"Some believe they must earn a life in heaven.unaware heaven is already their home" ~ CayCay
Human life is striving for joy while saturated with busy
bits of an emotional seesaw, its movements leave traces
in so many places, our goal seems pre-disabled. So, it
is that despite emotional throes we seek fulfillment over
and over.
As God's own designed, divine-honed souls, we are
light sourced as formed in His realm. Reincarnation is the
tutorial for achieving the brightest possible spiritual light.
To earth we are sent countless times, exposed to endless
human themed rhymes. We die, into heaven we slide,
advanced souls review and guide us through all we failed
to discern, all we taught - be it good or an influence
incongruent with who we really are. A karma is decided and
once again a soul is flesh ignited. Once a soul has met all
goals, the most radiant color is bestowed; the color of
euphoric radiance star-shining for eternity.
born human on earth
to spirit world all return ~~
man visits tombstones
Tombstones can be plain
Baby girl smith 1845
Or fancy with scripture
Here Lies Pat “this is the day that the lord has made.
Let us be glad and have joy it it.”
Some of the modern ones have electronic videos.
You can hear the deceased singing or giving advice.
With one push of the button.
You can stay there all day and listen to this.
My children do not have to worry.
I do not believe in tombstones.
They seem creepy to me.
I do not like their implied message.
I think they imply that our shells are important.
Mine is not. I will not be having a tombstone.
I have already paid for my cremation.
Glad to take all this out of my children’s hands.
This masterpiece a work of art, an affront to all my senses.
Tombstones of the dreams I've killed have built up my defenses.
Still further blurred the years I've learned to hate all we've become.
This world is curbed to round the heard the ignorant and dumb.
Though loving smiles cradle me through burnings of the ages.
And comfort warms so readily, yet still the war it rages.
Tombstones And Cemetery Await Us All, Be Brave
Howl of the blowing winds waywarder than others
In the darkened cave where evil desires wait
Caste us into stiff clans with warriors and brothers
Those of evil wrath, villainy and hands of Fate
Allow us this our fallacies and heedful needs
We of mortal flesh that walk barefoot and so brave
Always comes the bad, the pains and the massive bleeds
Salvation hardly ever comes but mercy saves
We who wait around campfires and hold our heads proud
Ready to fight the wicked world and thank our God
Do not think evil demons in their long black shrouds
Can meet anything from us except our iron rods
We the brave that face the hungry snarl of cracking
With gritting teeth and our courage never lacking.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
April 9th , 1972
Age 18
Note: Or so spoke the brave son of Beowolf the Viking warrior.,
as the clan celebrated the death of its enemies after the great battle.
Markers worn by passing time,
stand like sentinels in a garden of stones.
The names of those who are no more,
once starkly chiseled,
now vanishing as though carved in butter
set to table on a hot summer’s day.
The ones who languish here beneath the stones
are now forgotten by history and progeny
like old paradigms.
That they once lived and who they were
now sadly seems irrelevant to most,
visited only by the few that concern themselves
with mundane things such as history
and old graveyards.
tombstones…death…life
in cemetery quietness
tombstones rap
epitaphs of those
they are paid to represent…
on the outside arena
of the living
there are many of those
wearing and boasting
tombstones of life…
tombstones-like
shiny clothes
worn in winter
and thin by hunger
that infuses the bellies
of their children…all
carrying newspaper-blankets
for bus stop benches…
above their heads
posted signs
reading: homeless…
others sitting outside
hearse-like autos
with painted message:
lost home last month…
auto eviction end of month…
all are silently passed daily
by tombstone-hearts
rhythmically beating
invisibility...
be this as it is
and we as we are
day or night
life and death
go on…oblivious
to the tombstones
of death and life alike:
here lies…here lives…
Tombstones At Normandy
Each tombstone is small sliver of a sheave;
With love bring in and behind never leave;
Memories exist;
Will be missed;
Thank God their souls he did retrieve.
