Long Undertakers Poems
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Solitary sun in sapphire skies,
beams its rays upon Earth's radiance.
A tepid breeze flows between
daffodils and bluebells, gently rocking.
Spring is in the air,
yet streets remain silent.
Masked men in green suits,
bearing arms, patrol -
perturbed by unsought peace.
Anticipating unauthorised motions,
they wander past eerie emptiness -
sleeping theatres, picture less cinemas,
sober bars, childless schools and unfit gyms.
Silence is disrupted by military vehicles
occasionally startling their comrades.
Echoes of continuous coughs,
hidden behind closed curtains,
prevent even the obstinate ones,
admiring scents from rousing roses -
whose petals are not idle in isolation.
Industry of death is thriving -
undertakers undertaking, grave diggers digging.
Crematoriums fighting coffin carpenters -
whose sympathies are disguised by greed.
As humanity evolves into ashes.
In the midst of clean air,
mother nature smiles,
bathing in tranquil purity of serenity
the only fire burning is the sun.
Silent One
Simple Musing
22 March 2020
A lonely coffin, bleak and bare,
with only undertakers there.
The vicar, saddened by the sight,
envisioned everlasting light,
and prayed a lost and loveless soul
could find salvation and be whole.
She didn't care about the scene -
and if the churchyard trees were green,
or wintry branches, void of life -
she only knew she was a wife,
a mother, granny, aunt, and friend.
The loneliness was at an end,
and now with parents, siblings, pets,
her tears were over, no regrets.
The vicar turned and walked away;
he'd three more funerals that day...
written 2nd January for Emile's Winter contest
People’s hearts, ah, I thought they were filled with friendship and dignity.
A few well placed daggers, here and oh, yes , there!
Have given me pause, to wonder...did they ever, honestly care?
Or.....Are online relationships but a mystic fantasy?
Filled with misplaced trust, love, that cease in ultimate misery?
Oh, they weep, when death takes another away.
And carry-on as good undertakers, they!
Yet the sun rises each day forever and shall, for the living,
And for many a day.
May we honor our friends gone to final rest!
But supporting the living, should be our quest.
10/15/2021
In the depths of bloodied water
Laying in the sludge of misunderstanding
Where the mud of history buries itself
War awaits us all
Disguised and deeply present
Buried in the marrow of timeless sentiment
Hidden in the sediment of vile undertakers
Employing the caskets of our children
To testify in shallow graves and markers of hate
War is the ghoul of our fallacious goodwill
The pacemaker of our alienated heartbeats
The vision of our counterfeit purpose
The throttle of our fearful lives
Running off the energy of ignorance
No longer can I wait
To cross a peaceful shore
Nevermore, nevermore
Evermore
Look like
The main reason we bury people
is because of the shell decomposed
If time went backwards
Santa was a country
dancer
Would undertakers take bodies back
to a crying family
and pay them
for letting them drive their newly deceased around
If time went backwards would God loose the idea of creation
Cats could jump backwards really high
What would a frog pig look like
Permits me i to juice our intro
Does the last person
Automatically bee the best at everything
If there was
Clear holes are more dangerous
Clearly E
……….v
………i
……..d
……e
………….n
………………..t
Yours are chomping
I kinda wanna see the sun stop
Call a lab or berate
the missing
Poisoning our mushrooms
What kills hope
The hopeless do
I hop in hopelessness
Why is a gorgeous word
I meant let’s take the question
Every why is it’s own entity
What if it’s screamed WHY
has a tragedy happened
Or whispered over a hand
Why not y
Why not always it’s rebuttal
I mention submarines but subtlety
Y starts with a double you
quite quiet quitely quietly
See if you think about it
was everything an it until it was named
Here Samael got a job for
There is these nasty ers
I am gonna send
I know your a bit weird
You can do what you want to them
For how long-I will get back to you
Sorry sometimes I have plays during my poetry
God -played by me
Lucifer- also played by me
Music and original score-was produced by silence
Hanging a hammock between the letter Y
Looking at the sky never concerned with the
Like this I am no question
Using a Y like a catapult
It’s question only reaching so far
Why would you leave me
Why would you
Why am I hear
I never wondered
………\………../
…………\……/
…………..\…/
……………I
……………I
……………I
Note: 99% of my poems are fiction. Occasional some are not. This is one of them. Corruption is everywhere.
______________________________________________________________
Of all the lovely birds of the air,
The vulture is the one I hate most.
But why? Isn’t such a bird God’s creation too?
I suppose it’s the ugliness of its appearance,
Its bare throat devoid of feathers,
Its scavenging on dead animals,
Bald, ugly, squabbling and filthy.
I simply cannot stand it.
There are others like it, alas.
The human vultures that roam
In search of easy gain.
My wife had not been dead three hours,
When I returned home feeling awful.
There attached to the door of my home
Was a card, giving me condolences
And informing they were expert undertakers.
Did I not need an expert to bury my wife?
How they got to know so fast I do not know.
But I am head strong in these affairs.
I chose another agency, one I could trust.
A few days passed and a kindly soul
Phoned me up. I am a solicitor, he said.
So what! You’ll need the services of one.
