"and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;"
CH Gorrie 

I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.

I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...

I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
eulogizer,
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.

I'd call you
"Lesbia", "Rosalind", 
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.

Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.

I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.

But twenty-two months is a long time.

"on his graveside in Kildare.."
John F McCullagh 

In the shadows rose the gallows,
his execution date drew near.-
Wolfe Tone, denied a soldiers ‘death,
could not hold life that dear.

He took a blade to his own throat
and cut a swathe of red.
It’s said he lingered but a week
then brave Wolfe Tone was dead..

He was the father of desire
for an Ireland brave and free.
Desire famine could not kill
nor emigration flee.

He choose the manner of his death.
He did not die a slave.
It put his life in context-
His words transcend the grave

Each year on the day he died
as long as Wolfe’s lived there
They lay a spray of roses
on his graveside in Kildare..

Theobald Wolfe Tone who committed suicide in Prison following the failed rebellion of 1798, is considered the Father of Irish Republicanism
"as you stood at the graveside"
victoria 

typical opportunist, you
take my sorrow and compassion
of your mothers death and use it
like you used her in life
take take take

don't ask me about the son
who is no more than an after-thought
to you

don't tell me you liked how I was dressed
at the funeral
or that you liked it when I hugged you,
reading that turns my stomach

my compassion was not given to be abused,
foolishly, I thought you may have been
just a little bit sad

my heart hurt
as you stood at the graveside
handcuffed to your escort
hopeless

I'd give anything not to feel
right now, not to feel
these words in my hand and this anger
rising
and I'm only sorry that that wonderful
all embracing Dubliner
your mother
who loved life and gave all
suffered  you

as I do
as will your son too.

"I’ve seen her tend his graveside"
John F McCullagh 

I saw her just the other day,
But, not knowing what to say, I turned away.
For she has lost her only son,
off fighting in the war.
A bootless war that lingers on
Like a chancre sore.
There are others like her;
Gold stars in windows shine-
For brave boys brought home in boxes
for “no one’s left behind. “
There’s no word that refers to her
Who has lost her only child.
A remnant who lingers here
the last one of her line.
I’ve seen her tend his graveside
like she once made his childhood bed.
She keeps the flowers watered,
trims the grass above his head.
In her Living room, a folded flag
A grateful nation’s gift
To remind her of one she loved so
Whose death left her bereft.

Our language has no specific word to refer to a parent who has lost a child.
"That's how to plant graveside flowers"
Godfrey Amromare 

In haste...
Behind
Our footprints
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
Of them
On the shores

She left the three parties of us
Me, Samantha
And our traveler friend

They were play things for sunset fares,
She said.

Just yesterday
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!

That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares

They were not soldiers
They were unprotected women
They were not warriors
They were unfed afraid Biafran children  

That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts
That's how we actualize Biafra.

This poem is a remembrance piece for the more than three million civilians, most of them children who died of starvation in Biafra land as a result of the blockade policy which the Federal side adopted to cut off the secessionist's supplies during the civil war which lasted in Nigeria from 1967 - 1970. It would be recalled that the Nigerian foremost poet, Christopher Okigbo also was lost to that tragic war. It is to Okigbo, the more than a million starved dead children, the women, everybody else that was the sacrifice red water of the secessionist nation this art is crafted. Amen.
"that lonely graveside on the hill."
jeremy wyatt 

I went down to Monmouth fair
a sword and pistol to buy there
I thought to go a'soldiering
for the gold and glory it would bring

I saw a Maiden dark and sweet
a Raven played around her feet
a gleaming pistol she did hold
of fine rosewood and chased with gold

"Wear this pistol at your side
a spirit dwells here deep inside
half your silver this will buy
it's bark will be your battle-cry"

I proudly set it in my belt
the comfort of it keenly felt
then set to search for a sharp blade
then I espied the Raven and the Maid

A yard of steel was in her hands
ancient and blue from spirit-lands
graven runes were on the side
and I sang fell songs as I swung it wide

Alone now silver spent at last
I headed homeward tired and fast
but standing there amongst a crowd
the Maiden crying out aloud

"Who will save my Raven fair
and set him free into the air
these men have taken him to kill
they torture him my heart is chilled"

A group of drunken soldier's swayed
and with the girl's dear pet they played
their evil mouths called curses dire
as they pushed the bird towards the fire

"What cost it's life?" I called out loud
those preening King's-Men vain and proud
"A bag of silver" they replied
"Or those fine weaons at your side"

Moved by pity for the crying child
the captured bird that should fly wild
I gave the weapons with a curse
though they cost me deeply in the purse

The bird we tended all the night
come day it was returned to flight
it gazed deeply into my eyes
then soared up strong to freedom skies

So to the battles I did go
my heart for glory all aglow
but all that I did learn from war
a soldier's life is cheap and poor

Twenty years of war and strife
I lie here clinging to my life
a sword cut deep  into my chest
a great bird lights upon my breast

A raven old still strong and hoar
gazing at my wounds so raw
recognition in it's eyes
this King of woeful battle's skies

"I well recall your sacrifice
the pistol fair and battle knife
so now I will repay to you
My debts I pay my heart is true"

"No crow or bird will feast this day
the wolves that slink I'll drive away
To watch and guard you till you die
and see your spirit soar on high"

"And when  your body they do lay
beneath the soil of this spring day
I'll mourn forevermore the loss
and watch your grave from yew and cross"

And now that place is swathed in green
A Lady fair there can be seen
Her ancient raven  watches still
that lonely graveside on the hill.

