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Jack Torrance Jan 2020
This lack of emotion,
is what has shaped me.
It’s made me seem cold,
but I’m not what you see.

First funeral at thirteen,
one of my dads good friends.
Stabbed by his stepson,
such a horrible end.

Next year it got worse,
that’s when grandma died.
I remember the funeral,
and forcing myself not to cry.

Then two weeks later,
my dads best friends heart quit.
I held back the tears,
trying hard to control it.

Then six months later,
they found my grandpa.
Loaded gun in his hand,
his memories on the wall.

I started to crack,
but didn’t let it show.
I had to be strong,
so that no one would know.

Then three months later,
my uncle died.
I tried to control it,
but finally broke down and cried.

Running away,
till my dad caught me by the hand.
Then saying I was sorry,
when I could barely stand.

I didn’t want them to worry,
when they were hurting so much.
But it finally broke me,
my fathers touch.

I wept in his arms,
and could feel his tears on my cheek.
He was trying to comfort,
and I was ashamed to be weak.

The moment I saw,
my sweet uncles face,
something broke inside me,
that I had kept at bay.

I still cannot think,
about that without tears.
It breaks me every time,
even after all of these years.

So if I seem distant,
then I apologize.
Just know that I’m weeping,
it’s just on the inside.
Poet X Jun 2019
a thunderstorm without
its thunder
a tornado without
its wind
a sandstorm without
sand
a story with
no plot
a house,
but not a home;
its now just a body..
without its soul.

~ the girl who hates funerals
As I grow older
it seems I attend more funerals
than weddings
it’s quite confusing sometimes
trying to distinguish between the two
Taliesin Jan 2019
I saw you, the summer child
lying in a bathtub filled with stars
while clouds spread through water.
Reddish, pinkish lips stood out
on skin the colour of pollen, ash
spreading, staining water.
The stars I learned were razor blades
I cut myself as I pulled you out
and ash slipped through my fingers.

Midday come early on Sunday morning
you should’ve seen the basket that they tossed you in,
covered with roses, perfumed and veiled
you would’ve liked my speech, I hope.
You would’ve liked his eyes.
He’ll worship you, I know.
He’ll make a pilgrimage
every Sunday that would make a novice blush
in envy, but for love
he’d follow you, his angel
all the way down with communion
‘till he’s sick, I hope
you’re proud.
Francie Lynch Jan 2019
I took the pen with me,
After signing the parlor guest book,
At the Home.

You might think of forgiving me,
Thinking as good people do,
I took it as a memorial sticking point;
But I didn't know the deceased.

I was acting as a devout escort,
To be seen as doing the right thing.
Perception, you've been told,
Is everything.

So, I made sure no one saw me
Take the pen.

For extra insurance,
To project my semblance,
Following the eulogies,
I attended the luncheon,
And ate salmon sandwiches,
And carrot sticks.
On leaving, I grasped the hands:
Sorry for your troubles;
Came home and used that pen,
To create this.
The End.
Chris Slade Dec 2018
This is something I wrote to be read at my Cousin Rene's funeral.

Oh My! I'm zooming down the Spanish coast... dipping my toes in the Med.
But you might find me on a Cornish Campsite drinking Pina Coladas instead.
Or it could be me, arm-in arm with good pals in pre-war summers... painting Withernsea red!
To all of those who saw me through the darker days I am thankful that you helped & guided...

Oh My! ...But I'm better now... I'm free... it's been a trying time, but once again... I can be me!
And there's something else I've just realised. Do you know what? I can see!
The last few years haven't been kind to me. Apparently I hadn't been making much sense.
I knew inside what I wanted to say... being with me must have made people nervous... tense.

But now the pressure's lifted, for loved ones and for me.
I was ready - went on too long. Now I'm on the 'other side'.
From now you’ll hear me on the wind in the trees and my whispers, in the surf and the tide.
I'm pain free, light and frothy again, teetering on heels... I’m a dizzy apricot blonde... No need for me to hide...
I might even drop in on you as I'm told you can... to say a quick thanks for all who helped - or tried...

Oh My!... and yes....people to thank? It's like an Oscar speech...
there's a list....but amongst all one stands out... shines like a star...
My Chef... my Chauffeur... my Ears.... my Eyes... my Angel... my Wingman... My Ken!
By my side through bad times, the good times and all those difficult bits... Not the now - but the then...
My Multi-tasker, My Carer...My Rock... My 'Rock & Roller'...
I remember we used to jive way back when...
And as the old song goes, I'm sure ... We’ll meet again!
Oh My!
"Oh My!" was cousin Rene's go to phrase when anything surprised her, amused her or was worthy of comment... She loved her caravan trips around Europe. She and my mum would go out on the razz in Withernsea and Hull in the 1930s... "Oh My!"
haley Jul 2018
at eight
i stood at open closed caskets and planted plastic flowers
upon silent graves;
in the backseat on the way to my grandfather's wake
mom and dad played a song about angels over the stereo. they
had to turn it off when i burst into tears.
i did not understand the twenty one gun salute
but i left a piece of myself in the folding of the flag,
left it with forty nine stars in the wrinkled hands of the widow.
vulnerable, kissing the loss of the dewy cemetery, the fresh dirt and

at thirteen
she was stolen at the hands of another,
just after her forty-second trip around the sun;
i cradled my always strong father as he cursed god on the kitchen floor.
the night my sister cried into my shoulder i read ten different articles,
each one with a headline reading "manslaughter", while
the soles of my feet knew it meant "******".
the pool of blood flashed to my vision and
i've spent seven years trying to bleach the stain out
from behind my eyelids -
lighting a memorial candle at my future wedding, graduation, childbirth
my mother did not deserve generic music at her remembrance.

at sixteen
i squeezed into a pew as
the church sanctuary was too small for her service.
widely loved and widely known, she
had been sick for fourteen years with no rest; fought
collapsed lungs and bared organs and
her eyes were as soft as the words she would leave you with.
her breath marooned the thirteenth of february and
on valentine's day, my best friend received a rose at her doorstep
with a note that read, "i love you more than chocolate.
love, mom".

at nineteen
we did not have class for one week. his daughter was five years old
and he was two semesters away from
getting his bachelor's degree in a helping profession;
he sat two rows ahead of me, one seat over
next to a boy named aaron and an empty chair.
the pastor spoke of a freedom from pain,
joy joy, hallelujah, a man who loved god;
they did not disclose the cause of death the morning the dean
entered our classroom,
spoke three words and
the silence fell -
sometimes, sometimes, we will never know why.
i was thinking about funeral songs the other morning. i realized that, at my mother's funeral, they only played songs she probably would have hated; and then i got angry at how unfair that is. here's a poem.
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