There is no manual
on how to become a pallbearer
you are chosen
you are just chosen
you become the chosen on.
To be a proficient pallbearer
You need a sleepy stride
like somebody who's coming down from a high
You'll need a strong copper handled grip
because you don't want to let down the one
who's carried you for so long...
and you must have a stoic face-like a snake
no tears allowed on the deep green grass of the Everlast
you must be stoic for the crowd
save the tears for them
There's no training manual
on how to become a
pallbearer.
No resume needed
You are just chosen.
How would you like to envisage this transience,
now, that you have ascended this mortal realm;
Thousands of references under your options
now choose, with your gifted conscience.
How about the reference of an orphan
sheltered under the rich's shade,
wandering in the streets of merry families,
disappering as the nights fade?
Maybe the angle of a just born lover,
waiting patiently by her forever's bed,
as he holds her hand, whispering promises,
and slowly chasing his last breath?
And how about a trusted devotee of the deity,
a mother who just got sent
in response to her prayers, an apology letter,
from her beloved son's regiment?
Or maybe the man bearing the joy of his life,
on his shoulder so petite and trivial,
an anonymous griever, as they called him,
being the pallbearer of his best friend's casket?
So how would you like to envisage this transience,
now, that you have ascended this mortal realm;
How would you like to improvise these incidents
Written under destiny's poetic license?
cleaning the gutters
spontaneous funeral
a dead baby bird
autumn pallbearer
from a silver stepladder
silent elegy
I was the only pallbearer at God's funeral
I dragged the casket the last 25 yards
They served Deviled Eggs and Devil's Food Cake.
The Christians brought
Mogen David wine
The other deity guests present
argued who should bare the blame
For allowing Nietzsche and Darwin
To spread blasphemous theories
Causing worshippers to question their faith
Jesus couldn't have cared less
Considered to be a prodigal son
he was busy cheating Catholics at Bingo
Acting like a false prophet
The Jews believed he was.
Shiva was eating his TBone steak.
Sitting alone at a table
The Entertainment was provided by The Church of Scientology
With the thetans rendition of
The Space Opera.
JSB
After the Funeral
David J Walker
So,
I really am alone
Aren’t I?
I mean without you and
Those who filled in the
Space left out at home or
College
You let me in and
I read you like a book
Hungry for every word
Savoring the knowledge meant
To be spent on someone else’s life
Never anticipating the
Unplanned endings
Now lost trying to remember
The beginnings of a
Sad eulogy
Anyway,
The world is not the same and
Not just because you are gone
But because of the changes
You would not have to bear
These sad days remind me of
The rain softly falling like the tears
Of the first funeral as a pallbearer
In the late midnight hour, when death comes to call,
and we are at a loss as to how we could resist, we
therefore must answer its summons, leaving this world
and all our loves. We then shift from earth's time, to
God's time, which is infallibly accurate.
holy pallbearer
keeper of dreams my sweet Lord
final ecstasy
we're honored
to carry you home
in a simple pine chrysalis
engraved with your verse...
behind the procession
lie the whorls of living
pastels of decay...
from all the chaos the soul will ascend
beyond the cloud kissed steps
beautiful and delicate
dear friend
are all the answers .. now within your grasp
the breath of god-the heart of infinity
pulsating purity
from which all angels cascade
to glades of clover and mint
high in a hushed lavender mist...
no stresses of the flesh
nor erections of the mind
the black echo of doubt
cannot fiord that forever nest of time-
we're born foolish aren't we
and die with a few verses of veneer
panning for the shine of living
vomiting the remanence of life
like owl pellets
Third shift often referred to as the graveyard shift oh the company I keep through these hours covered by shadows.Souls to wander about at night the lost the lonely and then there are those who are guided by voices poured into the head
Stairwells don’t lie, streets don’t lie pain is real desperation has a fragrance aren’t we all gamblers.
Look just look at what you bow down to. The screams at night speak truth the lights that cover a street like a pallbearer at a funeral speak truth, what pours into you who’s voice are you listening to, Are you walking or are you just dead.
What in the ink whorl is papièr churl going on?