Really this is a folk song, but would need us to trim it . Makes a nice reading poem I hope x
"ikes so I can breath fiery life into my graveside soldiers when a chain that is connected"
Donald Durham 

I am sitting in water far too cold
Around me dances far too many candles
I feel like a corpse looking at his watery final mass
I am smoking far too many cigarettes,
as I tend to do
I carelessly flick ashes onto my bathroom floor, beside me, and am only slightly alarmed to hear them sizzle.
It is in these cliche, lonely moments that my mind drifts.
I remember sitting in many watery graves with your exposed back resting firmly against my heavy chest.
My breathing broken and uneven.
I shift slowly to the right
and a cascade of my cleansed conscious breaches the levy and runs down to the floor.
This is why ashes live such short lives when severed at the tip.
What could make my scene set better?
and I remember the far too warm glass of wine to my left.
It has been playing a silent game of
"When will you remember me,"
even though its baritone colors clash hard red against the white tiled walls of my fiber glass coffin.
I take a far too long look at the glass in my graspe,
before it begins its hasty adventure to my liver.
This moment is far too dramatic,
but I usually am.
I am a sorrow addict, a waxing romantic, and right now I would kill for a fix.
The open window above my head lets in autumn air
that excites my dancing candles and they whip up into a proper frenzy
and I wonder if in moments like these, where the setting and scene have conspired to give me all the hopeful imagery that only perfect circumstances can achieve,
if I should feel happy or at peace.
But I only feel far too lonely.
It is this amazing moment that it dawns on me that my life lacks better....
Better what, I do not know.
My cigarette finally reaches the end of its journey
and while trying to throw it into the trash, wayward water tag-alongers betray my trust and extinguish part of my candlelight army.
I strain to obtain my strikes so I can breath fiery life into my graveside soldiers when a chain that is connected to the cork, that is supporting my frigid funeral pyre
pulls out of its job duty and further works towards ending what was once warm water started.
Spent water slowly exits stage center
and I remember sitting in a far too cold bathtub with you.
Resting my cheek between your shoulder blades as we gave away the filth of our day.
Your head was resting on your knees and a lit cigarette makes its final pilgrimage towards your water clogged hand.
The candles then, also went out far too soon.
I stand up, grab my towel, and once again wrap warmth around me.
I look into the mirror and see the far too, far away look in my eyes.
I inhale deeply, close my eyes and try to shake the ghost from behind my eye lids.
Whispering pieces of a former life beckon to hold me back....
And far too predictably i hold on.

©Donald Durham 2010
"at your graveside in the rain"
A Thomas Hawkins 

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.

"and shed tears at the graveside of..."
A Thomas Hawkins 

I walk along beside you
each and every day
watching over what you do
listening out for what you say

Advice I try to give it
and yet it goes unheard
It's like I speak but you wont listen
not even to a single word

It's probably the same
for all parents just like me
it's hard to make children listen
it's hard to make them see

It hurts to know you cry at night
as you go off to sleep
to hear my daughter sobbing
to see the tears she weeps

If only you could talk to me
I could help I'm sure you'd find
But instead the words always the same
"Hey Dad, oh, never mind"

But now as you sit in the churchyard
I hear you ask me why
but no more words can you get out
before you start to cry

Why is it I'm so useless
as you sit here all alone
and shed tears at the graveside of...
just who's name is on the stone!

Oh my god it cant be true
please say it isn't so
Is the why that you were asking me
why I had to go?

"tarrying over the bouquets of roses at graveside"
mark john junor 

shatterproof smiles
like nineteen sixties plastic american sunshine
on the faded walls
if it was something a "la la la la" song could solve
then he wouldn't be up all night
pacing the hall wringing his clammy hands
whispering over and over
that we have come as far as we can hope to
how can i get you that one step further
shatterproof smiles
look great but they have no love
look super-duper on t.v.
but they wont be there in your darkest hour

but he waits for her
a good egg his mom always said
cause thats what they promised him
a perfect girl with a shatterproof smile
a perfect painting of plastic sunshine
a glittering prize
an empty space behind bright blue eyes

she is one of them
her glory whore scrapbook
is filled with the blood traces of those
she has severed from their loved ones
and it smells of hard dirt
it smells of unquenchable thirst
she is now years behind me
and so is the monster she choose to be
shes a fast song now
feet too swift to spend a maidens moments
tarrying over the bouquets of roses at graveside
too swift to shed a tear for the children left behind
too swift to see the cost of her heartlessness

a fast song to spin the mind from the hearts ache
from the souls vanquish

i am alone on the long empty street
i see her as a wave of destruction approaching
over the miles and years
and nothing looks more lonely to me
nothing looks more void of humanity
than the look in her eye

i left you behind years ago
monster with perfect shatterproof smiles
and you will never never know what my answer was

edit: lines 6 and 9 where replaced...a persons name was removed.
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