heart
Separation can be the death of a loving relationship,
but can resurrection come too?
Can one give a reprieve from
Braking bonds that bind.
Threads that tie heart to hearts.
Sliced lingering emotions apart
as death comes…
To the spirit of life shared,
separation of self from the one.
A little death, the dates inscribed
in broken tombstones.
But, one still loves even if the other declines.
IF?
Can one forgive and move on?
Can those carved words be scrubbed?
Will you change your tone?
Can one mend the fences and
bring the horses home
re-tie the threads that hold?
Can we resurrect the love from its little death
An raise like the Lazarus in all of us?
Can the bonds rebind?
A separation is undone a war won.
Can resurrection come?
Separation can be the death
of love
of a relationship….
But…
Resurrection?