Funeral Voice Poems | Examples
These Funeral Voice poems are examples of Voice poems about Funeral. These are the best examples of Voice Funeral poems written by international poets.
Belief is gone
Bereft I linger long after death
No one knows I am gone
Least of all me
What has happened?
Or am I premature?
Is this an epiphany
Or a funeral?
Am I truly gone
Or is this one of those
night terror things?
I walk around like a lost wayfarer,
yet, not walking with feet
but rather flying
from place to place,
satisfied in no way.
I peek at the survivors
Who have no idea
And do I even?
Not really
I'm in a building made with concrete ceilings and walls caked thick with layers of decades old dust and littered with unfulfilled promises and broken pieces of past failures
The manacles on the wall look so dark and looming
A skeleton falls to break the burden of silence
Like a man finally falling under a cross that's become too heavy to carry
I can see so clearly in the dark its a frightening truth that speaks so clearly to my heart
In the future if humans want too survive they must evolve
I know every nook and cranny of these three stories
I tell this story under my breath in an undertone as evils press me into a corner
I can see the light of their eyes glowing in the dark
searching my soul for any signs of weakness
They feed on fear but there is no fear in me
Because Love drives fear away
They're like my fellow classmates in a classroom observing the respect my voice commands as the power of my voice is like the tip of a warhead sitting on my lips
as a land mass the size of a continent breaks off the ice shelf
started the day with a
telephone ring,
still sleeping I pretended
to listen.
the voice I heard,a voice that slurred
told me a message that would not
go away.
dressed myself in basic black,
combed my hair in
the usual
way.
I walked away from my unmade bed,
I guess I'm ready for the funeral today.
through my mind as cars raced by
the word "unforgiven"followed me like a lost child.
He died this way
what reason for this could ever be given.
a son to his parents,
a lover to his girlfriend,
a friend to all a friend to me.
he was someone to somebody.
tears in my eyes and memories in my throat
it became harder to smile for his passing soul.
but....he was and would always be
someone to somebody.
Frank Penicaro (c)copyright 2010
'Twas time our teeth be
sealed with bogus lips, frozen
from the frost of tears.
Except for a form of
mourning, they were to
remain captives, the thirty
two of them
or less.
From aloft, we all seemed
black ants, clustering for
honey,
But our reasons for
gathering was bitter. As
bitter as the shreiking voice
of the
violin,
The tiring voice of the
organ, as bitter as the sound
of the hymns sung,
As the thoughts it bore so
clung.
Assuredly a melodious tune it
was, but our feets refused
to dance. 'stead, more
tears
watered the soil, dust of
grief arose, containing airs'
naivety.
'Twas the last of the gigantic
rectangle, slowly immersing,
the grounds imbibing,
shovel
scorching sands with
withered hands, bodies
swaying, more intriguing than
martial arts,
honouring its lasts.
One last trip down memory lane,
one last look at the house of pain,
with busted windows and empty shell,
and stagnant, stinking, wishing well.
Into the kitchen where love once toiled,
the dish now cold, its flavour spoiled,
no seasoning here, no spice of life,
just a rusting, bloodied, carving knife.
Into the front room where passion once flamed,
the glow long dead, extinguished by blame,
just ashes remain of this funeral pyre,
not even an ember of burning desire.
Back into the garden of nettles and weeds,
its barren black earth unsown by seeds,
the gardener’s gone, his tools are all downed,
he jumped in the wishing well and almost drowned.
One last walk from memory lane,
no last look back at the house of pain,
I hear a voice beyond its walls,
a beautiful voice that echoes and calls.