Ill quill vapors are trying to victimize me,
vex prose don’t belong
Word saber player haters trying to stick it to me,
throwing cursive stones
Their coarse paper tone is so digital angry
Blog blots got their writes all wrong
Sore spots ... ink stains
Rotted crease stroke brains
always wanna bring paper cut pain
Plenty briquettes blurt-y wanna dance dirty,
a-many ugly exchanges ain’t squid spit purty
If coal paper meet a diamond pen,
Crush Groove is gonna tango win
Counterfeit clone muse
using plagiarist, copy printer tools
Blank scroll troll fools
didn’t learn Poetry Slam old school
Any lip ink unwell with a lying spiel,
gets the clean-up Truth erasure deal
Epithet tongues liquor epitaph envelopes,
gin up troublesome, scarlet letter tropes
But when this Iron Will pen
meet their forged paper
Pallbearer finger caper
gonna press an eulogy send
Writ smack weakies think they’re grit summon strong!
Nicotine paid
by the experimental hour
Diseased lungs’ biopsy displayed
never made
this lab rat’s attitude
turn breath analyzer sour
Snuff was a lemon grass puff charmer,
in pursuit
of a higher dollar yield
for the tobacco crop corporate farmer
Double blind Snuff
loved to puff
the addictive, leafy stuff
From generic to the best,
Mr. Seabee lips couldn’t get enough
Snuff got his manly chest
so feminine buff
Tumor rumor has it,
Snuff ran out of placebo luck
In the umpteenth trial
of new-and-improved product perfecting,
Snuff got the top-tier
guinea pig bucks
But, Snuff
never got to spend a muddy dime
of the green paper slime
His number came up,
just when the cure for cancer
looked to become
market investment prime
Double blind Snuff
truly loved to carton puff
the addictive, leafy lethal stuff
At his funeral,
some sad loved one
took a long-draw homage deep huff
And with a tar-teary, coughing prayer,
they lamented for po’ Mr. Seabee ...
oh, so soul roughly
When the smoky-grey casket
took a pallbearer eulogy short cut,
the bereaved slowly
snuffed out
their favorite brand cigarette butt
forensic fears out on the potter's field
where fathers lie without a choice
and the ultimate enigma
has formed your white lies
formed your white noise
in the vale of missing tales
life isn't all cakes and ale
there, crystal clear
and cherry pale
I can see the umbrella man
the pallbearer man
in public showers
standing still, shapeless and wan
his heart in the can
I can smell your perfume
years after you've left
I've been damned by your beauty
blessed with your hate
your faith is unfaithful
I've been crowned too late
by my childish wish
hard to distinguish
I couldn't care less
groping in the shadows
of the underpass
You roll over my head and I rise from the dead
Buried in a blanket of cold sweat in a grave on my bed
I’m a broken line of thought that remains wet to smear
A step into the unknown, the start of a line to everywhere
I prepare my fingers for the untouched whiteness
My handwriting will bear witness to my uniqueness
A single word explodes and overpowers my weakness
To never finish what I’ve started and render me useless
I never know where your ball will lead my foot
You dangle a carat and of course, I take a bite
An aspiring writer looking to write a bestseller
I crack a tooth on the fake diamond you bury me like a pallbearer
Today’s news headlines come pouring down my eyes
Why report on a report, you only echo their cries
I light a torch to see past the obvious nightmares
You draw blood around my ankles to give me lasting scares
I tried to hold my breath,
lacing plastic together with curdled finesse.
Days of remnants rolled around in a heap
and awaited it’s pallbearer. One final destination.
A graveyard necessary for human greed.
I guess everything has an expiration date.
We find these things, and love them
desperately until they die.
Enjoy it’s taste or fiddle with its edges.
We soak ourselves in their worth,
and hope it settles in our stomachs.
We need to know it’s money well spent.
We have to make ourselves believe that
we won’t end up alongside everything we’ve bought.
Like we’re something greater.
And yet, we will still rot under the same dirt
that we place the husks of our misguided and fickle creations beneath.
Burn me when I die,
I want to fly on the wind
and escape the sin that I’ve been living in.
I want to visit the trees and breath new air.
I want to be better than I’ve been.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
So, this is where butterflies go to die.
Atop this burning ochre beach,
Amidst the palomino stones
party streamers and chinook bones.
Chrysalis flutes swaying
beyond dunes, blue and gray
under a plush velvet shroud.
They fold their powdery dreams.
Awaiting the pallbearer tide
toting emerald caskets, silver lined.
In the loudest moments of silence,
I can hear the screams of my tortured soul.
As I traverse my destiny;
with the ease of a pallbearer,
walking on icy ground.
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