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Kj Dec 2015
I am standing alone,
In a too-crowded room,
Between a fellow ex,
And your newest fad,
Finally I realize,
I am just another name on a list-
You never loved me,
I was just another conquest-
Nothing more than an insignificant battle
In the war of your life.
* But the battlefield has since become my burial ground.
awknight Aug 2018
Take your shovel
shield the light
it burns my skin.

You have unearthed me
when I did not know
I was buried.

Internal sufferings
my home
now brought into

open air.


my lashes bleed in fear
I escape — away from myself
the warmth reminds me

my scars shine in the sun

cover me, until I understand.
we all have our demons, but I finally dont have to deal with them alone...
Anine Oct 2018
The day has come, I was left alone,
But my commitment has yet to be done.
I have not claimed our infinity, I have had not shown my sincerity.
I shan't be ignorant before my soul and body be gone.

I would come for her lying grave-
Each day with flowers to bring.
Open field, warm breeze, an almost perfect scenery.
As I sat and looked down in melancholy.
The tears were still to fall, the things I recall,
Until I touched the glass over you, I became lifeless too.

I will stay just as we had promised.
More than the vow we created together.
Though, my dear, you've gone home before  me,
I'll wait for my time to be with you again, forever.
It just popped into my mind after seeing this old man visiting his wife's grave.

He just died last month
Don Bouchard Aug 2018
Dad didn't want a coffin.
"Cremate my last remains,"
And so we did.
Cool and dry,
His ashes, urned,
Lie beneath the sod
And prairie sky
Waiting some clarion call,
Some trill of hope,
Bright, re-constitutional,

Mother's wishes rise before us:
No crematory,
No embalmer.
Just her blanket,
Just a hole
Dug beside our Dad.

The law would let her wish be true,
But her children won't.
We're searching coffin plans.
Reverently grim,
Lovingly deferential,
Dutifully rebellious,
Solemn this journey be.

Pine boards to honor her thrift
But smooth and tight,
Rope handles, fitted lid,
Perhaps a little trim,
Perhaps a sheaf of wheat carved
For the old farmer she was.

We'll bury her,
Wrapped in her blanket,
Tucked securely in pine
Beside my father's ashes.

Like a grain of wheat she'll lie
Silent in her final say
Inside our final say
Waiting Resurrection Day.
Life moves forward, a conveyor belt that moves so slow, so fast, as to be indiscernible. The time is upon us.
Francie Lynch Jul 2018
There was a funeral in St. Thomas d'Aquin,
And it wasn't in the Latin tongue,
Not English, Italian, not even Norse.
It was unctioned in French, of course.
But it may as well've been Greek.
I sat reserved in my seat,
As many a French rose up to speak.
But the incense was the same,
And the holy water sprayed on my glasses,
And I sat as people knelt
And blessed themselves,
And joined in on the refrain,
I knew it by its name: Le chemin. La verite. La vie.
It's a form of glossolalia,
And it's coming for us daily.
The mourners were onto something more,
Than words, gestures and litanies,
Something greater than any of these,
Yet the translation was lost on me.
The way, the truth, the life.
Glossolalia: Speaking in tongues
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
Foot meets the metal of a cold shovel
with a sun beaming down
booted foot pushes the *****
into the soft and rooty ground

one mound of dirt
sweat forms above the brow
two mounds of dirt
salty bead slithers down
three mounds of dirt
tuned into the sounds
four mounds of dirt
birds chirp all around

stopped by a thick root
extra force must be used
give that shovel a pogo of boots
and we are at the fifth mound

six and seven are easy
as the hole starts to round
eight nine ten eleven twelve
a tomb has been found

carried your sheet covered corpse
laid you in the hole
cover you with what was uncovered
creating a man made knoll

Six years of memories
laid underneath this red dirt
many years missing
that time gone subvert
Mohamed Nasir Sep 2018
After earth covered the piece of estate,
After his wife has been there just awhile,
After the last people walked out the gate,
After all that his lips curled a little smile.