Thanks, my friend, I have my own.
Again the telephone rang and a comely voice
Offered my condolences and wished
To make an appointment with me,
So that we could sell my home.
Incredible, I thought. My home is not empty.
My wife still roams about bringing me
Memories I am loathe to forget.
Politely I sent the lady to where she belonged.
My home was not for sale.
Will I receive more offers?
Who knows? I’m beginning to love
The flying vultures more.
Like those undertakers, I have nightmares
Death wanders through my memories
Too many scenes of horror in my regrets
I prefer solitude to the hypocrisy of those vultures
I will end up in a black coffin to taste the blessings of my hell
I have suffered like those souls sensitive to freedom
The carcass is scarred and the heart traumatized
I am sorry for all those sins
I have tied up my demons and gagged my ghosts
If I listened to my fantasies, I would be a criminal with the pedigree of a serial killer
I carry the hatred of a Gazan trapped in the body of a descendant of slaves
Since I learned to walk, I have never had the courage to bow before the eschatological chimeras of a slavemaster God
I hate war, but I know how to handle weapons of war
I recognize all the hideous faces of misery, even in the darkness
Their negrophobia thickens the dignity of my Africanness
I will never submit to their deity
I have already embraced the spirituality of my ancestry
Their slanders and cruelty will never massacre my convictions
Keeping a clear mind, even against the mockery of the angel of death
I roam this cursed planet like a pandemic
I do not believe in humanity
I distance myself from humans who speak of loyalty
No trust to grant to those viper tongues
War is the compass of these madmen
From the atomic bomb to the black bomb under the eyes of the cradle of humanity
The Uniforce
turned through our faces
we watch a clock to keep the meaningful places
running, turning hands amok -
in small space while we stand still.....
we used this cold embrace of urgency
to till ground -as the machines they became -
Too loud, in such close
proxy and to leave ourselves like fire, in a forge,
like the hearth beating embers in pulse
of our scourge; became something not enough
to counter the membrains purge, its member and its revenanced divulge.
In the Overdark, under darkly ?
the midnight coursed to the ghastly fades,
the air and a ghost's light
hath half to have made, crystal flux,
crystal hearts with undertakers spade.
A strange aeon is sent tronicly frozen in senced rage.
We might think we'll die too fast -
too much death fro technology of lusts
for our heads, to crack like eggs against
the falling oblong pressures of space religiology.
Wombed in purgatorious lessons
Into the vast emptiness amassed lesions.
Everything, again, we are made to be- together
in our Repress.
The locked-ness of Legion, to be held just right
up to the light until we can best, turn the page,
lest we shatter our bones with gauged
rolling radiate candleflicked in signature of sway,
passing, the litmus test alkalined aright.
With headlamp eyes
of neon pierce through the sky,
vamped sentinel heart s indicates pure its storm
to settle in strata newly bore.
The air is heavy, polltry.
Its fury pounced upon the rite,
a Gutter Play Musical Score D.
A chill of emptiness curtains the stage.
Whats more? we ride into the mind, petrified,
stoi'd out of Time,
StillBorn waiting upon....Abide...Abate...to Find...
Departed poems in a gray post-dated heaven
clatter wings together like hens in a jailers coop.
Words never die, they bury themselves in
heaps of dry leaves, distant laughter scatters
the sadly said.
Muse-makers wear plastic rainhats
that flutter like bats in the sunlight.
Words have to be tied together
or they sink alone in an empty fish bowl.
Japanese girls in designer Nike's
skip over words completely and we all hear.
Silk flowers in China teacups sail a deep blue ink.
The poets speak in tie-dyed riddles,
in dribbles between the loosely connected.
Atop a mountain, goats bray,
love-sick donkeys harken with their heavy hearts.
Legions of cock-hatted rhymers are born again
to confuse the world with their simplistic sounds.
Writing for all the long dead letters
is an art for baby fingers and painted opera singers.
Undertakers gather; their electronic ankle-beepers
sing within freshly dug sonnets and odes.
The deceased travel on, spinning a gray language,
they are silk moths weaving tinsel rainbows
that by chance
speak words still wet from closed lips.
Old Caleb Trotter had great plans for his town in Colorado.
For years he'd roamed the Rockies, finally finding his El Dorado!
He discovered glittering gold that would surely make him flush!
He founded Trotter's Gulch and soon there was a frenzied rush!
Cabins were built on plots that prospective miners selected.
Why, there was even a school and three churches were erected!
'Twas a bawdy place with the usual brawls and seedy saloons.
Soiled doves and gamblers invaded the town by platoons!
Time moved on and Caleb established a general store,
Figuring that the mining game wasn't for him anymore.
He made his fortune catering shovels, overalls and boots,
To hard-rock prospectors and other such galoots!
The population reached ten thousand and showed great potential.
It boasted a railroad station and other services essential.
It included three undertakers, five blacksmiths and ten preachers,
Four doctors, two newspapers and twelve well-respected teachers!
Alas, the pay dirt around Trotter's Gulch soon petered out.
The future of the town was left very much in doubt.
'Twas soon abandoned and another ghost town was born.
'Tis no longer on the map - it now lies desolate and forlorn!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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