Laid still mourners pass, surpasses
Time moves let subs pendant closed passes
Subjoin the beauty instilled blurred by glasses
To be resurrected renewed in the ever lasted
12/16/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
The frosty men of Company mine two thousand and sixty-three
Were way ahead in futuristic thinking than the likes of me.
They decided to disguise themselves in photos on the wall.
I remember seeing the first one in 1985, a gentle fall.
They were wearing frog heads, formed out of paper Mache’
It made them look debonair, fanciful, and particularly fey.
In the tradition they took like-minded shots in ninety-two.
They wore giraffe heads for this photo, one was painted blue.
Why do they always hide themselves in their photos Uncle Will said.
They do not want people to mourn them or be sad when they’re dead.
They want their survivors to smile and say “Look at that!”
Which is why this year we have photos shopped on each face a cat.
The Color of Lightning
David J Walker
After the funeral
With the solo sung and hung
in the confines of the chapel
Staining the main
pictographs windows of
Forgotten sins and saints
The flowers were claimed by
blind and lame mourners whose aim
it was to sell them on the once
busy downtown street corners
Where only the ghosts and mourners of
well-dressed shoppers and
shoe-shined businessmen in
the then visible and lively viable
Small town commercial centers
of American prosperity
Where they met to eat at the
Drug Store lunch counters
Just as well
To sell the trappings of a
perfect Methodist funeral in
far away heaven or hell
I remember him describing
The color of lightning
Purple and blue, and violate hues
Are common in thunderstorms
But yellow is the color of the
Cooler strikes we know so well
Filtered by the fine dust found on
The Plains
It is where we buried his remains
Wrapped in a Veterans Flag
In that fine dust
Under the cooler strikes of lightning
On the Plains
How are you doing?
I say OK.
But OK is not an answer.
It tells them Nothing.
I want to tell them Nothing.
It is none of their damned business.
I actually don’t know how I am doing.
I’m OK damn it!
My mama died
My papa to
God bless those who mourn
Come here
Dry them tears
God says He will
comfort you
My best friend dead
I'll see him
again
I'm a hurt and torn
God blesses those who mourn
Joy will come...
will come in the morning
and those hurts and tears shall go away
3/31/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2020
Bawling, blubbering
yowling, howling
crying for a day...
Weeping, wailing, whimpering
sympathy for pay
Relatives nonexistent?
No one left to care?
Snivels, sobs, tears to shed
sorrowful sordid wares
ghoulishly, greedily
auctioning
despair
The great mourners on earth listen;
You suffer stress mourning, in fashion
For the dead who died happily
and those who died by choice
Good input but think again next time
What will you change with tears?
The eternal timetable is set for all
What changes will you make crying?
The heavens look down on you
Wondering why tears roll off eyes
Angels are miserable all through
But the evil powers are in joy
The dead fly away as you suffer
Their body sleeping, spirit traveling
Trump Mourners Horn Haiku
They are Trump mourners
He has backed them in a corner
While bothering her.
He called Hillary a bigot.
Can you imagine.
Jim Horn
poverty
of the spirits n
of the movements
pride leads to anger and revenge
mind of a winter
music in the sound of
the wind emptiness
elevates to grace
mourning on th-
e fall will be c-
omfoted
The gamblers and the mourners
Explore the vagaries of fate,
The expediency of life
Dangling in the capitol rotunda
Like a hanged man
His hair standing on end,
His boots in the air.
Write, sing, boo,
Do what you will
Never mind the outcome.
Words are cheap, they said,
But they knew better.
The price was dust--
Gold dust, that is--
By the ounce. Enough.
Enough.
Swinging from that bough,
Rope rubbing the bark raw:
It was a tree in that rotunda,
Where they hung them high.
Crows roost there at night.
Monkeys swing by day.
The crows fly away.
The monkeys take flight.
Women come and go,
Taking the sight.
Evening is still
Outside where the grass grows.
Obsidian crutches punch the ground.
Eagles fly where they please.
They do not fly near the tree.
Effervescent truly,
Shards unruly,
Dying away like rumblings,
Trains at the station
Puff and wait, puff and wait.
They pull like many horses.
Over in Scotland,
Inverness is halted.
The city is slow,
The soul of the yard.
Fruit ripens all golden
Everything rotten,
Lies on the ground.
Shuffle the deck and draw water
Encamped on the trail.
Do not mourn me, farewell to
all from your father, mother, sister,
brother, friend, aunt, uncle and all…
Our father Christ has called,
so mourn me not, it is all in vain…
Do not call me to your side,
for I can not come, my course
has run and my days are spent…
Go home my friends and
be content, go home and dry
your tears…
I must lie here till Christ appears
and takes me to his house…
Do not mourn me for
we shall meet again…
By Sandra Lea Hoban
©2012
Young Mourners say goodbye
to family members that they
never knew or briefly met,
bewildered and wondering
why they were separated
by death,
Experiencing life as if it were
a movie already begun,
Some are perennially filled
with grief and disbelief,
reminiscing how they could
go on with puzzles of their
lives missing, while living
in a fish bowl.
In the bevy of beauty
She strode with carriage and courage
Gazers overwhelmed
Critics clamoured
Now,
Mourners mourning
As they gather round her past
This noon she stood there vertical
Tonight she lay horizontal
Her pride and beauty encase
In the meaninglessness of life
Head dropping
Tears tiring
Hope hopping
'Dirt to dirt 'hallowed the priest
'Emptiness of human in the human cosmos ' echoed the mourners.
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