After he went back to his empty house,
After whatever they suffered together,
After years in him love hadn't arouse,
After all, he never really loved her.
After seeing someone lost his wife. But he showed no remorse. Sometimes I see him smiling. Perhaps................. I don't know. This is just a thought.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
You get the shovel
I’ll dig the hole
we’ll bury her together
off to heaven I suppose
or wherever dogs go
you go and grieve
I’ll let the little one know
in a little bit
just expect company
RIP June 9/19/2018
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
Civil War ran on
They asked Native Americans
peaceful coexistence possessed
legendary skills existed
these men were required to partake
Native Americans knew horrific events
their way
their loss
Three Fires Tribes responded
Ojibway enlisted
Potawatomi joined
Others traveled
cohesive unit was experienced
these men saw
hard service
men were killed
were captured
living ****
no burial ceremony
that journey joined
their story heard
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source -
Lizzy Oct 2016
Its back,
And I wish I could say
For one night only,
But the forecast shows
A messy week ahead of me.

Every day
The sun will burn bright
And a cool wind will
Bite my cheeks.

Every night
The sun will set
Like God dropped a bowling ball
And storm clouds
Will come rolling in.

The thunder will be deafening
With no lightning
To illuminate the blackness.
The rain will come in
Big, heavy drops
All at once.

No gradual crescendo.
No calming patter on rooftops.
Only a roar at my window
That will ****** me
To open it.

In the rumble
I can hear a whisper
Begging me to open
The floodgates and let the rain
Come rushing into my room.

Let it rise
Up the walls
Until I'm kissing the ceiling
Then sink to my bed,
Feeling content with my efforts.

I wrap the covers
Around me and lay my head down,
Passive to the water
Filling my lungs.
Comfortable in my
Burial at sea.

Don't worry though,
My room is still dry
And the window is closed.
But the latches are loose
And I'm not quick to repair.
kevin hamilton Feb 2018

hands grasped
for purchase
on the sheet-white ceramic lip
surfaced from
a dark wine burial at sea

burning calligraphy
stole my pinkest skin
i tried, i tried
to join someone i never knew
part ii
Mohamed Nasir Jun 2018
My brother, you quietly succumbed to death.
Why do you defeat yourself I implore?
For cruel injustice had done by poor health
To rob of good of life you may explore.
Despite our vigil you went just the same.
In times of great wonders still suffered,
With scientific breakthroughs, and what a shame.
What possible way death can be differed?
Sleep in peace in tranquility brother;
Oh, leave this world to us, to concern, to think.
Some lives toiled for many, some no other,
Some only lives on merriment and drink.
Here laid he in soil of red burial earth,
And free of cares and rest for all it's worth.
My brother passed away about a month ago. May Allah be pleased with him for his duration stay on this Earth. May his prayers and good deeds be rewarded in the hereafter.
Kristaps Sep 2018
Rough on the breath, grazing the neck
the USSR prunes count her days, she
counts her copper,
to tally her time,
now seems pointless.

One for the beak, one for Eve,
mother's tears
couldn't get past two, but
her old skin hanger arms could,
one for apple juice
one for her fur.

Afterward, everything gave
she couldn't retell the old saying
about the fruit and the trees,
but there was no need

So may the hags hag and
the prunes prune
for to rot so far
is to get used to a graze
and then to mimick
the gardener;
to count
Lone walker,
In the midst of the crowd his heart was always alone.
Sank into the belly of tribulations,
Unlike the missionary journey of Jonah he was vomited into
more woes.
Like how a beautiful mountain in a wilderness thirst for tourist
So his heart was hungry for love.
If loneliness is synonymous to poverty then he deserved this cross.

Lone walker,
He lonely walked on thorns, struggled with everything, sweated blood.
He lived a life of trapped miners in a cave miles below fresh air.

Lone walker,
Rain of respite barely shower on his path.
Sun bit his skin, dews often united with his tears,
For there was no even a free den for him to rest his head.

His days were worse than the trials of Job,
For he had not even a wife to encourage him to curse God and give up the ghost.
Like an eaglet without a falcon, he was accustomed to crying for his dying talents that was hidden too deep for any scout to discover.

To him the world was empty and void of helpers
Until a moment came when he decided to abort his worries, fears and his **** past.
In a flash he recalled the parable of the talents,
In a speed of lightning he stood and put his hidden gift into use.

I key my mind into the eyes of the reader of his biography,
As I stood in the midst of his children offspring in his burial ceremony fit for kings,
With the assurance that he is not walking alone to heaven or **** indeed
And surely his once lonely heart would be filled with merriment and peace.
If wishes could be measure,
Clem would have reign in wealth,
Before he had a date with death.
Poverty battled with him with all pleasure.
In the tribulation, all his gray eyes saw was a
jubilating future.

