Short Burials Poems

Earthenware,
Gently coated with 24 karats,
Lungs, innards, entrails, liver,
The heart left untouched,
Untainted,
Egyptian burials,
Wrapped in cheesecloth....

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Our hens gone smart
Neither sleep in cages
Nor find warmth in the sand
ANYMORE
They 've grown consciousness
Of their matyrs past
Knife to pot torture
And the body burials
They know now fest periods
Bid to escape, sleep on rooftops....

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Bugles
Calling horses 
Some missing riders
The enemy dead beyond
A five hour victory march
In the morning the burials commence
The following day all men to rest
And with the subsequent dawn—to start again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)...

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Two down,
Twenty four to go,
Poor decisions,
Freak accidents,
A toddler daughter left behind,
Two futures dismantled to nothingness,
Stream those tears,
Sorrow drowns us, 
Surely we are losing each other,
Too fast for longevity,
Peer burials,
Potential lost,
Who will be next?...

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Once there were two friends dirtywitch and filthywitch,
never been to crossroads and burials, crazy witches!
Spell casting is greek for’em,
Conjuring the dead is a disorder  for’em,
Bloody how could these guys prosper? Pray “kitsune-mochi”


**kitsune-mochi  is a fox witch of Japan with great powers!...

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What if this is the start of the end
all those happy its over deceived
death broken down in percentages
lets all go back to the hells we had
call me pessi mystical-thats a joke
so many alone burials
Humanity you are what you deserve
lies so much easier from behind the mask
how can we fight an enemy
that is us...

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Executed life 
Sunglasses and little peaked caps
Mass burials for those chaps
Stands at the window
As letters arrive from widows
There relentlessly chased princes 

Death in the empty school of one mans dreams
I rise to take the led like a man 
Sit down !
I should have died on the battlefield
So i will take it where i stand ....

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No one told me the moment you parted.
My disheartened heart left the room the moment I turned the corner,
and saw his golden badge as he nodded in comforting dismay.
That day
My heart learned the rhythm of grief
Slow
Sickly
The kind that brings you past your knees,
and drives you six feet underground.
Who needs two burials in one day?...

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The clouds above
Reflect on your waters.
On your rough shore
Walk mothers and daughters.

Indians roamed here,
In distant past.
Their burials are near
Spread across lands vast.

Your waters, cold and clear
Softly caressing the sand.
In the light you sparkle
like diamonds on the hand.

Jealous others are,
As they pale to you.
Your beauty and grace
In your deep, hue of blue....

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The soundless rhythm of my hidden thoughts
Punctuates my strides on the unfeeling ground,
The chorus of my countless unwritten poems
Have a place in my private recesses found.

I feel a poem in the chirruping of the keen sunrise bird
And another in the sickening brutality of heartless men,
A couple of verses in the little-noted burials of great souls
And endless sonnets in the mystic things beyond my ken....

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I wonder how law
Comes in to play
We plead insanity
Lesser charges on the way

We are all insane
Each having our own little quirks
So, that brings me to wonder
If the Statute of Limitation works

I'm limited in thought sometimes
Vision has limited view
Limited in strength day after day
Patience has limits too

Is there a law that
That can prevent these Limitations
No. That's why we have so many
Burials and cremations....

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The flood of human remains plummeting downwards. Horizon blackened, jolted from the sky. Towering waves of obscure aftermath swarm to the heavens. With a slight endeavor, kingdoms turn to squander. 
Ravaging paths meet and become hordes of ailment. God’s hand has erected the retched bowels of man’s mass burials.
An avalanche of skulls,
Rain down the exhumed past of lost ancestry. Prophecies fulfilled to our graves of dispersed dead....

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Listen to poem:

The barbed wires gone  the craters filled in
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields 
men's tears have been wiped and burials done
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields 
young men died  because old men lied 
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
A nation bows its head in prayer this day
But the poppy's still grow on Flanders fields
stop the killing end these wars 
and you will not need poppy's in a hundred years ....

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I'm often called upon to write a verse
for someone's birthday or a funeral,
four or eight lines,
rhyme scheme of ABAB or ABBA.

But here are no rhyming line ends -
those small, same-sound four-footer ones
or those that have five feet or even more,
oh more, more beats than that, yes more than that, oh more than that.
Yes, no rhymes, except at times
within lines, yes, as you can guess.
Great fun, even for burials or cremations.


(March 2022)...

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I am not a geomancer
but I do sometimes read earth 
on a new grave,
how it struggles to represent
even though it’s thrown haphazardly;
yet still, let the wind, sun and rain
shape it and it becomes a tale told to a deaf man -
eyes go deeper.
Pity that we fill-in now, and do not raise 
that important mound
burials need height not depth,
the Native Americans knew this,
even the birds know this –
see how they dance on each other’s bones?...

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