James Horn
I am amazed how you can put
so many words together in such
an incoherent way and end up
saying nothing at all. That is truly
such a rare talent that only you
seem to possess more or less.
Here is such a quiet and peaceful place among the tombstones of the dead. And yes, the dead can still speak through the etchings of their markers. Oh, how they were loved, and never more than when their faces could be seen no more. Those delicate hands could not be held, and the pale cheek kissed by a mother’s and father’s love lies so cold. Those letters worn by time told of a family’s hope; To our much-beloved daughter who has taken her flight on the wings of angels. Then the days passed, and years passed and the parents grew older, and the stone. Soon, the family and those who knew them passed into the forgotten, and only the stones remained. And here I am, standing among them and longing to sit and listen to their stories of love and life and death, and of their world long past. And only these stones remain to speak for the dead, but only for those who wish to listen. I touch them gently and listen for the whisper of a story to be told.
.
She He
Born: January 05, 1822 Born: April 10, 1820
Died: April ll, 1860 Died: March 11, 1860
Wanted all she saw Died trying to give
Would die without it It
Jesus Christ was called 'King of the Jews, '
And His teachings became our 'Good News, '
Now we all can take pride,
Embrace Christ crucified,
For with death He paid all of our dues.
Brian Johnston
June 29, 2014
In legend a man named Darth Vadar*,
Served evil, a perverse crusader,
I don't say this with pride,
But the day that he died,
His death cut by half mankind's nadir.
Brian Johnston
June 29,2014
*Darth Vadar is an arch-villian of an American movie Epic called 'Star Wars.' Not
really the Anti-Christ Himself, Darth Vadar is seduced by the 'force.' The mastery
of this art, which is related to telepathy and psycho-kinesis, gives a ordinary man
great power over others and even physical objects. Darth Vadar's own son is the
one who finally saves him from himself and the evil emperor.
Death belies the darkness summoned,
tombstone-colored is the sky,
shards of memories merely fragments,
wailing wind the sole reply.
Violent storm winds strip the tree limbs
like a poltergeist, unseen,
tawdry feeders, heavy wind chimes,
beat against the window screens.
Waiting for the glass to shatter,
like so many childhood dreams,
china teacups, rosebud patterned
in the dustpan, unredeemed.
© 2009 Danielle White
Dr. Griffin ( The Invisible Man.)
In the fog, I'm a bubble,
Step in tar, I'm in trouble,
but all these, I'll defeat, one by one.
For, unseen in the room,
I can call out their doom,
I'll rule all mankind when I'm done.
Dr. Moreau (The Island of Dr. Moreau.)
He carves hoofs into paws.
He grinds scales into claws.
He remakes all Gods' creation with awe.
Then, a sneer on his lips,
a sharp crack of the whip,
as he demands of them: " What is the Law?"
Dr. Pretorious ( The Bride of Frankenstein.)
No, my pure pupil, instead
of bringing life to the dead,
then let him rampage here and there,
We must make him a mate!
It is our sorry fate
to be a warning to mankind: "Beware!"
This is for all of my friends at Poetry Soup. This might jump start the Halloween season.
I'm going to attempt to do them in segments and hopefully get all of the classic monsters
done this week. Happy Halloween. Sleep ...well?! A Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha...
Shifting my weight onto the old bridge.
Listening to it's ragged cries of protest.
The mist rising from it's slumber, casts an ominous attitude.
As I walk by, the trees extend their bony fingers.
They snatch at my hair as I pass them by.
I near my destination.
A tribe of tombstones stand before me.
I soon find the one I have searched for.
Kneeling down, I place a rose by the lonely head stone.
I turn my back and walk away.
The headstone and rose drifts into the night.
Swallowed by the starving darkness.
(For Dorothy, Wanda, and Elwood)
I see the
Tombstones of modernity
crumble
as tired tears
of pretty paintings--colorful--
(wash my face)
and decompose cheap convenient concrete
to make way
for more convenient wires.
The metal, sharp
pries me far above what is knowledgeable
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