In my clan, the death are kings,
Their testimony barely bear guilts,
Tales of that of dove and angelic.
In these imperfect world, they are made perfect and heroic.

That of clem wasn't different,
No hair suspected him of having a great for a kin,
Who in death embraced him to a golden casket, in Italian suit, shoes and a cow killed.
His burial got what he never begged for in hundred fold
Hmm! A late beggar decorated more than a groom to a royal fold.

As all gathered round his six feet for a final bye,
The in prophesied happened, Clem breath resurrected and all flee,
Even the priest, men, women and their kids.
Clem awoke into a dream,
Agitating against mankind and why array of
fortune should perish with a beggar like him,
While there are countless beings escaping death each dawn in perpetual poverty.
Griefs stricken for his old him,
He rose, undertook his golden casket, sold it and became a king.
Confined within for seventeen never-ending years
Greeted every morning by its hollow disgusting sneer
Cutting fingers trying to peel off the layers of this theater
Getting stabbed and kicked in the head again, death is near

Another day, lost in the space
Feeling more and more alien
Piercing the days like a warrior
Have my head cut off a thousand times
Another day, losing my own face
Smells more and more my carrion
Peering through this barrier
Have my body buried a thousand miles down the earth

Existence does not mean belongingness
Dedicated to Per "Dead" Ohlin
v V v Sep 2015
We bury them in flat graves
or convert them to ash
and wear them around our necks,
or place them in urns.

And what’s this about burial pods?
Your rotting corpse providing nutrients
to a tree that will one day be
cut down to make a casket
for the person that hung themselves
with their necklace of ash.

I recently read about
mechanically pressed ash
pressed so hard and
with so much pressure
that your loved one becomes
a diamond.
Albeit grey and dull,
and quite expensive.

Effectively if you die first
you can still be buried
with the one you love,
its almost like dying twice…

why do we no longer honor the dead?

Please don’t say an urn or a pod
or a flat marked grave honor the dead.
Google Highgate Cemetery.
Google The Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno
and you will understand the difference.

It is good to honor the dead.  

A death so honored that
a hundred years later
They’re as beautiful as ever.

look and see how beautiful it is
to honor the dead.
I'm sure it comes down to expense, but oh how I wish we still honored our dead in this way. Google images of Highgate Cemetery and the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno for specific examples of such beauty.
Bison Sep 2016
All that broken, all that beautiful
Left lying on the floor of your one room apartment
And ever after more, a senseless crime against the southerly divinity
Burdened heart like hopeless iron hides shy as the clouded sun
A quiet finale no longer true
Gunpowder plots like burial mounds half full of ashen skin
Asleep in this living war and the alarms are booming
What power holds in absence of clarity becomes windowed amongst the stone
Newly ancient, flesh to bone, blood and that which you call your own
Power lines slice green arbor air and my veins seek no end
Purposed elegance packaged and sold to greed soaked hands
Vanity for Vanity's sake, patients in a waiting room
Furniture, people, shameless sin unspoken but in need of no forgiveness
Can you feel the war in you;
Kabelo Maverick May 2014
Last I read, the Alpha said Jesus gave us Wine, Bread and Fish. The Way, Light and Truth was spread for nothing in return, a moving Church made wide, stead for each. Today I see business in Church all made part of some tradition, no valid permission...just a twisted perception of the less in the lurch and the rich in the mission. All due respect, I've seen Priests get lured by church female adolescence, truth. Priests are mentors especially to juvenescence, no wonder now church feels like a fashion parade courtesy of young essence, youth. Our Kids are now spiritually weak, they think going to church cleanses the sins for the following week. Adults say they've tried, but I see God holding a cane...whoever rebuked my Aunt's burial, pray you're not first in the lane. Where do we run to when Holy places are not such an Oasis? When white man doesn't travel to the moon with you? I don't know your faces...just mine, Black Jesus and Yahweh as basis...
"The Lord knoweth them that are his" (2 Tim. 2:19)
zebra Apr 2018
skull on a stick
black candle wick
draining her soul
cant let go

Dragool drinks deep
legends red teethed
burial chamber
prayers bequeathed

its all blood day
dark kisses bite
his ghastly bride
waiting for night
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