#churchyard - Hello Poetry

The moist air and bright green grass joined the stone and mold and tears to make the saddest smell of time. No bird was singing, no insect buzzing, all silent, stood still as Sky wore the darkest clouds, beautiful and compassionate. The gloomy dome reached the earth to kiss her cheeks. The cold breeze tenderly brushed her hair, in this garden of stone flowers. Death its gardener. And as the mother kneeled before a rose, the most painful of them all, a cry tore the silence and cracked the ground. So heavy the burden of love.

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Apr 20, 2020

Apr 20, 2020 at 8:39 PM UTC

totti-night

The Garden of Stone

The moist air and bright green grass joined the stone and mold and tears to make the saddest smell of time. No bird was singing, no insect buzzing, all silent, stood still as Sky wore the darkest clouds, beautiful and compassionate. The gloomy dome reached the earth to kiss her cheeks. The cold breeze tenderly brushed her hair, in this garden of stone flowers. Death its gardener. And as the mother kneeled before a rose, the most painful of them all, a cry tore the silence and cracked the ground. So heavy the burden of love.

6

When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!” Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types! They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time? How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones? > < > time is over time is up time is running time flies > < > Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up? I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum? >...O darlings...< …motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around, >.. not stars..< >...O… no..< Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind. O…no… Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever… they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure. < < < The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise! they laugh and laugh and laugh since > < I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them. > < They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…

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Jan 23, 2019

Jan 23, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC

ghazal-ebrahimzade

Elegy Written in Mourning of the Young Songs!

When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!” Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types! They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time? How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones? > < > time is over time is up time is running time flies > < > Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up? I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum? >...O darlings...< …motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around, >.. not stars..< >...O… no..< Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind. O…no… Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever… they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure. < < < The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise! they laugh and laugh and laugh since > < I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height. shout, scream and cry, they were innocent, don' t want to die. I can hear them. > < They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…

40

Summer's day and Jane and I were lying on the grass in the churchyard in an area where there were no gravestones (at least not at that time) birds flew overhead and cows mooed from over the hedge from the fields beyond do you think of me often? Jane said turning to gaze at me not the sky most of the time I said looking and taking in her dark eyes what do you think about me? she asked I looked at her lips thin lips and opening and closing as she spoke to me think I love you I said she looked away blushing how love me? in what way? she said her eyes watching rooks overhead not ****** love you for being you I said pushing thoughts of Lizbeth from my mind knowing to even mention her name would cloud the day not ****** not lustful? she said no of course not I said (but was it totally true?) her eyes followed a swift go by in the sky do you think of her? Jane said looking at me letting the swift go off her? I said Lizbeth Jane said I try not to I said do you lust after her? Jane said quietly as if she thought the cows might be listening no I don't I said (but did I?) I love you Jane whispered in my ear a breathy sentence words warm and soft like marshmallows ditto I said she kissed my cheek then lay on her back I couldn't imagine her ever wanting *** she seemed too pure for such unlike Lizbeth who would have ****** me off as quick as look at me but I didn't allow even the thought to stay in my head my mother likes you she said and trusts us I liked her mother in a kind of careful as I walk kind of way Jane held my hand at her side her hand in mine fingers intertwined a swallow flew up ahead graceful and smooth and quickly gone Lizbeth would turnover now I mused and climb me and be on.

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Jul 7, 2016

Jul 7, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC

TerryCollett

SUMMER'S DAY AND JANE 1961.

Summer's day and Jane and I were lying on the grass in the churchyard in an area where there were no gravestones (at least not at that time) birds flew overhead and cows mooed from over the hedge from the fields beyond do you think of me often? Jane said turning to gaze at me not the sky most of the time I said looking and taking in her dark eyes what do you think about me? she asked I looked at her lips thin lips and opening and closing as she spoke to me think I love you I said she looked away blushing how love me? in what way? she said her eyes watching rooks overhead not ****** love you for being you I said pushing thoughts of Lizbeth from my mind knowing to even mention her name would cloud the day not ****** not lustful? she said no of course not I said (but was it totally true?) her eyes followed a swift go by in the sky do you think of her? Jane said looking at me letting the swift go off her? I said Lizbeth Jane said I try not to I said do you lust after her? Jane said quietly as if she thought the cows might be listening no I don't I said (but did I?) I love you Jane whispered in my ear a breathy sentence words warm and soft like marshmallows ditto I said she kissed my cheek then lay on her back I couldn't imagine her ever wanting *** she seemed too pure for such unlike Lizbeth who would have ****** me off as quick as look at me but I didn't allow even the thought to stay in my head my mother likes you she said and trusts us I liked her mother in a kind of careful as I walk kind of way Jane held my hand at her side her hand in mine fingers intertwined a swallow flew up ahead graceful and smooth and quickly gone Lizbeth would turnover now I mused and climb me and be on.

111

In the dipping of the late year Sun you slip away, the winter seems much harsher now, colder or maybe I'm more fragile, see how I bow to place these blooms upon the stone when only darkness looms ahead. I have yet a mile or two to go before the daffs begin to show and maybe then I can remember you without a tear breaking through. A smile I'd gladly give if only we'd had one more year and yes, I know that's greedy of me, but I see only Winter and it's very cold.

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Sep 19, 2015

Sep 19, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Minus 49

In the dipping of the late year Sun you slip away, the winter seems much harsher now, colder or maybe I'm more fragile, see how I bow to place these blooms upon the stone when only darkness looms ahead. I have yet a mile or two to go before the daffs begin to show and maybe then I can remember you without a tear breaking through. A smile I'd gladly give if only we'd had one more year and yes, I know that's greedy of me, but I see only Winter and it's very cold.

21