The monument was stone --
actually marble, somewhat
more affluent. The writing
was calligraphy, carefully
chiseled by a fine hand.
The occupant was dead -- All the same….
Far right polemic is rehearsed
Hubble bubble toil and trouble
Insanity.. humanity at its worst
Together can burst their bubble
Or in the sh*t forever immersed
Burns and then turns to rubble
As damn it our planet is cursed
We need to do this at the double
Earth’s our home must be nursed
If not then we’re all in real trouble
Climate crises cannot be reversed
Don’t need a telescope like Hubble
The sea rises our cities submersed
Infanticide.. boys won’t get stubble
As all our kids’ futures are hearsed
Just hubble trouble boil and bubble
In AI’s lies we’re now all well versed
Lust for bust as cash must be pursed
His last post;
A picture from a hospital bed.
He'd been here before and was granted a reprieve,
But,the incurable disease has returned ,and like a dog with a bone, isnt letting go.
He'd been down and almost counted out before,
To seven, eight and rose again at nine .
But this time the final bell rang at ten.
His voice of empathy and reason, gone forever.
It was his last post.
My divided mind
Comes from one
That casts innocence on cruelty
Taking two steps for every one
This interconnected world
I used to navigate
Was held together by ignorance
In the form of my belief
Fate was always there
It was handed months ago
By word of caged angels
I stare at it now
Shaped like a timeless ticket in my hands
I pocket it and forget
Just like I did when it was first given
But I will stare at it again
Oh fated ticket that was gifted all along
I wish you weren’t mine
But you’ve been bought and given
And i think
it’s too late now
When my hand lets loose the pen
Lamp-less face I such parting darkness --
Preordained that Passing-night! God’s plan
So decrees, we all come home His timing~
Naughty wanderers, reclaimed beloved strays.
Then you must write for me, dear brothers
And sisters – that which yet need better said
And would I were it not for parting bed,
My throbbing head, blessed pillow of down
Such inevitable sleep no point longer fighting --
I hear the angels, sniff the starry-seas;
Hearken to the oars of Eternal ferry. Be not sad,
But glad for me. We will meet again, somewhere
Beyond the known dippers, to sail fondly further as
Blithering Gilligans and Compassless Skippers.
---------------------------------------------------------------
(No, I am not ill, that I am aware of. Just thought I would get this out of the way while still well and able:))
Shepherd and Bishop of the Church of Gnosis
Teacher of the tradition of inner knowing
Entered this world through the Kingdom of the Magyars
Passerby bishop in Yaldabaoth’s world of night
Holding his staff to the twinkling eons above
Awakening us to the blazing mind of Jung
Nourishing the eon of gnosis arisen
Anointed in heavenly baths of Christ Jesus
Hoeller died, yet he now lives in unfading light
Our Lady Sophia shed tears this month and night
Enter the Fullness of love and divinity
Lily of the valley, who escaped death’s valley
Look and behold the divine aeons’ faces
Enter the Fullness of the Mother and Father
Rest in the Bridal Chamber of Christ our saviour
(Acrostic poem in honour of Bishop Stephan A. Hoeller, who died on May 3 2026).
A split second
a mere centimeter
separates champions
from fame's cheated ones
Who came in second
no one remembers
dust-covered records
airless embers
He was born
Cried too much
Always afraid
Slept way too much
Prayed to God
Not that much
Was Unhappy
Drunk too much
Was a bad drunk
But laughed too much
Always at bad jokes
Way too dark
He loved
Way too much
And he died
Way too young
He left his wife
Without that much
He died sad
He tried but the rope didn't cut
R.I.P
We will see you soon our son
Hegemony of shrubbery and trees
Bows out chain link fences along country roads.
County diesel trucks cut down
Greenery an inch level to the ground.
Fences being overgrown
Owners cut inside.
Only disembodied knuckles left
Of wood to shake against the wind.
Beer drinking high school boys
Stand in speeding cars
Play mailbox base ball: home runs
For all unlikely correspondence lost.
Red flags rusted at their sides
Nothing coming in or going out.
They stood and now lie agape
At the emptiness they might have held.
Like my father slack-jawed
Dead below his antiseptic sheet,
Gob-smacked at his
Instant recompense.
Robert Frost
was easily-bossed.
He knew Boston quite well
as, if you read his works, you can probably tell.
Emptiness is a feeling
I just can’t adjust to
Since you left
My life is so hollow without you.
I wonder why I wake now
Without you by my side
I am so saddened and low
I just want to runaway and hide.
You, and only you knew me inside out,
I hope you know you taught me what life is all about.
More than anything now I just need you to be here
I just want to stroke your fur and stop living in fear.
Charlie, my soul cat
The heart of our home
We miss you, oh so much
I feel constantly alone….
Beyond two tiny
unhinged-gates,
a cobbled path
paves eerie tones.
It guides one through
its labyrinth maze--
of toppled-over
defaced stones.
The specters grace
the weepin' trees,
with prayers--so they too
can rest in peace.
For what lies below
its caved-in slabs--
with wicked weeds
that pricks then stab.
Ghosts' jewelrys, mostly those
of golden round, within each pile
of shredded clothes--attached to
dusty scattered-bones are found.
Sometimes an obituary
Adds some background fact
That brings laughter, not the way
You’d think a reader would react.
Tom Shipley’s obit clarified
That he was feeling fine,
Perhaps a bit too much, when we went
One toke past the line.
A friend gave him some weed to smoke
Backstage between two sets
And warned him more than just two hits
Might cause him some regrets.
He didn’t listen, spurring him
To state the way he felt,
Yet a song was born resulting from
The hand that he was dealt.
What cracked me up, though, was to learn
Some clean-cut duo sang
That song on Lawrence Welk’s show;
Unfamiliar with the slang
Of the drug world, Welk declared
“A modern spiritual” was heard
Because within the toke line, to
“Sweet Jesus” was referred.
I wonder now if Lawrence Welk,
So strait-laced way back then,
Ever learned what he endorsed
And why folks shouted out, “Amen!”
Seeking life among the dead
living like the dead among the living
a ghost haunting city streets
chasing the void--
the dark places/
between the stars and neons
a curtal sonnet
Each obituary I read is mine;
husband, wife, son and daughter abide where
the records of their lives do still exist;
motality belongs to time's design,
stitching out each minute without prayer,
and you are simply helpless to resist
the imagination of the Weavers~
when will Atropos become the slayer,
and with her sharpened scissors give a twist,
putting all your plans to naught as reavers
take your soul for grist?
Obituary Categories
Definition | What is Obituary in Poetry?
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