Carolyn Collette Gray
5 days ago      5 days ago

a path strewn with leaves
i will try to forgive you
but not every day

#haiku   #loss  
Terry Collett
Terry Collett
Apr 17, 2013      Apr 18, 2013

Beyond that church there
By the small statue of an angel
She lies still. Flowers are fading.

Moss has staked a claim
On the small stone
That holds her name.

Hours he sits and stares
Guessing what her last thoughts
May have been in the minutes

Of his brief absence.
The nurse's soft words
Haunt him still

Like an open sore
And hurt him now, as they did before.
He talks few words that touch the air,

As if she heard while lying there
Beneath the sun baked sod,
And not in some far-flung place

Beside some distant god.
How odd it seems in light of day
To come so far and only say

Few words to air and stone,
To her who left him all alone,
Who died in others' arms and care,

While he sits now, to grieve and stare.

Terry Collett
Terry Collett
Feb 9, 2013      Feb 10, 2013

Beyond that church there
By the small statue of an angel
She lies still. Flowers are fading.

Moss has staked a claim
On the small stone
That holds her name.

Hours he sits and stares
Guessing what her last thoughts
May have been in the minutes

Of his brief absence.
The nurse's soft words
Haunt him still

Like an open sore
And hurt him now, as they did before.
He talks few words that touch the air,

As if she heard while lying there
Beneath the sun baked sod,
And not in some far-flung place

Beside some distant god.
How odd it seems in light of day
To come so far and only say

Few words to air and stone,
To her who left him all alone,
Who died in others' arms and care,

While he sits now, to grieve and stare.

2007 POEM
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Alexander K Opicho

In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of sex with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for sex with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.

Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The Negro of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.

Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The Negro bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
Wench, clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.

From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !

graveside bones chalk dust
Vicki
Vicki
Aug 15

nightmare inducing
platform influencing
mirage in my oasis.

stoic strength hacking
gravestone robbing law-
breaking forefathers call.

whispered heroines mainlined
graveside bones chalk dust
blood picnic in darkness.  
.

remembered only at a sad graveside funeral
Laurel Elizabeth
Laurel Elizabeth
Oct 15, 2013

The brain freeze of
mundane ordinary life squish.  
the mellow death of everything
hopeful, mischievous, quizzical
remembered only at a sad graveside funeral
in the back of the trailer-park of your brain.

at you graveside now
Stu Harley
Dec 18, 2013

even though
i am much
older now
all the hard work
that goes into raising
your son
somehow
i have found
the bitter-sweet courage
to say that
i love you
father dear
i love you now
more the anyhting and
here i am
your flesh and blood
at you graveside now
where I am
suppose to be
dust to dust
ashes to ashes
now my heart
planted on
solid ground
be filled with thee

That parking lots and graveside plots
Nihl
Nihl
Jun 2, 2013

What once was warm and welcome
Is now but distant cold and silent death.
But the setting of a friendships sun
Not quite as yet a souls dying breath.
-
Up in arms and marching forward
There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight
Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward
And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight.
-
From cradles and cots
When were we supposed to learn
That parking lots and graveside plots
Were our only future to discern.
And just like all of those bedroom eyes
friendship itself also often dies.

N.H.

at your graveside in the rain
A Thomas Hawkins
A Thomas Hawkins
Jul 23, 2010

And so here today I say goodbye
at your graveside in the rain
all the mourners they have gone now
its just you and me again

The scars of your sudden passing
no-one will ever see
like a thousand shards of glass
driven deep inside of me

The only evidence of you being here
is the unmade bed you left behind
And memories of the love we made
and of our bodies intertwined

So many things will go unsaid
so many dreams go unfulfilled
So many rooms are darker now
That you lights not there to fill

My world is much more empty now
without your gentle grace
As I close my eye's the tears come
at the memory of your face

I wish I could have been there
to be with you at the end
To cradle you within my arms
my lover and my friend.

Our time together was our secret
and one that will be kept
None will ever know the "other man"
at your graveside stood and wept.

Pausing for prayers and graveside tears.
Elaenor Aisling

The grief has not set in yet.
Only the foreboding weight of sorrow
hangs in the distance.
I will find it in my mother's eyes,
bright from weeping.
The sweetest lives are always the shortest.
The Good die young,
and we the half-good, continue on.
Pausing for prayers and graveside tears.
I would say unfair,
but death is always the great equalizer.
I may join her tomorrow-- who knows.
Cradled in earth still damp from rain,
or burned to ashes.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
But Death, be not proud.

Family friend just passed away.
 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment