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diane moules Jul 31
He walked to the gate while the soft summer wind stirred the oak,
and the sun reflectively smiled in the ruts on the road,
to greet his brother Ted who’d languidly move across
so that Vic could companionably lean and look at their cattle
grazing under the Breckland pine, and reflect.

He drove his tractor and tended his fields,
enjoying the changing seasons but moaned about fen blows,
and unexpected showers which slowed the combine,
good naturedly grumbling with other farmers
about the price of fat cattle, the return on wheat,
and how many potatoes are in a packet of crisps,
when at Bury market on a Wednesday.

He’d sit to the left of the door of the Cricket Club
contentedly watching Lakenheath bat,
and readily smiled when they’d hit a six,
bringing his big brown hands together
to join in the ripple of applause.

He’d bring his prince of a Yorkshire to where
his grandchildren drooled ready for turkey
with all the trimmings, and fresh vegetables,
hearing the microwave hum, cooking the pudding
whose brandy sauce bit, before heading the evening games,
candidly laying a domino, announcing to all concerned
"Another fifteen."

He’d talk about the little black pony he drove as a youth
over top Maiden Cross Hill to Brandon,
with a cart full of produce, hating the finicky woman
who always made him eager for home.

He hoed his little bit of garden, and happily cut a lettuce for his tea,
another to pop round a neighbours' with a hand full of beans,
and a third to lay with the sack of spuds waiting for his children.

He watched the Weakest Link, and commented
on the stupidity of students, and foolish woman
wishing to spend a thousand on a handbag, and reckoned that:

“If there were more men like brother George,
who was straight and true, the world would be a better place.”

He laid in bed in the moonlight, listening
to golden oldies of yesteryear, and Victor Palmer,
the father of five, my dear Father, a gentle giant of a man,
a man of the soil, dreamed of his garden…
wrote this for my Dad's funeral as wanted to catch his essence for his friends and family to take home
Hussein Jun 29
As i look into the summer sky
All i see is a weathering landscape
Drowning in tears the clouds
Gloomy and grieving they do cry
I feel like i know who died
But i can't remember who

I walk into the cemetery lobby
The air talking to the walls
The dust hugging the floor
The doors and windows crying
“Was anyone else invited?” I ask
“Just you and us” they answer
How peculiar…

After washing my face,
I take a look at the mirror
Staring back at me was…, not me
or at least not how i remembered me
“Who am i?!” i yell at the mirror
I got the same answer…

Struck by the memories
Hugged by their sympathy
I say memories
But they were…
Figments of what was and what i wanted to be
The ******* of reality and fantasy
Like an unbelievable deja vu
Real or not,
It didn't matter,
In all honesty I couldn't tell…

I take a closer inspection
Something doesn't make sense
I breath on the mirror but i can't see my breath
I run back to the funeral but it's too late
No tombstone no nothing
Exposed dirt in the middle of the grass
It's me
It's home.
Steve Page May 14
She'd said
she'd buy the flowers herself.
She knew what to get.
She'd found a reliable florist.
And she had the time
to select the perfect arrangement.

That's what the Funeral Director
told us at the Co-op.

And on the day, we all agreed -
the flowers were lovely.
And no one was left
in any doubt -
she'd have loved them.
Credit to Virginia Woolfs novel, Mrs Dalloway.
I took the first line, tweaked and re-purposed it.
Zywa Apr 23
Behind the rocks there

is something mysterious --


You'd better not look.
Composition "Erdia Da" ("Offering to Mother Earth"), #8 from the album "Pèkisyon Funebri" ("Funeral service", 2016, MMMD [Mohammad] = Ilios and Nikos Veliotis), performed in the Organpark on April 12th, 2025 by Ilios Veliotis (oscillators), Nikos Veliotis (electronic cello), and Alex Mastichiadis ('ALEM', *****)

Collection "org anp ARK" #108
Josh Crawley Apr 16
'Thank you, it's a gift from my father.'
She tells me with a smile.
A small silver ring, cradled in her hand.
'It's fine, I love to swim'
An hour underwater,
Together, a moment of fun.
'See you next week!'
Her healing smile warms my body,
Gentle voice soothing my soul.
'See you then.'
She leaves with a smile,
While I return to shower.


'Do you wish to speak?'
A teary woman asks,
Face familiar through the daze.
'What can I even say?'
Sitting in a packed church,
Voice like a zombie.
'She was so happy that you found her ring...'
I nod and say nothing,
The woman leaves me be.
'And it was all Yellow...'
Coldplay, your favourite song,
I swear will haunt me forever.

'It's been 20 years...'
Even so, tears still fall.
Blurring out a dull reality.
'I'm doing fine.'
Lying through clenched teeth,
I hear her scold me in my mind.
'*******.'
Time stripped away her face,
Voice an empty echo.
'And it was all Yellow.'
The song hits me hard,
Sobbing in the supermarket.
A tribute to a friend.

First draft, rough as hell. Tried some free-verse and have no idea what I'm doing, but it's as raw as it gets. This is about our last time together, the funeral and how grief never truly goes away.
ap0calyps3 Apr 4
Felt like an eternity waiting for your birthday
now death is all you wait for
the presents wrapped, was all you crave
now the roses remain still on your grave
so excited, hard to fall asleep the night before
now death is sleep you die for.
This is my first ever time writing...
Lostling Mar 26
And suddenly I’m at your funeral                                              
                                                                ­   again. Your body is

          bloodied, laying in the little, black, box.        
  
                                                             ­  Your face is marred.

Or maybe it’s my tears                                                            ­              
                                                  ­     that make me                                    
                forget
   ­                                                                 ­                        how you look(ed)
              You shouldn’t be there.               I won’t be there.
                                              Unless you call for me.         But
                                                             ­                 dead people don’t speak.
And then I’ll climb down to your bed
Just to make sure you’re still breathing
greatsloth Mar 20
If my desire of immortality
Was not delivered on Tyche's oak desk
And my neck accepted Death's penalty,
Make my funeral transient and modest.

Do not dump me bunch of would-wilt flowers
Nor weep with salty tears upon my earth
Instead scatter me some seeds of asters
For when they blossom it is my rebirth.

Though if God of Wishes grant me this dream,
Erase my name from your reminiscence
As I have ventured out this weary realm—
I'm with the stars flaunting my omniscience.

Either way I'll try to end it laughing,
A fitting mood for my new beginning.
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