Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Peter B Sep 22
I had a dream
I was in a cemetery.
It must have been Summer,
as all the trees were green
and pleased my eyes,
so did the flowers, so bright.

It didn't feel like graveyard
at all
No, nothing like a sad place
where we all go at some point.

It felt more like a garden,
where silence is and joy.

And I didn't want to wake up,
I didn't want to leave,
for there was no place to go.
Merry Aug 21
It’s cold tonight in Eden
A full moon is a spectral sight
An apple tree is in full bloom
In this garden where we may say our prayers
Dirt is caked under my nails
I’m tumblin' down, down, down
Eight feet, just for you my dear,
Lenore can’t so no
Not when the throes of passion
Are caught so deep
I’m restless against the stillness
Aching and grinding
Yet paradise is so cool this low
I am not afeard of the thing hath called death
       N'r yearn to testeth mine own m'rtality
I’ve nay feareth of the possibility
       N'r bethink of tom'rrow’s last breath
Graveyards holdeth nay myst'ry  
       Just a place of tranquil beauty and peace
I am not afeard of dying in the least
       And yon the part that scareth me
@LadyRavenhill 2018
Part of a collection of Shakespearean inspired language poetry,  I am working on posting here called:
W'rds of a Nimble-Footed Mistress
Alex Frass Jul 6
The story goes as it should.
The Man sits and the Woman looks
at him, face to face
glaring eyes looking
A fire burning
and a microwave singing blips.
I am heating some food, the Man says.
The Woman, still starring straight
into his eyes, weak he felt
fiddled with a gaze.
Stunned in half a second.
Such a weakling.
He brought the plate and put
it in front of her. She was
still silent to the point that
he thought she was done.
Over and long gone.
The Woman finally says
Your Muse is mine to give
and without it
you writing is hollow
empty, gray shells upon the sand.
What do you think will happen
if it comes alive again, she asks.
The Man, not a word spoken
not a single phrase uttered
though he was always good
at speech.
She says : “you’ll have
a screaming thing in a coffin
in a cemetery, and the guard
will go crazy.”
I am crazy, and so are you,
the Man manages to utter.
Ahavati Jun 29
“All the great sadnesses, great temptations,
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa

In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.

Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.

Visitors and memories are decimated
by time until all that remains
is a hovel of chiseled stone.
History becomes an illusion
of mystery, like that black dog,

there -- just beyond Aiken's bench,
sniffing out with such diligence you
would swear it was seeking the birth
certificate of God, until it ***** its leg
and ****** on the concrete instead.

Legend has it that Conrad Aiken wanted his tombstone in the form of a bench so poetry lovers could sit there and enjoy a drink or two.
solc liveson Jun 30
ran into a whispering angel at the cemetery today,
customary to have a small ceremony
when the monument finished,
the grave now well and truly marked,
an unveiling held, the kaddish said,
a small stone
placed upon the monument,
a five thousand year old tradition,

started by Jacob

we line up to place our rock of ages goodbye token,
an opportunity to angel whisper one last goodbye,
but good bye is not on my mind,
no, my own approaching deceasing dead,
for the pains come regular now
in the places that means trouble ahead,
and no one knows but me

so to my friend Al,
who once asked me
where do the poems, the words, come from,
I whisper in your six feet underground ears,
though I swear I hear ya laughing both
right behind me both
at your jokes, and at me,

“see ya soon, buddy, see ya soon”
hypnopunk Jun 13
damp hair - from the rain
with stray green vines
hanging down low
all over the eyes

and the shoulders - stiff
like an oak tree
softly whistling
in the darkest night

like found forest bones
of wolves or deer
that seem to shine
so dirtily clear

shameful, how the stones
will always stay
after bodies
all sweetly decay

i say: no more graves
let's become moss
eaten apart
tiny human loss

i say: let us wait
for the ill earth
to take us back
for what we are worth

grim sower planet
in green and blue
graveyard granite
gone without a clue

now we'll be statues
barely breathing
made to confuse
waiting for nothing

if this world ends
if it twists and turns
i will think of you
as it crashes
as morning dew
mixes with my own ashes
hypnopunk Jun 11
after i'm done whining
i'll go to the cemetery
and let moss grow freely
all over my skin

i think it will be wonderful
Farhan Jun 11
Success finds story,
Failure rests in cemetery.
every success story finds a matching narrative such as hardwork struggle but failures die peacefully
Amanda May 4
I lay trust in your consuming arms
Tears fall
You have broken my heart once again
I hear another empty apology
Bury it in this teeming cemetery of promises dead

A thousand aging tombstones
In marble we carved regrets
Your name occupies my mind
Can't remove it or forget

Release me from chains of grief
Know you carry your own
You know it is not easy
Say that you've been alone

I cannot believe your dead blank eyes
Your desperate but familiar voice
I may have decided to allow you inside
Loving you was not my choice
Does Stephen King spell it Semetary?
Next page